“I’m fine,” I say automatically.
Quinn makes a dramatic sound from behind me.“Mama is lying.She’s tired.”
I close my eyes.Kids always say things how they see it when they are her age.
Tucker looks over my shoulder at her.Then back at me.“Looks like I’ve got a witness.”
“I just need to get through the afternoon,” I state.“Babysitter canceled so trying to work and entertain her has been a challenge.”
He nods once like that’s all the information required.Then he moves around the side of the counter before I can stop him.
“Tucker—”
“Where can she sit that’s out of your way but in your sight?”
I blink.“What?”
He glances around the little shop, then points to the small corner table near the front window where customers usually sit with sundaes and milkshakes.
“There?”
I follow the direction of his hand.
“Yes, but?—”
“Good.”He crouches in front of Quinn.
“You wanna help me be useful?”
Quinn immediately lights up.“Can I have sprinkles?”
He looks at me.I stare back for exactly one second before sighing in defeat.“Fine.”
“Victory,” Quinn whispers.
I would glare at her if I had the time.But suddenly I don’t need the time.Because somehow Tucker settles into that little corner table like he was built for it, and for the next two hours he keeps Quinn entertained with coloring, paper napkin games, one scoop of vanilla with rainbow sprinkles, and a running conversation about motorcycles, animals, and whether dragons would be allowed in Freedom Falls if they promised to behave.
He doesn’t just distract her.
Heengagesher.
Patiently.
Fully.
Like he doesn’t have anywhere better to be.And because of that, I’m able to work.Actually work.Take orders.Make shakes.Handle customers.All without the constant low-level panic of wondering whether Quinn is about to get hurt, wander off, or reach her absolute limit five minutes before closing.
Every time I glance toward the window table, he’s there.Big body folded into a chair too small for him, listening seriously to whatever nonsense Quinn is saying.At one point, I catch him helping her tape together a paper crown made from napkins and receipt tape.
At another, he’s holding her stuffed rabbit while she explains the rules of a game only she understands.
And something in me goes still.Because this isn’t just kindness.This isn’t obligation.
This isn’t him doing the bare minimum because I’m overwhelmed.He genuinely likes being with her.The realization hits me low and deep and dangerous.At closing time, Quinn is yawning so hard she can barely keep her eyes open.
I flip the sign on the door toCLOSEDand start wiping down the counters while Tucker takes the trash out without even asking.When he comes back in, he finds me behind the register counting the till.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I say.
