“What can I get y’all today?” Bean Taylor, in suspenders and an apron smeared with breakfast foods, appeared, his grease-stained notebook at the ready. The man was an angel on the grill but one of the clumsiest servers on the planet.
“Hey, Bean. Good to see you,” Mom said, releasing our hands.
What did Lucian have to stop denying?
What secrets did he and my mom share?
We Waltons were an open book. We knew everything about each other. Well, almost everything.
“Listen, I need to hit the road,” Mom said, grabbing her purse and throwing cash on the table. “But it would make me very happy if you two would stay and have breakfast. And I hate to pull the guilt card, but I’m hanging on to anything that makes me happy with both hands right now.” Her eyes went glassy with tears.
I rose with her and wrapped my arms around her. Maybe if I held on tight enough, she wouldn’t go.
“I’ll give y’all another minute,” Bean said, backing away from the emotional display.
“Mom. Don’t go.” My voice broke, and she squeezed me tighter.
“I have to. It’s good for me to be productive and start thinking about what’s next. I think it’ll be good for you too. You need to get back to work,” she whispered. “Besides, I’m only a phone call away.”
I sniffled. “A phone call and some of the worst traffic in the country.”
“I’m worth the traffic.”
I let out a choked laugh. “Yeah. I guess you are.”
“I love you, Sloane,” Mom whispered. “Be happy. Do good. Don’t let this derail you for too long. Dad wouldn’t want that.”
“Okay,” I whispered as a tear escaped, streaking down the curve of my nose.
Mom released me, gave my arms a squeeze, then turned to Lucian, who was sliding out of the booth. He stood, dwarfing us both, smoothing a hand down his probably monogrammed button-down.
“I love you,” I heard Mom tell him. His reply was too soft for me to catch, but I noticed how he hugged her to him with closed fists, his knuckles going white.
“Stay. Eat,” she insisted again when he’d released her.
He nodded.
“Bye, Mom,” I croaked. She wiggled her fingers at me, eyes still glistening, and headed for the door. I stood there watching her leave, feeling like Anne of Green Gables before she met Marilla and Matthew Cuthbert.
“Sit.”
Lucian’s gruff command was accompanied by a broad hand at my back, guiding me back to the booth. I slid onto the bench my mother had vacated and stared unseeingly at the menu in front of me.
“She’s going to be all right, Sloane.” That raspy rumble caressed my name with irritation and something else.
“Of course she will,” I said stiffly.
“So will you.”
I couldn’t snark back at him. All my focus was on willing the tears to be reabsorbed into my face. I would not be weak in front of him. Again.
“You don’t have to stay,” I said, looking everywhere but his face.
“After that guilt trip, I’d have breakfast with Rasputin.”
Even through my blurred vision, I could see him shaking his head vehemently.
“What don’t you want me to know?” I demanded. “Were you blackmailing my parents? Did you trick them into a cult or multi-level marketing scheme?”
“Those are the only options you can come up with?” he asked.
“Psst! Is it safe to come back and take your orders?” Bean asked, tiptoeing back to the table.
“Sure, Bean.” I managed a weak smile for him. It wouldn’t do me any good to have rumors circulating about the town librarian’s public meltdown. I had a reputation to uphold. I was downright terrifying when the situation called for it. It kept my library and my life here in Knockemout running smoothly.
“You know you’ve got stains all over your shirt?” Bean pointed at my sweatshirt with his nub of a pencil.
“I had a run-in with a coffeepot this morning. I’ll have the usual with a hot chocolate.” I deserved a comfort beverage.
“Extra marsh, extra whip?” Bean clarified.
“You know it.”
“And for you, Mr. Rollins?”
I snorted internally. This was Knockemout, for Pete’s sake, and Bean was barely a year younger than me. But it was “Mr. Rollins this and Mr. Rollins that.”
“Egg white omelet with spinach and vegetables,” Lucian ordered.
Ugh. Even his breakfast order annoyed me. And the way the man couldn’t be bothered to say please or thank you made me want to hit him in the face with the napkin dispenser. I narrowed my eyes at him.
Lucian blew out a breath through his nostrils. “Please,” he added before collecting our menus and handing them over.
“Sure thing,” Bean said.
“Thanks, Bean,” I said before he scurried back to the kitchen. Once he was gone, I returned to glaring at Lucian. “Would it kill you to be polite every once in a while? Or do those suits leach the humanity out of you?”
“I’m surprised you didn’t order the glitter pancakes off the children’s menu to go with your mug of granulated sugar.”
“Have you ever even had the diner’s hot chocolate?” I asked. “Oh, wait. I forgot. You’re violently allergic to fun and happiness. When are you flitting back to your depressing vampire lair of seriousness?”
“As soon as I make it through this breakfast with you.”
Another server appeared to top off Lucian’s black coffee and deliver my hot chocolate. It was a work of art. The thick-handled mug was topped with a veritable tower of whipped cream. Mini marshmallows dotted the white swirl, and Bean had topped the entire thing off with a generous dusting of pink, glittery sprinkles.
I felt a tickle in my throat, another prickle behind my eyes. I was not going to cry over a cup of hot chocolate, no matter how obvious it was that it had been made with love.
That was why I loved this damn town so much. Why I never wanted to live anywhere else. We were all intimately involved in one another’s lives. Step outside your front door, and if you looked past the leather and exhaust fumes, the luxury SUVs and designer equestrian wardrobes, you’d witness a dozen small acts of kindness every day.
“You’re ridiculous,” Lucian said as I pulled the mug to me with both hands.
“You’re jealous.”
“You can’t even drink that. You’ll end up wearing it.”
I scoffed and reached for a straw. “You’re such an amateur.” With precision, I inserted the straw from the top to ensure the proper cream to chocolate ratio. “Here,” I said, sliding the mug toward him.
He looked at me as if I’d just suggested he stir his coffee with his penis.
“What do you expect me to do with that?”
“I expect you to taste it, make a face, and then tell me how revolting you think it is, even though deep down, you’ll like it so much you’ll start plotting how to order one without me noticing.”
“Why?”
“Because you sent my mom to the spa with her friends when she needed to be reminded that she could grieve and laugh. Because you stayed here to suffer through a breakfast neither one of us wanted just to make her happy. So take your one sip, because that’s all I’m willing to share, and then we can go back to ignoring each other.”