The kitchen crew greeted me with nods and a few knowing looks—probably because I was radiating whatever blend of “annoyed” and “protective” that I hadn’t fully managed to swallow down.
I tossed my takeout cup into the trash, poured myself another cup of coffee, and leaned against the counter, scrolling to Eliza’s name in my messages. I had to check on her.
Me: You good?
The three dots blinked for a second, then stopped.
I stared at the screen, as if it might offer some kind of explanation.
When it didn’t, I slid the phone back into my pocket and took a long sip of coffee, the burn a welcome distraction. I busied myself checking the day’s orders and reviewing the shift schedule, but the moment kept replaying in my head—Graham leaning into the window like he owned it. Like he still had some kind of claim on her.
He didn’t.
I knew that.
But watching him act like he did made my blood simmer.
“Eliza’s working?” Grandma asked casually as she slid a tray of pie shells into the fridge.
I grunted in the affirmative.
She looked up again, sharper this time. “Did something happen?”
“No,” I said too quickly. Then sighed. “Yes. Kind of. Graham was there.”
Her eyes narrowed. “That boy again? My good friend Eleanor Woods said he’s nothing but trouble. He did a real number on her granddaughter back when they were in school. Hmph.”
“Yep. I do not like him.”
“Someone needs to remind him he’s not as charming as he thinks he is.”
I smirked. “You volunteering?”
She wiped her hands on a dish towel and gave me a look that was half pride, half challenge. “I’d pay money to see him try that smug act on me.”
That made me laugh—finally, a real one. Grandma always knew how to cut straight through the noise.
But underneath the amusement, the unease still lingered.
Because the truth was, Eliza hadn’t told anyone about Graham. And for whatever reason, she’d told me. Trusted me with that truth. And now here I was, standing in my own kitchen,wishing I could do more than glower at a man who hadn’t earned a single second of her time.
I texted again.
Me: If you need a break later, I’ll bring you a pie. Or a milkshake. Or both. Forget waiting until after lunch.
No dots this time.
I shoved my phone into my back pocket and grabbed a clean towel to polish off the counter by the pass window. I could hear the morning rush building out in the dining room—forks clinking, someone laughing, the front bell chiming.
But my focus was shot.
Because the truth was, I didn’t just want to bring her pie.
I wanted to be the one who made her feel safe. Wanted. Like she was more than the scars she carried.
And if Graham thought he was going to stroll into town and try to mess with her?
He’d have to go through me first.
