The smell of butter hitting the hot griddle curls through the air as sizzling fills in the awkward gap of silence. Neither of us speaks and I adjust the hair tie on my wrist several times before pulling it off and putting my hair up.
“Well, it looks really good. It was nice seeing you.”
He lingers for a second, and I offer him a tight-lipped smile. “You, too.”
Loud classic rock booms from the speakers set on the tables and I wrinkle my nose. To my dismay, he pauses, catching me.
“You don’t like this music?”
I wince and open my mouth but shut it to shake my head instead.
He tilts his head to the side. “What kind of musicdoyou like?”
“Jazz.”
He blinks and then his eyes widen, seemingly surprised I answered so quickly. His gaze flicks down to the combat boots on my feet, like he’s trying to reconcile my answer.
It’s bogus. I hate jazz. But I steel my face, screwing it as serious as possible and watch his expression work through the gamut before he dips his chin and turns away, again.
A bitter pull of disappointment curls in my belly.
The party officially starts, and I spend the next hour explaining cheese choices to little kids while our line cook flips sandwiches for a bunch of sugar-drunk ten-year-olds. Once all the kids have made their sandwiches, the adults come through, and to my surprise the ranger doesn’t. He opts for a bottle of water.
“Isn’t he hot? I love a man in uniform.” A woman selecting her bread giggles as she speaks with her friend through the line.
There are only two men in uniform here, and I have a good idea who they’re talking about. I roll my eyes. Yet another reason law enforcement feels entitled—they’re literally propped up by the flirtatious comments of?—
I glance down at her left hand. Yep—married women.
“He was the one that rescued Joe and Ethan, you know.”
“Really? I wish he’d rescue me.” The same woman who commented on how “hot” he is flicks an onion from her long, fake fingernails.
“Heard he did rescue some woman a couple weeks ago. A tourist from Pinebrook.”
My head snaps in their direction, and I accidentally bang my hand on the table. Both look up at me, giving me aneat shitlook.
A boy’s exclamation draws all our attention, and I see the birthday boy jumping up and down holding a baseball and jersey in his hand. He runs to Ranger Sullivan and gives him a long hug.
Both women suck in a breath and let out longing sighs.
When they finally hand over their sandwiches for griddle pressing, I may or may not leave them on a bit longer than I should.
The rest of the party goes on. More gifts, more tag, a piñata with more candy they don’t need, and cake accompanied by a “Happy Birthday” serenading.
As I’m cleaning up, sweaty and smelling like burned bread, I watch the slices of precut cake on the table dwindle down. Finally, the last piece is claimed, and I kick a blade of grass.
“Hey. Before you sneak off, I’ve got something for you.” Mitch approaches and pulls out a folded envelope from his back pocket. It’s wet and wrinkled with perspiration. I hesitate, and he shakes it at me. “Thought you needed this.”
“I hope you included hazard pay.” These rambunctious kids nearly ran me over earlier.
He snorts, but I snatch the envelope and open it. Two hundred bucks for a few hours of melted cheese, melted skin, and mild emotional trauma? I guess I’ll take it.
I flip through the bunch of twenties. “What no handwritten apology note.”
He flicks a hand at me. “Two months and you’re already a pain in my ass. Go home, Parker. I’ll see you at the diner for your next shift.”
I smile, and Mitch hops into the van while I think about the vape poking out of the side pocket of my bag.
