Page 61 of Dream a Little Dream

“Okay.” I said it quickly to reassure him that he didn’t have to.

“I heard about what you said to my dad.”

I looked around to see who might be listening. We were, after all, standing in the middle of my store, and maybe this wasn’t the time to—

“I don’t know what it is that you’re after, but maybe you could back off a little, okay? I don’t think that’s asking too much.”

There were circles under his eyes that I didn’t remember seeing there before. His shoulders hung haggard, like maybe he’d had a hard night. Or week. Was this my doing? Had he talked to his dad and taken the news hard?

I swallowed, praying for the words to explain. “I’m not after anything, Charlie. I just wanted to know if—”

“My dad was sneaking around on my mom?”

The force of his words nearly made me step back. God, I hadn’t really considered that angle, what the details might do to Charlie, to have others in town hear them. I braced against the recriminations that swarmed thick and heavy. I wasn’t sure what to say, my brain having downshifted on me.

“We don’t know exactly what happened.”

He shrugged as if having given up. “I can check dates just as easily as the next guy. I would have been three. Four when you were born.”

“Charlie, I didn’t know any of that.”

“Now you do, so could you not make our lives any harder with your public displays?”

He meant the donut shop. I should have talked to Jacob privately. This town was too damn small and gossipy for its own good. This wasn’t the juicy details about who was kissing who at Ronnie’s. This was people’s lives.

“I promise.” A pause as he studied the handle of his cart. “Charlie, I apologize. I most definitely didn’t want to cause you, of all people, any pain or grief. I should have been…more careful. And I will be.” I wanted to ask him for coffee sometime or a meal. I wondered what he and Jill might be doing for the holidays. Somehow, that felt out of bounds now.

He nodded and continued past me down the aisle. “Right. Well…thanks.”

That hadn’t been how I’d hoped our first conversation would go. I stood between the jars of marinara like my feet were fused to the floor, dumbfounded and attempting to recover. I’d only wanted to know more about where I came from and maybe reach out to a portion of my family, the only portion left. Yet I’d screwed it all up, allowing my emotions toinvite an impulsive conversation. Alone on the aisle, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, hoping my heart rate would slow. I walked on, trying to remember what my day looked like and what I needed to accomplish next, but a heaviness wrapped itself around me. I went through the motions of the rest of my workday and sat quietly on my couch afterward, until Kyle arrived from her shift.

She kissed my cheek from behind the couch, and I smiled at the scent of her watermelon hair. “Don’t move. You’ve had a hard day. I got dinner.” It was after nine p.m., but I’d waited for Kyle to eat. Not that it had been hard. My appetite had apparently left to make room for exponential amounts of guilt.

“You don’t have to do that,” I said softly, turning as she walked to the kitchen with purpose. Her hair was piled on top of her head, more disheveled than I’d ever seen it. It made me think of her day and the variety of patients she’d taken care of. It made me want to rub the back of her neck and take the stress away.

“I’m making waffles.” She smiled at me. “I saw this morning that you have a waffle maker and, well, I’m a pro.”

“Waffles?” I asked. “I don’t think I’ve ever had waffles for dinner.”

She’d already found a mixing bowl and moved around my kitchen in blue scrubs like a damned professional. “Well, you’re about to learn why they’re considered comfort food. You have a bad day? You eat a waffle. That’s just how my life works.”

“I’m intrigued.” I leaned over the back of the couch. “Do you take yours with syrup or no syrup?”

Her adept hands went still and she placed the measuring cup of flour on the counter. “This is the most heartbreaking question you’ve ever asked me. People don’t eat dry waffles, Potter.” The serious expression on her face said that she did not come to play when waffles were the subject.

“I’m sure some people do.”

“The most menacing of individuals, maybe. Villains in superhero movies. People who hate dogs. No one likable.”

“Thank God I have you, the waffle empress, to guide me.”

She met my gaze. “Thank God. Now sit and relax. I got this.”

I sat at one of the counter seats with the green cushions Lindy had made for my place by hand when I moved in. “I will sit, but it will be right here so I can ogle my—youwhile you create waffles in my kitchen.” Whoops. Had she caught that little slip of the tongue? I did my best to play it off, smooth operator that I was not.

She lobbed me a curious side-eye. “What were you just about to say?”

“Nothing.” Were my cheeks pink? They felt warm and were thereby traitors. Dead to me.

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