Posey.
Standing over her are Cameron Crow and a thin, severe-looking woman in her sixties. Cameron's wearing dark jeans and a black T-shirt that shows off his physique. But he appears completely out of his depth. The older woman keeps glancing around nervously as other shoppers stare.
"Posey," I say softly, approaching the sobbing child. "Remember me from the café? What's wrong?"
The moment she sees me, relief flickers in her tear-filled eyes. She must remember me as the server who gave her crayons and butterfly pancakes.
Cameron's gaze snaps to mine. I smile. Finally, all my wishes last night in the guest bed have come true.
But something's wrong.He's not smiling back. Instead, he glares at me, his eyes cold and accusatory.
"Get away from her," Cameron says, his voice sharp enough to cut glass.
"What?" I blink, confused by the hostility radiating from him.
"You heard me. Stay away from my daughter."
"What's wrong with you?" I stand slowly, genuinely bewildered. Two days ago at the café, he'd been almost flirtatious.
"Look at the tabloids near the checkout station," Cameron snarls, walking over and snatching a copy of theNew York Herald."You'll have your answer."
I follow his gaze and freeze. There on the front page of some celebrity rag is a photo of Cameron and Posey outside the Patriot Café, with a headline screaming "Rockstar's Secret Love Child."
"You think I—" I start, but he cuts me off.
"'According to waitress Tara Thompson,'" Cameron quotes with vicious precision as he reads the tabloid aloud. "'The famous singer ordered butterfly waffles for his daughter during their touching café reunion.' Sound familiar?"
My blood turns to ice. The article somehow quotes me by name. No wonder he's furious.
"Cameron, I never?—"
"Don't." His voice could freeze hellfire. "I hate tabloids. I hate the vultures who feed them information. And I especially hate people who pretend to be innocent while stabbing you in the back."
Chloe strides to the checkout stand and takes her own copy. She opens to the article and laughs. "Oh for God's sake. Calm down. This is Tiffany's work."
"Who's Tiffany?" Cameron demands.
"The Patriot Café hostess," Chloe says. "It was an open secret that Mr. Johnson encourages her to alert the tabloids when celebrities came in. Says it's good for business."
"Everyone stop yelling!" Posey's voice cuts through our argument. "I need Grandmama to come back and buy this cereal for me! When we shopped together, she always put it in our basket!"
Mrs. Bixby kneels stiffly beside her. "Posey, your grandmother is in heaven. We've discussed this. And this cereal has far too much sugar for a growing child."
"But Grandmama bought it for me every time!" Posey clutches the box tighter. "Every time we came here! She said It was our special breakfast!"
Something clicks in my mind—child development courses, grief processing. This isn't about cereal. This is about loss, aboutdesperately holding onto anything that connects her to someone she loved.
"She's not crying about cereal," I say quietly. "She's grieving."
I kneel carefully, positioning myself at Posey's eye level. "Posey, the Cheerios were special because you shared them with Grandmama, weren't they?"
Her tear-streaked face turns toward me, nodding frantically. "We ate them together at her big table with the pretty dishes. She let me pour the milk myself."
"That sounds like a wonderful memory. And you miss having those breakfasts with her."
"Mrs. Bixby says Grandmama's never coming back." Posey's voice breaks. "But I want her to come buy my cereal. I want her to pour the milk into the little pitcher with the pink flower on it like always."
Posey catapults herself against me, and buries her face in my chest. I smooth her hair as she seems to calm down.
