Page 95 of Sacrifice the Knight (Checkmate 6)

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Katrina

The first snow hits us early this year. It’s icy cold and nothing like the Hallmark movies. There is no gentle drift with beautiful snowflakes that we want to catch on our tongues. There’s no kissing under the mistletoe, or dancing in the street while wearing cute hats and mittens. In reality, there are freezing toes, slush piles melting on the curbs, and wind-messed hair that won’t settle no matter how much spray I use. An icy wind slams against the diner windows, and for every moment I’m not serving, I stand by the grill and mooch a little of Stefan’s heat.

Things are…settlingfor us, I guess. It’s almost like Eric never happened, and the only reminders I’m given now are his empty booth and the way my heart feels awfully hollow whenever I think of him. This is a small town, so the fact I’ve not seen his face or heard his voice in almost two months, except for that one conversation in my hall, means he’s either relocated to Narnia, or he’s using his undercover skills to stay hidden.

It’s the second, I’m sure, considering his colleagues Sophia and Jay are in here almost as often as Eric was. The first time was like a sucker punch to the gut. They were a connection to him I never previously had. I wondered if they were bringing news—a message, even—and despite my pride and stubbornness, I would have accepted that message and hoped it included an apology and a chance of reconciliation.

Because the heart wants what the heart wants, even if the brain waves her pompoms and cheerswe don’t need a man!

But by the third or fourth day of their visits and smiling chats while they ate and stared into each other’s eyes, my stomach stopped jumping when the bell above the front door would ring. They weren’t bringing news. They were just hungry, and I was nothing more than a waitress to them.

It’s the way it was always supposed to be.

My son’s bad run with colds and sinus infections has slowed. He’s not as tired as he was, and his bad attitude after Eric’s final visit has waned. He was on the man-hater train with me, but he’s mellowed since then. He doesn’t speak of Eric; I don’t speak of Eric.

We simply live our lives the way we did before I ever met him.

Even Zeke is playing nice. He’s deeply apologetic for upsetting us; he’s a changed man; he wants to get to know his son, blah blah blah. His words are the same, which doesn’t particularly endear him to me, but his actions – or more accurately – his lack of actions is intriguing.

He calls me a couple times a week and asks how we are. He asks after Mac and mentions a camping trip around Christmas. He tells me how he got a job in the next town over, so he’s sticking close, and he hopes I can agree to letting him into our lives as time passes and he proves himself.

His words have been muttered before, so they don’t particularly impress me, but when I say no to camping in the snow, and no to a sleepover, and no to every other option I feel uncomfortable with, he doesn’t throw a tantrum.

Like, at all. Which is unprecedented.

Maybe he’s really changing. Maybe taking his son’s fist to the face is what it took for him to wake up.

Who knows, but while I’m not fooled by a fast change of heart, I’m cautiously optimistic that a father-son relationship is a possibility.

Stefan bustles around me with a swing to his hips and a whistle on his breath. He’s always so happy, always smiling, always prepared to cheer me on, even when I’mdeepinto my PMS jag and there’s not enough chocolate in the world to fix my bitchy mood.

Just like always, today’s no exception.

He flips burgers, plates up hot fries, whips a salad together, then with a shining smile, he turns to me with two heaped plates. “Ding, ding, baby girl.”

It’s hard to remain grumpy when he looks at me the way he does, so I accept the warm plates and turn away. The diner is barely busy. It’s late afternoon, and the weather already makes it almost dark out. Tammy is here, but in reality, one of us should go home and not make Franky pay us to do nothing.

I walk into the dining area and glance toward my son, who sits in his booth with his legs folded on the bench seat and that ratty book in his hands while he reads and sips an almost empty milkshake. The straw has been stuck between his teeth for an hour straight while he’s absorbed in a world of magical beings. Fire, ice, princesses, a damsel who’d rather fight her own battles, and fight sequences I’m sure he wishes he could do.

Every day that passes, he grows bigger, stronger, broader. And so unbelievably handsome.

I snatch up two sets of silverware and make my way to the booth beside Mac’s. I slide one plate in front of Sophia Solomon and nod when she grins, then the second in front of Jay Bishop and try my hardest not to blush when he looks up and smiles.

The Bishops are Eric’s opposites. They’re tanned, where Eric is not. They have dark hair to Eric’s sandy blond. They have a million tattoos, and though Eric does too, theirs are flashier. Theirs stretch from toes to fingertips. They cover their necks, and in Jay’s case, his scalp beneath his short hair. At one point in his life, Jay shaved his head and let some burly biker dude tattoo his freakin’ skull. But Eric’s ink can be covered with not much more than a shirt and a collar. When you strip him down, his art tells a story… a story I never asked. But dressed and in public, you could almost assume his skin is as pure as he swears his smile is.

“Thanks, Katrina.” Jay winks, and gets the blush I know he was looking for. “My hungry is hungry, so maybe tee up some pie for straight after?”

“Sure thing. I’ll plate it up and have it ready for you.”

“Thanks.” He flashes one more grin before he turns back to find Soph’s burger half-gone and her mouth overfull.

“What?” Meat and bread fall from her mouth. “What!”

“Nothing, Sugar Plum. You’re just so graceful and sexy.”

“Shut up!”

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