Page 93 of Once Upon A Small Town Secret
Her smile kicks sideways. “Yes. That.”
“It’s not a habit or anything, but if it’s needed, it’s needed,” I say, lifting the edge of one sandwich to check before flipping it. “Plus, your stomach signaled like a foghorn.”
She grabs the lid for the soup and throws it at me. It falls short by three feet.
“Did not.”
As if on cue, her stomach rumbles again. She glares at it, then at me. “Traitor.”
“I didn’t say a word.”
“You are smirking internally.”
“I am a professional,” I say, but I’m failing at not grinning as I ladle soup into two bowls. I slide the steaming bowl toward her and the grilled cheeses onto a board, cutting them in half on the bias because I’m not a monster.
She inhales like the aroma alone might cure her. “Oh my God.”
“Careful,” I say. I push a ramekin of pickles across, then reach for the kettle. “Tea?”
“Ginger?” she asks, small and hopeful.
Pride surges through me that I managed to find something that she likes and is so helpful to her through the pregnancy on the first damn try.
“I’ll make it strong.”
She watches me slice a thumb of fresh ginger into coins. “I had a moment today,” she says, almost conversational, like we’re discussing the weather. “The cardamom rolls came out, and I had the tray right under my nose, and my body was like ‘beautiful idea, absolutely not.’”
I set the kettle on, flick on the burner. “Did you have to do the panic swallow thing?”
She nods. “Behind a smile. In front of a line.”
I stop what I’m doing, lean on my hands, and meet her eyes. “For what it’s worth, you were… astonishing today. From mydoor, it looked like a sea in there. And you were just—” I search for it—something that fits the sight of her working that espresso machine, her mom at the case, Jason bussing, Don glad-handing every table.
“You were the one who made it all work.”
She ducks her face, but not before I see it—the glow. “It did work,” she admits. “I think it did. I barely had time to think, but every time I looked up, there were more faces.”
I lean back and grab two mugs, drop a spoonful of honey in each. “Your dad made friends with everyone in town, I think.”
“He collected them,” she says, grinning. “Like stamps.”
“And your mom—”
“Queen of the case,” she says proudly. “She cried after, not in a bad way. But she did sneak like a half dozen brownies before they ran out, so I think that balanced it out.”
“And Jason,” I say carefully, hearing how different my voice sounds when I say his name. “He looked… proud.”
“He was.” Her face goes soft all at once, a look that guts me. “He was great today.”
The kettle rattles toward a boil. I pour the water over the ginger, the steam curling between us.
We eat with the ease of people who’ve spent many nights doing just this, people with a lot more familiarity than we have.
“God, that’s good,” she says, eyes closed for a second. When she opens them, she looks brighter, less peaked. “You could sell this.”
“I do sell this,” I say with a laugh. “Do you want another?”
She leans back with a groan. “I'd better not. You’d have to roll me to work tomorrow.”
