Page 15 of Protected By the Grumpy Single Dad
I close my eyes. Somewhere, David is cackling.
I put the cruiser in gear.
“So much for a quiet day,” I tell the windshield—and don’t dare say the word out loud again.
Chapter six
Jasmine
There’s a house out on the edge of town that nobody’s lived in for years. Madison Street, the one with the crooked cottonwood and the porch that leans like it’s whispering secrets. Folks call it theCreek Mansioneven though it’s more creek than mansion—peeling paint, a window boarded wrong since ’02, and a story about a death that means kids dare each other to touch the fence and run.
I’m thinking about that house while I plate fish and chips and watch Eloise and Heather in their usual booth. Eloise is in her floral dress, bracelets chiming when she talks, gray hair slicked into a ponytail that says she has places to be. Heather, softer and a little shorter, smiles at everyone like a benediction and then gets mad at herself for it later. They’ve been a set for as long as I’ve had a memory I trust, and there should be a third, Annabel, but she’s at Kinsley Home these days, where the halls smell like lemon disinfectant and slow time.
I tighten my apron and carry their tray over. “Ladies.” I set the food down. “I swear I had time to sit and gossip, but apparently the entire town woke up today and chose Scotty’s.”
“That’s a good thing,” Heather says, eyes bright. “Proof of concept.”
“Proof of caffeine,” I say, hands on hips.
“Are you seeing her today?” Eloise asks, voice careful. That look—hope wearing its Sunday best.
“Yes.” The word leaves my mouth like it weighs a pound.
“We can come,” she says quickly, like speed will make it true. “She asked for Heather last week. I could swear I heard it.”
I force a smile that pinches. “Not today. Dr. King’s big on keeping things simple—no crowding. Next time, if Mom’s up to it, I’ll take you both. Deal?”
Eloise brightens, bracelets singing. “Deal.”
Heather squeezes her hand under the table. I start to turn when Eloise adds, way too-casually, “Where’s your cop friend? Haven’t seen him around.”
My stomach does an unhelpful squeeze. “He’s not my friend.”
“Oh, she knows,” Heather murmurs, deadpan.
“He’s one of the most annoying people I’ve ever met,” I say, which is technically true if you chart annoyance over time and ignore the curve.
“Uh-huh,” Eloise says, entirely too pleased with herself.
I retreat to the counter and try to shake the image of Asher Vaughn out of my brain: the scar that wakes when he’s irritated, the way he squares up like he’s about to argue with a stop sign, the quiet under the sarcasm. I think about his eyes … deep blue, intense …and wince when my knuckles graze the edge of the grill.
Great. Perfect. My love language is apparently second-degree burn.
“Jaz?” Sarah elbows me, nodding toward a couple at the window. “Two malts and a BLT.”
“Got it.” I reach for the malt glasses and force my brain back into the diner where it belongs: the crackle of bacon, the swoosh of the milk steamer, and Hank’s newspaper rattle. This is my church.
Heather’s voice floats from the booth. “Oh—did you hear? The Madison Street place sold.”
I look over. “What?”
“To an out-of-towner,” she says. “Mr. Beckett. Or Harold something.”
“Harold Beckett,” Eloise decides, like she’s filing him alphabetically. “Money. Terrible at small talk.”
The knot in my stomach tightens another turn. Mrs. Hartley with her permits and oil plans. An out-of-towner buying the house everyone avoids. If you put a red string between those things on a corkboard, it points to trouble.
“Rumor and pie crust,” I mutter, trying to be the rational version of myself, and burn my hand again.
