She’s already walking toward the kitchen, so I trail behind her.
Tate, Zach’s younger brother, is sitting at the kitchen island.
“Hey, Grey,” he says. “Didn’t know you were stopping by today.”
“I just got off work. Thought I’d drop in. How’s college?”
“Good. I don’t have classes on Wednesdays this semester, so I come up and see Mom for the day.”
“Come up to eat my food is more like it,” Mrs. Kinkaid says with a smile.
“Busted,” Tate says, raising a slice of bread in the air and taking a big bite. “It has nothing to do with seeing you, and everything to do with your baking.”
“Just so we’re clear,” Mrs. Kinkaid says with a smile. “A woman always knows your motives, son. Keep that in mind when you’re out there shopping for my daughter-in-law.”
Tate chuckles and rolls his eyes in my direction. “Can you explain to her that the last thing on my mind when I’m asking a girl out is whether she’d make a good daughter-in-law?”
I hold my hands up in a gesture of surrender. “I’m not touching this conversation with a ten-foot pole.”
“And you, Greyson. You need a girl,” Mrs. Kinkaid says plainly. “There’s plenty of nice young women here in town. You’d make a great husband.”
“Yeah.” Tate laughs. “For a grizzly bear.”
Mrs. Kinkaid sets a plate in front of me with a slice of warm cinnamon loaf on it.
“Coffee?” she asks.
“I’d better not.”
Mrs. Kinkaid putters through the kitchen and Tate serves himself another piece of the warm coffee-cake bread.
“What’s the matter?” Mrs. Kinkaid pauses from rinsing a dish and looks at me with concern etched in her face.
“Nothing’s wrong.”
She studies me with the type of scrutinizing inspection only a mother can give. “Is it that new firefighter? Having a woman around the station has to be an adjustment. I know how you like predictability.”
“You act like he’s on the spectrum,” Tate says with a laugh.
“Nothing wrong with the spectrum, dear,” Mrs. Kinkaid says. “Not that you’re on it, Greyson. I know you aren’t. You just favor situations you can control. No one blames you for that.”
I take a bite of bread and let the spicy warmness fill my mouth.
“This is good,” I tell her. “Thank you.”
“How is it?” Tate asks. “Working with a woman in the station?”
If only they knew.
“It’s fine.”
Tate laughs hard. “Man, Grey. You should definitely never go into journalism.” He laughs some more. “Or public speaking.”
“But you could be a pastor,” Mrs. Kinkaid says with a wink. “Keep those sermons short and to the point so we all get out in time for the Sunday Special at Judy’s.”
I smile at her. “Maybe I’ll look into that if the firefighting gig doesn’t work out for me.”
She smiles back. “There you are. I was hoping to see you while you were here.”
