I shrug. “He’s just … nice.”
Matty smirks. “Nice ass.”
I glare at her. “Matty Storm, you just objectified your farrier. I’m appalled.”
She bumps my shoulder affectionately. “Nothing wrong with appreciating the male form. Besides, I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t mind you objectifying him if you wanted to.”
I don’t respond. Because that’s the thing: I don’t know if I want to.
By the time I head into town later, the sky has softened into that pale Wyoming blue that makes everything feel wide open. These warm afternoons are going to be getting fewer and fewer soon, so I drive with the windows down, hair whipping around my face, country music low in the background.
Ryse & Shine Café comes into view, brick facade warm and familiar, big windows fogged slightly from the heat inside. I spot Daddy sitting at his usual table by the window, newspaper folded neatly beside a mug of coffee.
I smile without meaning to.
Ever since his heart attack, Sunday brunch here has become his quiet show of rebellion. Grandma Evelyn replaced his normal breakfast of bacon, eggs, and homemade pancakes to healthier fare last year.
Daddy thinks egg white omelets and low-fat yogurt count as torture and would rather take his chances.
I push open the door, bell jingling overhead.
“Shelby!” Imma Jean’s voice rings out from behind the counter.
She comes around, pulling me into a hug that smells like cinnamon and coffee. Her hair is piled on top of her head in a loose bun, flour dusting her apron.
“Hey, Imma Jean.”
“You eat yet?” she asks, already scanning me like she’s deciding whether I look too thin. She thinks everyone looks too thin.
“Yes, ma’am. I just stopped in to say hello to Daddy before heading to do a little shopping for Grandma.”
She squints. “You sure? Not even a cinnamon roll? I just took a fresh batch out of the oven. Icing them now.”
“All right. You twisted my arm.”
She beams as she grabs a carafe, and she follows me over to Daddy’s booth.
He looks up then, his face lighting up. “There’s my girl.”
I slide in the bench across from him and turn over the mug that’s sitting on the table. Imma Jean fills it.
“You being naughty again, I see.”
He grins, unapologetic. “Doctor says coffee’s good for the heart.”
I glance at his half-finished plate—sausage gravy and homemade biscuits. My eyebrows shoot up. “Yeah, but I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t feel the same about your food. Grandma either.”
He leans closer. “That woman took away my bacon. I had to do something.”
Imma Jean returns at this exact moment with a plate of cinnamon rolls.
He looks up at her. “Bless you.”
Her eyes soften, and she squeezes his shoulder before walking away.
He points his fork at me. “Not a word.”
I laugh. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
