Page 8 of Protected By the Grumpy Single Dad
“Cost extra,” I mutter, but my mouth betrays me with a tiny smile.
I manage to retreat three steps before Hank pipes up across the room, loud enough for the state line to hear: “Hey, Sheriff! You treat our Jaz right, or Ms. Rainbow’ll sic you.”
A ripple of laughter. I press my lips together, mortified and warm all at once.
“Who’s Ms. Rainbow?” Asher asks, and his mouth almost—almost—curves.
“Our town’s gentlest rottweiler,” I say. “Also my best friend’s roommate.”
“Good to know,” he says, and I hate that the words sound like a promise.
I bail before my face can betray anything else. The bell jingles. The fry cook calls out an order. A woman at the counter leans in, conspiratorial. “You hear Mrs. Hartley’s meeting with that out-of-towner again tonight? The one with the oil money?”
My shoulders notch tighter. “I hear a lot of things.”
“You be careful, Jaz,” she says, patting my hand. “We need your pies and your bullhorn.”
I breathe out. “Yes, ma’am.”
When I look back, Asher’s watching the room like he’s measuring it—counting exits, sure, but also taking it in. Hank razzes him; he takes it. The teenager heaved over with milkshakes gives him a grateful nod; he tips his chin back. It would be easier if he were just a brick wall in boots. He isn’t.
Which is annoying.
By the time I circle the floor twice more, he’s finished the shake and both donuts. He leaves cash plus a tip that’s either generous or he can’t do math. He stands to go; our eyes catch for a half second. Something like a thank-you flickers across his face. I pretend I don’t see it and pivot to the register before my mouth can accidentally smile.
Add one to my list of people who make my eye twitch.
Shocker: it’s a cop.
***
Riley’s tiny house sits at the edge of town, tucked behind a wind-tossed mesquite and a rusting mailbox painted with sunflowers.It’s adorable and extremely allergic to tall people. If I stand up too fast, I head-butt the loft.
We’re on her built-in couch, her only couch, in the glow of the world’s smallest TV. Riley’s in plaid pajama pants even though it’s barely seven, and she is double-fisting a spoon and a pint of vanilla ice cream like it’s a competitive sport.
“Have you gotten taller?” she asks, squinting at me as I bonk the back of my head against the wall for the second time.
“Don’t you dare,” I warn, rubbing the spot. “I will ‘accidentally’ spill your ice cream.”
“You wouldn’t.” She holds the pint closer.
I flick her spoon. A dollop smears her cheek. I grin. “Whoops.”
She dabs it off, unimpressed. We’ve been friends since high school—when no one wanted to sit with the weird poetry girl (me) and the overachiever with a rottweiler desktop background (her). We did separate colleges, then drifted back home. I reopened Scotty’s with a secondhand espresso machine and my grandmother’s pie recipes. She took a job teaching at Golden Heights Elementary, then somehow became assistant-everything without the title because that’s who Riley is. If something’s broken, she quietly fixes it.
“Okay,” she says, stretching out her legs. “Tell me about the cop.”
“I sent you a perfectly reasonable, nuanced text,” I say.
She snorts. “‘I HATE OFFICER VAUGHN SO MUCH’ is what scholars call… nuance.”
“He has this legal superiority thing,” I say, glaring at the TV for no reason. “Like there’s the law, and then there’s anything resembling empathy, and never the two shall meet.”
“I would hope he has some superiority. He’s the sheriff.”
“You know what I mean.” I toss a pillow at her. It misses and pings off the ladder to the loft. “He talked about what would holdup in court while I’m over here thinking about what will still belivablein five years if the rigs move in.”
Riley raises an eyebrow. “Play fewer apocalypse documentaries.”
