Page 22 of Protected By the Grumpy Single Dad
I pivot. “What about the guy who bought the Madison Street place?”
“Harold Beckett?” Riley says, like she’s grading my quiz. “He picks up his niece at school sometimes. Expensive watch, terrible parking.”
“So: villain.”
“Or uncle with money and a curiosity problem.”
“He boughtthathouse.”
“Maybe he likes a challenge?” she offers. “You used to collect broken toasters and fix them for fun.”
“That was art.” I make a face. “Also a phase.”
The bell over the door jingles and air shifts across my skin like a heads-up. I turn without meaning to.
Asher Vaughn steps in. Grey T-shirt, sweatpants, keys threaded through his fingers. He looks like sleep and worry and stubbornness with stubble. Our argument from the grocery aisle snaps into focus inside my head like a trap.
Riley clocks the sudden silence and glances over her shoulder. She snorts. “Oh look. Your friend.”
“Stop. Calling. Him. That,” I hiss.
He comes to the counter and his eyes land on me, then drop. For a half second I think,Is he here to apologize?Then I remember who I’m thinking about.
“Sheriff,” Riley says, bright and neutral. “How’s it going?”
“Couldn’t be better, Ms. Jenkins,” he answers, but the sarcasm is missing. His voice is low, tired. My heartbeat does something unhelpful.
“How’s Brick?” Riley asks.
Brick. The name fits. A kid sturdy enough to keep his house standing.
“He’s pushing through,” Asher says. “Sent me here on a mission. Says the scones at Scotty’s are ‘to die for.’” He gives the words a little irony, like even he knows it’s dramatic.
Heat rises up my neck. “People do say that,” I murmur and hate that my voice goes softer around the edges. He looks worse than I’ve ever seen him—eyes shadowed, hair chaos, the kind of face you get from sleepless nights sitting watch by someone’s bed. I reach into the case and grab a paper sleeve.
“The scones,” he prompts, gentle but urgent, and I realize I’m staring.
“Right.” I box up half a dozen, add two extra without thinking. “On the house,” I blurt. “For Brick.”
His jaw ticks. “No.”
“What?”
“I’m not taking a pity discount,” he says, and there’s heat under it that isn’t about me.
“It’s not pity. It’s—” I glance at Riley, who is giving me the stop sign with her eyes. “It’s neighborly.”
“I’ll pay,” he says, sharper now. “Please.”
Thepleaseknocks me back a step. “Okay,” I say quietly, sliding the bag to the register. I ring him up and he swipes his card. For a weird moment, the beeping of the terminal is the only sound in the world.
“Thank you,” he says, and it lands like an apology that didn’t find its words.
“For Brick,” I say, because sayingyou’re welcomefeels wrong.
He takes the bag and turns toward the door. He almost makes it before I hear myself say, “Is he… okay?”
He stops. Looks back. “Broken leg, mild concussion,” he says. “Luckier than we deserved.”
