“Of course I’ve seen one. Every day, in fact. But why are they in cookie form?” And what alternate reality had he been transported into that morning?
Heather dropped the bag to the table. “They’re cockies. They sell like crazy. What was the first thing?” She moved a finished tray to the waiting rack.
Right. His grandmother’s personal demolition derby. “There’s been a little accident with your van. My grandmother shouldn’t have been driving, but she gets determined sometimes.”
She turned back to him, the color lost from her cheeks. “What happened to my van? Is your grandmother okay?”
“She is fine. Totally fine.” He kept his tone upbeat, despite the verdict he was about to render. “Her car is also fine. Your van, on the other hand…” He paused. Pinched his lips and did a little shake of his head.
“My van…” Apron and vinyl gloves still on, Heather pushed beside him and bolted toward the door.
“It’s not so fine,” he finished.
Turned out, Heather was a good sprinter. He hurried to keep up with her pace. She bolted across the street, pausing when the broken plastic chocolate chip cookie came into view.
“My cookie.” Only two words, but they were laced with desperation. She rounded to the side of the damage, and then she did that thing a woman does when she’s at her most dangerous. She got quiet. Real quiet. Peaceful, almost.
That’s what happened right before a bomb went off. Most people didn’t know that from firsthand experience, but he did. That moment of still right before shit got real.
“Are you okay?” she asked his grandmother.
“Of course; is just a scratch.” Babushka gestured to the not-just-a-scratch damage on the van. The old woman raised her weathered brows. “We have not met. I am Nadzieja.” The old woman gave Heather some serious stink eye. “Everyone I like calls me Babushka. You vill call me Nadzieja.”
Heather paused a beat. “Okay.” She looked back to the damage. Then to Jase. “Well, you can call me Heather, and we should call the police. Get a report started for insurance.” Heather patted the pockets of her icing-splattered, yellow-polka-dot apron. “Damn. My phone’s at the shop.”
“You can use mine.” Ethan began to hand over his cell.
Jase stepped between them. “What if we…didn’t. You know, involve the police? Just handled this between neighbors?”
“Jase.” Heather looked at him like he’d been the one icing dick cookies, still oh-so calm. “This is a lot of damage. We need to exchange insurance cards. Get a police report. And I’ve got to figure out how to make my deliveries today.”
Velma’s Prius crept behind Babushka’s car, stopped, and Brek opened the driver’s side door. His wife got out of the passenger side.
“Holy cow.” Velma’s eyes went wide.
“Yeah,” Jase said under his breath.
“Is just a scratch.” Babushka lifted a shoulder.
Jase slid his gaze to Heather. The calm was gonna blow any minute. She pinched her lips into a flat line.
Brek wasted no time in running a hand over the damage while Velma grabbed their kid out of the back seat. Normally, Jase would go all Uncle Jase on the baby and coo and cuddle, but today he had a cookie-van-disaster to sort.
Brek dropped to the gravel and scooted so he could see under the van.
Then he pushed himself up, dropping his elbows over his knees.
“Frame’s bent.” Brek dusted off the sleeves of his leather motorcycle jacket.
Son. Of. A. Bitch.
“Then we’ll bend it back.” Heather gestured to where Brek sat on the ground, like he should get on that.
Velma had moved beside Heather, her free arm around Heather’s back. “I don’t think that’s how it works.”
“It’s gonna be scrap.” Brek confirmed what Jase already suspected.
“Like I say, only a scrape. Nothing serious,” Babushka chimed in.
