Page 6 of Protected By the Grumpy Single Dad
“You work here?” he asks, like we’re playing twenty questions.
“Try again.” I tap my pen against the pad.
His gaze flicks to my name on the chalkboard menu, to the photos on the wall, to the little “Owner” badge pinned to my apron. He exhales. “You own this place.”
“Bingo.” I flash a smile. “Staff’s slammed—which is a fancy way of saying there are exactly two of us on the floor and one of them is me. First time at Scotty’s?”
He shakes his head, then nods once. “First time.”
“That’s a shocker. This is a cop hotspot.” I lean in conspiratorially. “Hot dogs are to die for.”
“Are you saying that because they’re your hot dogs?” His eyes are different today—less cold, more curious.
“I’m saying it because my grandmother would haunt me if I lied about food.” I cock my head. “So, Sheriff Vaughn, are you here to arrest me again or just to destroy your cholesterol?”
“Depends,” he says dryly. “Are you planning to trespass between bites?”
“Do you know how to take a joke?” I shoot back.
“Do you?”
We stare each other down for a second. He lifts an eyebrow. I decide not to lose precious tip time sparring and flip my pad open. “What can I get you?”
“A chocolate shake,” he says, voice even, “and two glazed donuts.”
I blink. Then grin. “A classic.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”Like a moth to a donut.“Order coming right up.”
The bell over the door jingles as I pivot to the counter. Scotty’s is its usual chorus: bacon crackling on the flat-top, the soft whoosh of the milk steamer, old Hank at the corner booth rattling the newspaper like it owes him money, and the citrus-vanilla of my lemon bars cooling on the rack. On the wall, the photo of my dad grinning behind this same counter catches the light. I tap the frame for luck—old habit—then slide behind the register.
“Corner wants a chocolate shake and two glazed,” I tell Sarah.
Sarah’s eyes sparkle. “You mean the new sheriff came for donuts?”
“We do not sing the song,” I warn.
“Cop walks into a donut—”
“Sarah,” I hiss. “He’s got ‘guy who can hear through walls’ energy.”
She laughs and plates the donuts while I whirl up the shake. I balance the tray just as a pint-sized tornado appears at my elbow.
“Miss Jaz, can I have extra sprinkles? Like,emergencysprinkles?” Evan from down the block blinks up at me, eyes the size of saucers.
“Only if you promise to do your math homework,” I say, grabbing the sprinkle shaker and giving his sundae a rainbow hailstorm.
“Ugh, fine,” he says, but he’s smiling. He darts away, nearly colliding with Hank, one of my long-time regulars.
“Careful, kid,” Hank gruffs, then tips his chin toward the corner booth where Asher sits. “New lawman looks like he was carved outta granite. Be nice to him, Jaz. Might be the stick-around kind.”
“I’m always nice,” I say primly.
Hank snorts. “Uh-huh.”
I deliver the tray to Asher’s table. “Two glazed, one chocolate shake,” I announce. “The breakfast of legal champions.”
