Asher scoffs. “Nah, strategic thinking requires proper nutrition. It’s science. Burning off our fingerprints is an acceptable side effect. Besides, as long as we’re together and there are sweet treats to be had, all is right in the world.”
I chuckle and bend toward the plate, biting a chunk off my fritter and laughing as it burns my tongue. “Yeah, it is.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
The brass bell above the door jingles as we step into Biscuits and Banter, and the warm scent of bacon grease and fresh coffee wraps around us like a decadent addiction.
Black and white checkerboard floors stretch beneath our feet, leading to a collection of mismatched wooden tables and chairs that somehow work together perfectly. A long Formica counter with round stools covered in red vinyl runs the length of one side of the diner, while a wall of windows lets in the morning light along the opposite wall.
The place feels like it’s been pulled straight from a Norman Rockwell painting.
“Greased lightning, this place is the bee’s knees,” Asher whispers.
I giggle. “It’s a gas, Daddy-o. I really dig it.”
And I do. It’s amazing.
We slide into a booth against the window, the sparkly red vinyl cushions creaking under our weight. The conversations around us create a comfortable buzz—locals catching up over coffee, the clink of silverware against plates, the occasional burst of laughter.
It’s the kind of place where everyone knows everyone, and I can’t help but wonder if any of these people knew my family.
A mountain of a man emerges from behind the counter, his broad shoulders straining against a black t-shirt that reads, “I’m Not Arguing, I’m Just Explaining Why I’m Right.” He has kind eyes and a salt-and-pepper beard that makes him look like a gentle giant.
“Morning, kids. Haven’t seen you two around these parts before.” His voice carries a slight Southern drawl. “I’m Marty. What can I get y’all?”
“Coke, please,” I say, then pause. “Actually, can we pay by tap? We only have our phones.”
“Sure thing, darlin’. We’re not completely stuck in the Stone Age.” Marty grins and pulls out a small card reader from his apron pocket. “Though some folks around here would prefer we were.”
“Great. We’ll take two Cokes and a couple of cheeseburgers with fries.”
“How do you want those burgers?”
“Medium rare for me,” I say.
“Same,” Asher adds, then leans forward conspiratorially. “And maybe some bacon on them, too.”
Marty chuckles and jots down our order. “I can do that. Be right back with those Cokes.”
As Marty heads back to the counter, I take inventory of the other patrons. A group of older women sits at a corner table, their heads bent together in intense conversation. One keeps glancing our way, her silver hair catching the light.
Near the counter, a man in overalls reads a newspaper while methodically working through a stack of pancakes. Two teenagers share a milkshake at the far end, completely absorbed in each other.
“Do you think any of them are magical?” Asher murmurs, following my gaze.
“How can we tell? Everyone in here looks as normal as the next.”
Asher scoffs and straightens, feigning offense. “Speak for yourself. I’m clearly extraordinary.”
I snort. “Your modesty is showing.”
The older women are definitely staring now, their whispered conversation growing more animated. A chill runs down my spine. Do they know who I am? Or are we just the entertainmentdu jour? Two strangers who stumbled into their small-town bubble?
Marty returns with two glasses of soda and sets them down with care. “There we are, folks. And the drinks are on the house for first-timers. Consider it a welcome to Emberwood.”
“Thanks, that’s really kind.”
He shrugs. “Small town hospitality at its finest.”
