“What?” I ask, knowing I should turn back to the pancake that’s on the verge of being overdone, but I can’t. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Like what?” He takes another sip of his coffee, hiding behind his mug. “I’m not looking at you like anything.”
“Sure you aren’t,” I say, narrowing my eyes, but I don’t push the subject.
My dad is a damn good cop, and the last thing I need to do is incriminate myself in front of him. He’ll put two and two together far faster than I’d like. I can’t help but think he’d be disappointed if he knew what I was doing with Ezra. Not that I think my father would really care as long as I’m happy, but there is a whole power dynamic at play, even if we don’t want to acknowledge it.
I finally flip the pancake onto the plate, and just as I suspected, it’s overcooked.
“Shit,” I mutter. “I’ll make you a new one.”
“Nah. Don’t worry about it. I actually need to run anyway. Got a few things I need to take care of before heading into the station.”
“Oh.” I deflate. Other than our movie night several days ago, I feel like I haven’t seen my dad in weeks. I was looking forward to breakfast together. Plus, I was enjoying cooking, even if it was just pancakes and turkey sausage. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah. Rain check for Saturday?”
I nod. “Sure. That sounds good.”
He leans forward and presses a kiss to the top of my head. “Thanks, kiddo. I’ll see you later.”
“Yeah, later, Dad. Be careful.”
“Always am.”
He grabs his holster off the table, then his hat.
Just before he steps out of the kitchen, he pauses, then looks back over his shoulder. “Maybe take that into the cidery. See if Ezra wants breakfast.”
Then he disappears, leaving me staring after him.
It confirms everything I need to know.
“Come on. We’re closing early.”
I snap my head up from the menu I’mstillworking on. I should have been done a week ago. I could blame it all on Ezra—he’s the one who keeps distracting me, after all—but it’s not entirely his fault.
It’s me who keeps changing my mind. I know how important this is for him and the cidery, how much they’re talking about the kitchen remodel on social media and promising this new, explosive menu, and I just want to live up to that. I’m terrified I won’t.
Truthfully, I feel out of practice with cooking. Sure, I’ve been making things here and there for my father and myself, but nothing compared to the scale of what I’m used to doing. I haven’t gotten the chance to really be in a kitchen since I made the mac and cheese for Ezra, and considering the state of it back then, I’m not sure that even counts.
“What? Why?” I ask.
Ezra gestures toward the completely empty cidery. “Because everyone in this town, including my business partner, is at the charity event in Pine Square. There’s no reason for us to be burning up the electricity by keeping this place open.”
He has a point. I think we’ve had two customers all day, when typically, on a Saturday, we’d be packed. Even my dad had to bail onour breakfast this morning to get to the event early—one he seemed relieved I wouldn’t be attending, mostly because nobody wants a repeat of me in handcuffs. He was even pulling deputies from the next town over to help with crowd control.
“Don’t you technically have to keep it on anyway to continue making the cider?”
“Shh. No logic. Not today. Just come on.”
He holds his hand out to me, and I can’t help myself—I drop my pencil and take it.
He leads me out from behind the bar, and then with his hand on the small of my back, we go toward the door.
“Aren’t we going to close everything?”
“We can come back here later. We’ll just lock up for now.”
