Page 19 of Reckless
“Nice to do what you love,” Sara murmured, dropping her gaze to the Formica as she gestured to the empty coffee cup across from Zoe. “Let me go ahead and fill that for your dad.”
“Oh, but he’s not…” Zoe shifted her sights from the woman in front of her to the main entrance of the diner, a ribbon of surprise uncurling in her belly at the sight of her father making his way past the brightly stenciled plate glass.
“Wow.” Zoe flipped the mug and slid it across the tabletop with a soft shush. “Your head is on one hell of a swivel.”
“Keeps me honest.” Sara lifted one shoulder beneath her bright red T-shirt. She filled the empty coffee cup, stepping back from the table at the exact moment Zoe’s father appeared at her side.
“Morning, Captain. Can I get you anything else to drink today?”
Zoe’s father smiled, the move showcasing a set of wrinkles around his eyes that were a relatively recent acquisition. “No, thanks, Sara, although you can go ahead and put me down for the usual for breakfast. I’m starving.”
“You got it. Zoe, you going for your usual, too?”
No point in knocking a good, reliable meal, and anyway, she needed all the energy she could get today. “Yes, please.”
Sara nodded and angled herself back toward the long stretch of counter space that led to the pass-through to Scarlett’s kitchen. “One breakfast special, eggs over easy, bacon crisp, hash browns on the side, and one veggie egg white omelet, extra green peppers, no onions, cheddar cheese, coming right up.”
“Thanks.” The smile Zoe’s father gave Sara in parting became decidedly more difficult to decipher as he turned it on Zoe in greeting, gesturing to the booth she’d chosen in the intersection of the L-shaped diner before sitting down across from her. “Still opting for the best seat in the house, I see.”
“I never sit with my back to the door. You taught me that when I was twelve.” Along with how to catalogue all the exits in a building, how to estimate the number of steps to get to said exits, and how to determine which one was most viable for a safe escape in an emergency. After all, you could take the man out of the firehouse, but taking the firehouse out of the man? Not even Saint Anthony could pull off that miracle.
Her father straightened the cuffs of his dark brown canvas jacket, lifting a brow as he wrapped his hands around the cup of coffee Sara had left on the table. “Well, I suppose it’s good to see you haven’t lostallregard for your safety.”
Great. Looked like they were going to bypass well-mannered conversation and jump right into the disapproval portion of the morning. Not that her father would actually cave and express his emotions directly so they could actually talk about them. God, all this bobbing and weaving was enough to drive a woman bat-shit crazy.
Zoe sighed. “I’m not a little girl anymore, Dad.”
“No, you’re not,” her father said, his voice remaining perfectly level despite the taut line of his jaw. “But you still put in all sorts of odd hours in a terrible neighborhood. You’re also my daughter. As much as you might hate it, I’m not going to apologize for not liking your job or worrying about your welfare.”
Her hands tightened to fists over the paper napkin in her lap, although she regulated her voice to its calmest setting to match her father’s. “And as much asyoumight hate it, I’m not going to apologize for running the kitchen at Hope House. Look, I get that you’re disappointed I left Kismet.” She stopped, letting the serrated pang of his disapproval stick into her for a second before pulling up her chin to soldier past it. “But feeding people is what I do, and nobody needs it more than the people at the shelter. Anyway, it’s not as if I’m puttingmylife on the line every time I go to work just because Hope House isn’t in a great neighborhood.”
Her father didn’t flinch at the implication—not that she’d expected him to. God, this conversation could probably have itself, they’d been through it so many times, which was pretty ironic considering he never actually expressed his feelings in anything other than gruff one-liners and heavy innuendo that reeked of disappointment.
Her father let out a breath, although the ladder of his spine stood firm against the well-cushioned banquette. “I don’t want to have another argument with you, Zoe. Can’t we just have breakfast together, please?”
She paused. While standing her ground over her work at Hope House was and always had been priority number one, trying to get her father to understand her career change was like shouting into the wind. After three months of her best efforts, all she had was a sore throat and even sorer pride, and she’d sure as hell come by her stubborn streak honestly.
If they weren’t going to see eye to eye, the least they could do was share a good, hot meal. Especially since he’d said he was hungry.
“Okay,” she said, releasing her breath on a slow exhale. She examined her father more closely across the table, her eyes purposely avoiding the six-inch swath of scar tissue on his neck while taking in his leaner-than-usual frame and the slashes of dark shadow beneath both eyes. “Speaking of having a meal, you look a little worn out. Are you eating enough?”
“I thought it was my job to look out for you. When did we switch roles?” he asked, and although she eked out a barely there smile at the hint of humor in his non-answer, no way was she letting him off the hook.
“At about the same time you started dodging my questions. Seriously, Dad, when was the last time you had a good meal and some decent sleep?”
“I’ve been a little busy juggling things at work. I know how you feel about the department.” Her father held up a hand, probably to stave off the frown fitting itself to Zoe’s mouth. “But I’m down a firefighter for four weeks, and that means I’ve got to fill a lot of holes in the schedule. It’s only temporary, but it’s still a pain.”
“Boy, don’t I know it.” Zoe realized a fraction too late that she’d let the words slip out, and damn it, there was no possible scenario involving Alex Donovan that didn’t turn her normally unflagging composure into tapioca. But the last thing she wanted was to bring Alex into the mix of an already precarious conversation, so she dove headfirst into a redirect. “Well, even if you’re working overtime, you still should eat. And before you argue, those microwave mealsicle dinners don’t count as food. I’m tinkering with some new recipes on Sunday. I’ll bring you a few things to keep on hand so you don’t go hungry.”
“You don’t need to take care of me,” her father said, clipping out the words just hard enough to make them sharp around the edges. He took a breath, audible and slow, to smooth out the rest. “I’m not a charity case just because your mother and I are no longer married.”
An odd emotion Zoe couldn’t pin down glinted in his stare like ice cubes in whiskey, and despite the fact that they’d just called a temporary cease fire, her own emotions came scraping up from where she’d stuffed them behind her breastbone. “I do if you’re not going to take care of yourself. And I don’t need a reminder that you and mom are no longer married.”
Her father sat completely unmoving even though every muscle in his body went bowstring tight, and Zoe’s heart gave up a stiff twist as she braced herself to blow past the pleasantries and finally,finallyair out all the laundry that had been spin-cycling between them ever since her parents had separated last year.
But then Sara arrived with their breakfast plates stacked halfway up her forearms, and by the time she’d delivered the food, whatever reply the captain had intended to launch—along with the strange emotion flashing in his eyes—had cooled right back down to unreadable, impenetrable, and totally silent business as usual.
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