Great. Just great. “Mrs. Wilkinson, I wasn’t?—”
“Oh, honey,” she laughs. “I’m eighty-two, not dead. Live a little! He’s quite handsome.”
Karina appears at my elbow, grinning like the Cheshire cat. “See? Even Mrs. W. approves.”
I shoot her a glare and retreat to the kitchen, where Roman is flipping pancakes with practiced ease.
“Don’t say it,” I warn, leaning against the counter.
“Say what?” He doesn’t look up from the grill.
“Whatever you’re thinking.”
He slides a perfect stack onto a plate. “I’m thinking these pancakes need blueberry compote.”
“That’s all?”
Now he does look at me, his expression softening. “And I’m thinking it’s good to see you happy, kid. Been a while.”
The simple observation catches me off guard, and I feel a lump form in my throat. “Yeah,” I manage. “It has.”
Roman nods, turning back to his grill. “Just be careful.”
“I am,” I say quietly, because despite this flutter of happiness in my belly, there’s a tiny, dark cloud looming on the horizon, and I hate that I keep seeing it.
Roman hums noncommittally, but I catch the slight smile on his face. “We’ll see.”
The door to the kitchen swings open, and Letty pokes her head in. “Nora, there’s someone here to see you.”
My pulse quickens. “Who?”
“Your grandmother and,” she glances over her shoulder, “Cheryl. They’re asking for you.”
I exhale, both relieved and disappointed it’s not Jericho. “Tell them I’ll be right out.”
Roman chuckles. “Expecting someone else?”
“No,” I lie, straightening my apron. “Just… busy.”
“Mmhmm.” He flips another pancake with a knowing look.
When I emerge from the kitchen, Grandma and Cheryl are settled in our corner booth, heads bent together in conversation. They stop abruptly when they see me approach, which is never a good sign.
“Well, look who finally showed up to work,” Cheryl drawls, stirring her coffee. “Late night?”
I slide into the booth across from them. “Don’t start.”
“What?” Cheryl’s eyes widen with mock innocence. “Can’t a sister be concerned about another sister’s whereabouts?”
Grandma pats my hand. “We’re just glad you’re safe, dear. Though next time, a text would be nice.”
I blink. “I’m twenty-five, not fifteen.”
“Still,” Grandma sniffs, “common courtesy. Even though I saw you being dragged out of the house like a pretty sack of wonderful potatoes.”
“I’m sorry,” I sigh, knowing she’s right. “I should have at least texted you from his place.”
Cheryl leans forward, elbows on the table. “So… Steve, huh?”
