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I shove a hand down to nudge him away, but he doesn’t budge—sturdy little thing. He just puts a paw on my boot as if he’s comforting me.

“This is ridiculous,” I whisper to myself.

This makes me feel insane, because with his little claws against my boots, I think I’m officially being emotionally supported by a feral potato.

“Seriously, scram,” I tell him. “I’m not giving you any more details, you got enough the other day. Go home.”

He doesn’t. It’s not until I finally get out from under the machine and crank the engine, letting the familiar roar shake the shop, that he decides to run out. He scurries back to the crawlspace behind the stack of spare tires where he’s built what looks like a very illegal bachelor pad. I hope he doesn’t start bringing his little friends here, making this into some…hangout. One of them is distraction enough.

The shop goes quiet again once the engine settles into a low rumble. And for a second, it’s just me and the machine—something I can fix.

I wipe my hands on my jeans and sigh. “Lucky you,” I mutter toward the groundhog’s hiding spot. “You get to dig holes and nap all day. Nobody expects anything of you.”

There’s a soft, judgmental chirp from the corner.

I close my eyes.

“Don’t start,” I tell him. “I’ll allow one rodent pep talk a day, and that is my hard limit.”

Once the dozer is ready, I move it out of the shop and pull in Walker’s truck next.

Find something broken, fix it, move on. Repeat until the ache in my chest dulls to a smooth silence.

Chapter Nineteen Flick

“You’re doing it wrong.”

“I am not!” Riley argues.

“You’re supposed to fold it in,” I gasp, laughing between each word.

“Who even knows what that means?”

“You’re breaking it all up.”

Riley looks at our poor attempt at making homemade lasagna and tosses her spatula straight into the sink with a wet plop.

“That’s it, we’re eating pizza again tonight.”

“It truly amazes me how you’re so bad at cooking and yet you own a restaurant.”

“A tavern,” she corrects me.

“A tavern that serves the best fries I have ever eaten, and yet you can’t make a single lasagna at home.”

“One”—she points a finger and licks off the batter—“I don’t cook, that’s how. And two.” She licks the other finger. “You couldn’t do it either.”

“Seriously, I’m starting to get on Rowen’s side. How did you possibly win the chili cook-off on Saturday?”

Riley washes her hands and shrugs. “Old family recipe—when the time is right, I’ll give it to you.”

Why do I feel like she’s not going to give me a recipe for chili but instead some kind of spell to cast on the judges so I’ll win every time?

She claps, hands dried and belly growling. “All right, who’s getting the pizza?”

Just as I’m about to lift my finger up to my nose, Riley beats me. Her batter-covered hand practically slaps her face as she shouts, “Not it!”

“Dang it.” My shoulders slump and I grab the jacket off the dining room table, my keys still in the pocket. “You’re the adult here, the caretaker. It’s your job to feed me.”