“Jesus, Saffron.” He ran a hand through his hair. “This isn’t just a favor. This is?—”
“A partnership,” I finished. “Fifty-fifty split on everything. The costs, the work, the profits. Both families, just like the journal says.”
“The part about both families is interesting,” he said, returning to the journal. “Sounds like our grandmothers each had specific knowledge that had to be combined.”
“That’s why I need you to find Concepción’s half. The percentages, the temperatures, the timing—whatever else she kept in her notes.” I reached over and tore a piece off of one of his pancakes. The olallieberry syrup he’d poured over them was tart-sweet and perfect, but I barely tasted it. “Can you please justlook for anything Concepción might have left behind? Papers, journals, formulas?”
His dark eyes searched mine as he watched me eat his food. “I don’t understand the rush, sweetheart. What aren’t you telling me?”
Everything. I’m telling you absolutely nothing that matters.
“I just…I want to do this, and I don’t want to wait.”
His fingers drummed against the table. But before he could push harder, the waitress reappeared with more coffee.
“How’s everything?” she asked.
“Great,” Snapper said, not looking away from me. “Can we get another short stack of the olallieberry pancakes?”
“She always eats half your food. I’d think you’d know that by now.”
I looked between the two of them. “I didn’t?—”
“You did, and the second order is for me, not you.” While what he’d said was harsh, the way he spoke—soft and knowing—made my heart skip a beat. If I didn’t know better, I’d add loving. But Ididknow better. Snapper was kind to everyone. I wasn’t special.
Marcy walked away shaking her head. I looked down at his food. I’d eaten more than I realized. The bacon was gone, most of his pancakes, and I’d made a serious dent in his hash browns. “Sorry,” I muttered.
“I don’t care about the food, Saffron. You keep eating, and I’ll keep ordering more.”
I held up both my sticky hands. “I promise I won’t.”
“You will, but like I said, I don’t give a shit.”
“You sound like you do.”
“No. I don’t. What I want is for you to talk to me.” He lowered his voice. “Whatever’s going on, I can help.”
His hand moved across the table, stopping just short of reaching for mine. The gesture was so Snapper—offeringcomfort while respecting boundaries. That space between our hands felt like the Grand Canyon and a whisper all at once.
“There’s nothing to tell.”
His hand withdrew, and I could see the flex of his forearms where he’d pushed up his sleeves and the way his chest rose and fell with each breath. Even the way he held his coffee mug—fingers wrapped around it completely—made heat pool low in my belly.
Marcy set the second stack of pancakes in front of him a few minutes later, then walked away without saying anything else.
Snapper pushed them across the table.
“You said those weren’t for me.”
“I lied. Now, tell me what’s going on.”
I clutched the journal to my chest. My desperation had to be showing. The naked need for this to work.
“All right. I’ll do it,” he said. “But, Saffron?” His eyes bored into mine. “Whatever you’re holding back, whatever has you so worked up—you can tell me. You know that, right?”
A long silence stretched between us. The diner noise faded to background static, and I couldn’t speak.
He reached for my hand, his gaze never leaving mine. “I’ll grant your favor, butthisis how it’s gonna go down.”
