Page 18 of Protected By the Grumpy Single Dad
Eloise’s eyes shine too bright for the fluorescent lighting. She coughs and pretends to be blasé. “Well, I suppose she deserves the pleasure of my company.”
“She absolutely does,” I say, and mean it.
The bell over the door jingles. My brain braces for a badge without my permission, and I hate that it does. It’s not him. It’s a couple of contractors in dusty boots who look like they’re about to ask if we do bulk coffee.
“Four to go,” one says, and the other eyes the lemon bars. “And two of those.”
“Eight,” I correct, boxing them up. “Trust me.”
They grin and add two more. Money and pastry—the only bipartisanship I believe in.
By five, the tide ebbs. I finally lean my elbows on the counter and breathe. Sarah bumps my shoulder. “Go eat a real thing before you pass out.”
I take a stool by the pie case with a bowl of chili that could sober a sailor and stare at the world through the reflection in the glass. Main Street glows in that late-day desert gold that makes even the potholes sentimental.
My phone buzzes again.Riley: Can swing by in twenty?
I text back:Yes, bring Ms. Rainbow. I need a dog.
She sends a heart and a paw.
I take a spoonful, burn my tongue, and let my thoughts loop around the same old track: Golden Heights deserves to stay itself. People like Eloise and Heather deserve to sit in their booth and argue about crossword clues. My mom deserves yellow yarn that remembers the way back to her. And if an oil rig thinks it can eat that? It can choke.
A cruiser idles at the curb for a minute. The badge in me that I don’t technically have notices the hockey stick still propped in the passenger seat, and my pulse does a dumb little jump before I remind it to behave.
He doesn’t come in. The car moves on. I tell myself that’s fine.
The door opens again and a gust of evening blows Riley in, all bright scarf and determination, Ms. Rainbow trotting like the world’s gentlest bouncer. The dog noses my hand once and parks her chin on my knee like a sandbag for emotions.
“Tell me everything,” Riley says, and her voice is exactly the right temperature.
I do. The lemon smell, the yellow yarn, the maybe-smile. Eloise and Heather’s upcoming field trip. The Madison Street rumor. And because the words want out, the flash of a cruiser with a hockey stick and a sheriff I’m not thinking about.
“Uh-huh,” she says, very neutrally, which is rude and also fair. “We’re going to make a plan for this Beckett person. Flyers, petition, town hall, legal noise. And we’re going to take E & H to Kinsley for a controlled cameo.”
“Controlled cameo,” I repeat, petting Ms. Rainbow’s ears. “I like it.”
Riley squeezes my shoulder. “Also… school incident today, but okay. Breathe. I’ll fill you in later.”
“Don’t bury the lede like that.”
“Then stop threatening to trespass,” she says primly, and we both smile because it’s a dance we know.
Outside, the sky goes that heartbreak pink the desert does for free. Inside, the neon hums, the pie case gleams, and Eloise waves her fork at Heather for putting ketchup on fish like a heathen. We are, despite everything, ourselves.
And tomorrow I’ll show up again—with flyers, with yellow yarn, with friends who refuse to let a town be sold for parts. If a certain sheriff with inconvenient eyes shows up too… well. I’ll deal with that when I have to.
For now, I breathe, scratch Ms. Rainbow under the chin, and let the day settle where it belongs.
Chapter seven
Asher
“Scones,” Brick says, sinking deeper into the couch like gravity’s turned up a notch. His cast is propped on a pillow, crutches within reach, the TV muted to a cartoon he pretends not to watch.
“Scones?” I echo. “That’s specific.”
He nods, serious. “Yes. Scones.”
