Page 42 of Protected By the Grumpy Single Dad
“Great,” I say. “Harold, you can get out of my life now.”
“You can make this easy or difficult,” he says, as if he’s offering appetizers. “You’re fond of difficult. Anyone who reads your file can see it.”
“My file,” I repeat, hating how my voice thins. “You threatening me with my own life story?”
He tilts his head, unbothered. “I’m giving you context. Sell, and you get to be generous and noble and keep visiting your mother in a facility that stays paid up. Don’t, and things get… complicated.”
I meet his gaze. “Nothing good ever came from easy.”
He laughs, short and pleased with himself. “See you around, Ms. Wallace.”
I open the door and step out without permission. The air outside feels new. My heart thumps hard enough to shake the ice in the water glasses on table three.
The window slides up. The Escalade pulls away, swallowing the street reflection whole. I stand there a second longer than I mean to, palms damp, throat tight, the world too bright for a breath.
Did I just get threatened?Oh yes.
I walk back into the diner and tie my apron, hands steadier than I feel. Sarah looks at me like I brought the storm inside with me.
“You okay?” she asks, eyes wide.
“Yep,” I say, and surprise myself by meaning it. “We’re going to need more scones.”
She blinks. “That bad?”
“That good,” I say, and reach for a clean tray. “If Harold Swanson thinks he’s buying my block and my life in the same week…”
I smile, the kind that shows teeth.
“…he doesn’t know this town. And he definitely doesn’t know me.”
Chapter thirteen
Asher
When I park in front of Scotty’s Diner, a clear realization hits me: this is the first time I’ve stopped here and not braced for combat. Today, I just want to talk to her.
I step out of the cruiser and head in. The overhead bell gives that cheerful chime, and today the place smells like cinnamon and hot coffee. Sarah is at the counter, her name tag shining, and her smile automatic.
“Good afternoon, Officer,” she says.
“Hey, how’s it going?”
“I’ll take this one, Sarah,” Jasmine calls from the swing door. Then she’s there—apron neat, hair in a ponytail, that small, guarded smile that somehow feels like it’s only for me.
“Officer Vaughn,” she says. “I take it your wounds are completely healed?”
“Almost. I’ve been cleared for duty.”
“I see. Back on the field.” She drifts to the display case and pulls out five scones. “You have no choice today, by the way.”
“No choice… what?”
She hands me a warm paper bag. I reach for my wallet.
“Nope,” she says, watching the card between my fingers. “I’m not taking your money.”
“You’re giving me the pity discount again?”
