Page 24 of Protected By the Grumpy Single Dad
“That’s me,” I say, because I’ve made peace with fate.
He slides a form toward me. “Signature here, please.”
I sign. He hands me a small brown envelope, thanks me as if I’ve done something heroic, and beats a retreat.
Riley leans in, eyes bright. “Admirer?”
“Don’t.” I pick at the seal and pull out a single-page letter on heavy paper. The logo at the top is a tasteful H inside a circle. Neat serif font. Money ink.
My stomach drops three floors.
“What?” Riley asks.
“It’s anoffer.” The word tastes like dust.
“From…?”
“Harold Beckett, who else?” I say, handing it to her. “He wants to buy the diner.”
Riley reads, eyebrows climbing. “Cash offer. Above market. ‘Preserve the building’s charm while optimizing operations.’” She makes a face. “I hate everything about this sentence.”
I fold my arms and stare at the pie case like it can arm-wrestle a billionaire. “Still think I’m taking all this a little too hard?”
Riley lifts her gaze. In it is both flint and a mirror. “Okay,” she says, steady. “War plan.”
I huff out a laugh that isn’t one. “Step one: don’t throw up.”
“Step one,” she agrees. “Step two: we don’t answer this today. Step three: we get information. If Beckett’s buying up properties, there’s a paper trail. County clerk filings, LLCs, shell names. I’ll ask Nora what’s public. You call Dwyer at the paper. He owes you for Thanksgiving.”
“Pie is leverage,” I say, because if I don’t joke I’ll scream.
“Step four: we talk to Hartley’s EIS consultant, if an environmental impact plan even exists. If it doesn’t—”
“—we make noise about that,” I finish. “Town hall. Petition. Sunshine.”
“Step five,” she says, tapping the letter, “you decide what you want. Not what you’re scared of. If the answer is ‘I will not sell,’ we build around that like a fort.”
The diner hums around us—coffee pours, forks clink, Hank curses a crossword clue. Eloise and Heather slide into their booth and give me matching thumbs-up like they can smell a fight brewing and they’re bringing pom-poms.
“I’m not selling,” I say, quiet but sure. Saying it out loud plants a flag I didn’t know I needed.
“Then we’re done,” Riley says, folding the letter and slipping it back into the envelope like it’s a bug we’re cataloging. “He wants you to panic. We don’t panic. We bake. We print. We organize. We get annoyingly legal.”
A laugh escapes me. “Annoyingly legal is your love language.”
“True.” Her mouth tilts. “Also, you’re absolutely going to bake snickerdoodles, aren’t you?”
“Shut up,” I say, smiling for real now. “They help bones knit.”
“Science,” she deadpans.
I tuck the envelope under the register and take a breath that goes all the way down. Riley’s off to school as morning light brightens the street. Inside, the bell chimes and the day picks up speed. Somewhere in town, a sheriff is handing a kid a paper bag of scones. Somewhere else, a woman with a fountain pen thinks she can buy my name off the front of this building.
Let her try.
I smooth my apron, grab my order pad, and step back into the dance of coffee and pie and people who know how to say please. If Beckett wants Scotty’s, he’ll get a fight. If Hartley wants the town, she’ll get a chorus.
And, apparently, if a certain sheriff wants scones, he’ll get them—with a side of snickerdoodles. Not because I’m giving in.
