Page 17

“Okay,” he says. And then, quieter, “Better than last week.”

I nod once, not pushing. With Crow, you take the inches he gives you, and you don’t push for more than that, or he closes up entirely. What he’s carrying—his father’s abuse, his mother’s death, the childhood that left marks nobody can see—that’s not something that gets better in a straight line. But he’s here. Building something out of the wreckage of a place that used to represent everything that hurt him, and that’s not nothing.

That’s actually everything.

“Is Claire in yet?” I ask.

“Yeah, she ran to the stock room, but she should be back any minute.” He tips his head toward the back. “She’s going to pretend she’s not excited to see you, but some days you’re all she talks about. Just be warned.”

Sure enough, Claire appears from the back hall with a tray of salt and pepper shakers, sees me, and immediately rearranges her expression into something studiedly casual.

“Oh, hey, Mia,” she says.

“Hey yourself.”

She sets the tray down with the practiced efficiency of someone who has done this work before. Or maybe it’s more than that. There’s a steadiness to her that wasn’t there a few weeks ago. And her eyes aren’t as haunted either.

Apparently, this place is healing more than just Crow.

“You want coffee?” she asks.

“I was kind of hoping for one of your fancy lattes,” I tell her.

She lights up. “Of course. Coming right up.”

She pulls out a pad of paper to write up a tab, but Crow cuts her off. “It’s on the house,” he tells her.

“No, it’s not,” I argue.

Claire looks between us uncertainly.

“Mia, don’t fucking argue,” Crow starts.

“I won’t if you just let me pay you,” I tell him.

“You’re not paying me for pack food. Especially when I’m missing whatever meeting you’re headed to next.”

“You can pull an extra shift tonight if that makes you feel better,” I tell him, reaching around his elbow to snag a piece of bacon.

“Hey!” He swats me. Misses.

I shove the entire thing into my mouth before he can snatch it away. “Put it on my tab.”

Claire bites her lip to keep from laughing. “All right. Come on. I’ll make you that latte.”

I smirk at Crow, then plant a quick bacon-flavored kiss on his cheek before following Claire out to the bar. She moves behind it to the fancy coffee machine Crow added to the place recently and goes to work on my latte. I follow her around and perch on an empty stool in front of the counter.

“You look tired,” Claire says, reappearing to lean against the counter across from me with her particular brand of bluntness that I simultaneously dread and appreciate.

“I'm fine.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“I know what you said.”

She tilts her head, studying me with those sharp eyes that don’t miss much. “Is it the Ramsey thing?”

“It’s a lot of things. None of them are anything for you to worry about.”