I clip a leash on Toffee’s collar and climb out of the car, immediately noticing the sweater stops short of my belt, exposing a line of skin.
Fabiana raises her eyebrows at me, her lips twitching.
“You’re the one who chose this top.”
“And you’re the one making it look so fetching,” she teases.
I hold an umbrella aloft for Toffee to sniff and do what she needs to do beside a tree, and then the three of us dash inside the café. Instantly the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and baked goods hits my senses, and my belly rumbles once more in approval.
The place is almost empty but for a couple of elderly men sipping espresso, and a woman knitting at a table on her own at the back.
“Is it okay if I bring my dog in here?” I ask a man in his sixties behind the counter, his beard salt and pepper, his hair balding.
He throws his gaze over my pink sweater and cap. “Of course. We can have a bowl of water brought out for him.”
“She might want something to eat, too.”
The man’s bushy eyebrows pull together. “Bacon?”
I’m pretty sure bacon isn’t usual canine fare, but Toffee would be more than happy to break with tradition. “She would love that. Thank you.”
“Take a seat. Anywhere you like,” he says.
We thank him and then find a table by the window. Toffee instantly gets her leash tied in knots around the leg of my chair and then gives up and lies down.
“Do they know if your grandmother’s broken her ankle?” I ask.
“She’s being x-rayed soon. She’s in good spirits, considering.”
“I’m glad to hear it. We’ll be there in a few hours, if the weather plays ball.” I peer out at the storm, which shows zero signs of letting up.
“I hope so, although I’m not as worried as I was, now that we’ve spoken.”
“And she’s got her Mr. Beckman.”
She twists her mouth. “Hmm.”
“What looks good to you?” I ask as I scan the menu.
“All of it?” she suggests, her face lifting in a smile.
“I’m going to start with coffee and a ham and cheese croissant.”
“No baked beans?”
I snicker. “Definitely not.”
She places her menu back on the table. “Sounds good to me. I’ll have the same.”
The man from behind the counter approaches our table, accompanied by a woman of about the same age. Both of them are looking at me, an all too familiar look on their faces. I know what’s coming next.
“Cover blown,” I say under my breath.
“What do you mean?” Fabiana asks as the couple arrives at our table.
The woman urges her husband toward us.
“Err, my wife has something to say,” he mutters, looking thoroughly uncomfortable.
