Page 14

It’s a weird feeling, being disappointed about the end of something, even though I only found out about its existence minutes before.

Mayor Monroe exits his SUV, and I take a step back.

“I hope you have a nice break from school,” I say. “It was good to meet you.”

“Again,” she adds.

I try to step away, but the mayor’s at my side.

“Drive safe, Mr. Kade,” he says, clearly dismissing me with a warning as he emphasizes another word that brings up my past.

That empty feeling inside me leaves no room for energy to fight, so I nod in silence. Backing away, I catch his look of victory that says he won this round.

Okay, so I guess there’s a little room for pride. “Let me know if you need any help again, Juliet. I’d be happy to lend a hand. Especially in regard to that teenage fantasy you were telling me about.”

Surprise flickers across her features.

I flick an innocent glance at her dad, who narrows his eyes, then I climb into my truck and drive away.

I’ve only been known to back down once from a challenge. I was always the one to ride the toughest bulls and wiliest broncs. Mayor Monroe is another animal entirely, and I don’t think I’ll last eight seconds fighting him if his daughter is on the line.

But leaving on that note sure was worth it.

Juliet

Dad and I make BLTs, then sit down on the bar stools at the kitchen counter. Nothing’s changed in this room since I was a little girl. White walls, brown cabinets, silver appliances. The little splashes of Dad remain, too—a mess of scrambled cables dumped below an outlet, a half-eaten banana on the granite countertop, and stacks of unread mail at the side of both.

He still keeps the photos on the fridge, too, each one framed with stained popsicle sticks. My kindergarten graduation where I’m hoisted on his shoulders and laughing my heart out, the first time I lost a tooth and he dressed up as the tooth fairy, my junior prom where he’s hugging me with tears in his eyes.

I don’t know how I won the lottery for dads. Heaven probably knew I was going to need him after Mom died.

Those were the photos in the center of the fridge—the ones with Mom. There was one of her and Dad’s wedding ceremony when they were both fresh out of high school, then one of her holding me as a newborn in the hospital ten years later, a pink bow glued to my fuzzy hair. The last photo we had taken together has always been my favorite, me as a two-year-old with Mom kissing my chubby cheek.

I wish I could remember her. Dad does his best to keep her memory alive with photos and videos, but twenty years is a long time without someone.

He sighs beside me, his cheeks full. “Nothing better than a BLT.” He nudges me. “And the company.”

“The BLTs might have me beat. These tomatoes taste way better than the store-bought ones I’ve been eating.” I wipe at the juice escaping the corner of my mouth.

“That’s because they’re fresh,” Dad says. “Mrs. Batchelder’s still bringing me a basket of fresh vegetables from her garden every Sunday. One of these days, when I retire, I’m going to start my own garden. I’ll grow peas, corn, potatoes, tomatoes, pumpkins. Maybe even take part in the farmer’s market. Tom Walker has it right, you know? From police work to ground-work. That’s the way it needs to be.”

Dad has been talking about retiring for years, but I don’t think he ever will. He enjoys hustling too much. When I was in elementary school, he was working full-time as an officer and applying to be a detective, all while finding the time to be in the PTA and volunteering to be a homeroom parent on his days off.

Anything to provide for me, all while showing his support for me.

“I’d buy a straw hat and a tractor,” he continues. “I’ll be just like the Walkers.”

The Walkers are legit farmers with crops and acres to prove it. But I appreciate Dad’s vision all the same. “I’ll buy you overalls to complete the picture. Oh, and chickens.”

“Chickens, yes. Gotta have chickens if I’m gonna be a farmer.”

I grin at the image. My dad is a looker, or at least so everyone tells me. I’ve heard rumors that he’s called “Daddy Mayor” by some of the more thirsty women in town.

“He’s like Pedro Pascal in his prime...except Mr. Monroe wears normal clothes.”

It kind of grosses me out if I think about it too much—he is my dad, guys—but it does give me a certain level of pride to know I’m related to a man who’s as honorable, service-oriented, and selfless as they come.

Or maybe I’m biased because he’s my favorite person in the world. Even if he’s going to make it impossible for me to ever marry.