Page 23 of Protected By the Grumpy Single Dad
“I’m glad,” I say, and mean it like a prayer.
He nods once and leaves.
The bell flicks off behind him. I realize I haven’t breathed properly in a minute.
“Can you believe that guy?” I say, because if I don’t aim somewhere, my feelings will spill. “Marches in, refuses a kindness—”
Riley sips her coffee. “I mean… you’ve yelled at him in two separate retail establishments.”
“That is a gross exaggeration.”
“Uh-huh.” She smirks. “And for the record, I’m not entitled, and you never give me free scones.”
“Are your bones knitting?” I shoot back. “Sit down. You know you eat here free ninety percent of the time.”
She grins and steals a bite off a cooling lemon bar. “So. Wife?”
I glare. “You can’t tell me that.”
“Correct.” She licks a crumb from her thumb. “Nice try.”
I make a face and start wiping the spotless counter because I need to move or I will spontaneously combust. The anger I want to feed fizzles, replaced by something softer and more complicated. Pride? Worry? The urge to pack snickerdoodles and knock on a door that I shouldn’t?
“Don’t,” Riley says, as if she can read my mind. “Whatever you’re thinking, it ends with you on a porch, holding a plate and a grudge.”
“I could just… drop them off.”
“You could,” she says. “Or you could consider that people in crisis sometimes don’t have room for strangers in their living rooms.”
“Who said I’d go in?” I mutter, then add, quieter, “I’m not trying to be a stranger.”
Riley’s expression warms. “I know.”
A couple drifts in; I slide off the stool to take their order. Diner mornings are like skipping stones—quick touches, ripples that fade. By the time I circle back to Riley, I’ve delivered three coffees, a BLT, and a travel mug of hot chocolate to a kid with braces who saidpleasefour times.
“So,” she says. “Your mom?”
I swallow. The picture clicks back into place: blue robe, yellow yarn, my name slipping through her fingers like water. “Hard day. She didn’t know me. Then she said ‘nosy’ when I told her Eloise and Heather say hi, and I considered calling the Vatican.”
Riley’s hand covers mine. “I’m sorry.”
“I’ll take them next time,” I say. “One at a time, short visit. Dr. King thinks familiar faces might give her rails to grab onto.”
“Good.” She squeezes. “You don’t have to carry it alone.”
I nod and look away before the burn behind my eyes misbehaves. Focus, Jaz. Pick a safer storm.
“You think if I show up with snickerdoodles for Brick he’ll be mad?” I ask, casual as a crowbar.
Riley blinks. Then points with her stir stick like a lawyer at trial. “The man arrested you on week one, and your response is baked goods?”
I lift a shoulder. “Maybe I’m trying to be… neighborly.”
“Maybe you’re trying to manufacture enemies-to-scones,” she mutters, and I snort.
The bell jingles again. A young guy in a collared shirt strides in, clutching a clipboard and nervousness. He approaches the counter like he’s about to propose.
“I’m looking for Jasmine Wallace.”
