Page 7 of Protected By the Grumpy Single Dad
He gives me a small, cautious smile and pulls the tray closer. He doesn’t start eating, though—just watches me, like I’m the one under a heat lamp.
“Do I pay now?” he asks.
“Nope.” I plant a hand on my hip. “We’re very trusting here. Also, the cash register is six inches from my elbow.”
“Is there a house policy where the owner… observes?”
“Only when the customer is a cop,” I say sweetly. “We’re making sure you don’t cite us for excessive deliciousness.”
He takes a slow sip of shake. “Why are you wary of cops?”
“Is that really a serious question?”
“You tell me. You acted like I was here to shut you down.”
“I never said—”
“You implied.” He breaks a donut cleanly in half, like he’s been training for this exact task. “For what it’s worth, I’m here to eat on my lunch break, not run inspections. Unless there are any health-code violations I should know about.”
A knot twitches under my ribs. “Do youalwaysassume the worst of people?”
He looks up, steady. “You’re the one who assumes the badge is the enemy.”
This is getting un-fun fast. “You looked at my file,” I say. “Did that make you feel tall?”
“Arrests are part of processing a case,” he replies, maddeningly calm. “You were booked earlier this year. Trespass.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “Wow. So that’s your thing? Paint me like some career criminal because I stepped where a gate said ‘no’ while trying to keep our town from turning into an oil field?”
“I’m saying the law is the law.”
“And I’m saying community is community.” My voice softens, despite the spark ping-ponging around my nerves. “You’ve been here, what, two weeks? We watch out for each other in Golden Heights. We’ve always cooperated. We don’t let money come in and devour the landwelive on.”
He scrubs a hand through his hair, exasperation slipping for the first time. He looks… tired, under the stubble. Human. “If the paperwork’s in order, I can’t just—”
“See,that’sthe problem.” I lean in, unable to stop now. “You’re looking at permits. I’m looking at people.”
We lock eyes—stubborn versus stubborn, heat meeting granite.
“Protests are legal when they’re legal,” he says finally. “And trespass is trespass. I can’t pretend otherwise.”
“And does your job include stopping folks from protecting their own turf?” I ask. “Because that’s what it felt like when you cuffed me.”
A silence settles—heavy, awkward, threaded with the hiss of the grill behind me and the jukebox crooning Patsy Cline. Somewhere a fork hits a plate too hard.
Then he says, quieter, “Is that what happened with your earlier arrest? Another protest?”
My cheeks flare. My mouth moves before my brain can catch up. “If you could get your head out of the law’s—” I clamp my lips shut, inhale, and try again. “You know what? Enjoy your donuts, Sheriff.”
His expression doesn’t change. Mine definitely does.
I turn to go—and nearly collide with a teenager balancing four milkshakes. The tray wobbles. I shoot a hand under it, steadying the whole leaning tower of lactose just before it baptizes Asher’s lap.
“Whoa,” the kid breathes. “Thanks, Ms. Wallace.”
“Two hands, Jamal,” I say, nudging him on with a smile. I set a napkin on Asher’s table without meeting his eyes.
“Quick reflexes,” he says.
