Savannah kept her hands busy refilling sugar and condiments on the bar, but a familiar knot of self-disgust expanded in her gut. She hated the way the last few years had changed her. She’d lost her sense of humor. Her patience had worn as thin as the threadbare carpet at the diner’s front door. She had one friend—Misty, and one interest—Jamison.
By the time she’d returned to Mr. Anonymous’s mug with the coffeepot, her worry over Audrey had gnawed a hole in her gut.
“Rough morning?” he asked.
A missing attorney, a perpetually lingering divorce from an abusive asshole, her controlling soon-to-be ex-father-in-law watching her from a few feet away, the son she lived for in the middle of this tug-of-war and coming home sick… Yeah, it had been a rough morning.
“Mason’s death has everyone on edge,” she told him.
He didn’t respond, his gaze on the coffee filling his mug.
The bell above the door chimed. With her mind on Audrey, Mason, Lyle, and Hank, the sound jarred her from her thoughts, and her hand jerked. Coffee splashed over the rim of the cup, hitting Mr. Anonymous’s hand.
“Oh no.” She grabbed a rag from under the counter and covered his hand, sopping up the coffee on hi
s skin. “I’m so sorry. Did I burn—”
His other hand covered hers. “I’m fine.” He held her gaze with eyes that somehow reassured her. She felt the connection in the pit of her stomach, a warm, coming-to-life tingle. “My skin’s as tough as leather.”
“Hi, Mom.” Jamison’s voice pulled her gaze from his and jump-started her mind.
Hank was right behind their son, and his gaze was on the new guy’s hand still covering Savannah’s. Fear burned away the momentary pleasure.
“Hey, there.” She pulled her hand from Mr. Anonymous while she patted his dry. “Be careful,” she told her son as he climbed to a stool. “I spilled coffee.” She flicked a look at Mr. Anonymous, painfully aware of Hank’s laser focus. “I’m really sorry. Can I get you some ice?”
He barely shook his head. “I’m fine.”
Savannah let her gaze linger another second. There was something new in his eyes, something that settled her. As if he were saying, You’re fine too. You’ve got this.
She found herself offering a nod before focusing on Jamison. She reached toward her son to feel his forehead. “No fever. I hear you’re not feeling too great today. What’s going on?”
Jamison plopped down a piece of paper and a fistful of crayons, but he was definitely subdued. “Tummy ache.”
Hank lifted his chin toward Lyle, who was chatting with other customers, then leaned on the counter, facing their son. But his gaze homed in on the new guy, clearly sizing him up.
“My dad said he’d take Jamison—” Hank started.
“No need.” Savannah replaced the coffeepot. “I’ll take him home. My shift’s over soon.”
Hank finally looked away from Mr. Anonymous, who diligently kept his eyes on his coffee. “Don’t go babying him, now. It’s just a stomachache.”
His voice was light and congenial, the tone he always took when other people were around. She knew it as his I’ll-show-patience-now-but-you’ll-pay-for-it-later tone. One that still made nerves skitter up her spine.
She felt Mr. Anonymous’s gaze on her, but she didn’t meet his eyes. Any other man in town would have retreated to the farthest corner of the café by now.
Ignorance was bliss.
When she didn’t pick a fight over how she cared for Jamison, Hank pushed a little further. “All right, then, you go ahead, take him home. I’ll pick him up after work. Then we can all have dinner together—like a family.”
Oh, hell no.
“I’ve got to get back to work.” Her words were careful, deliberate, and measured. Just enough to push Hank back, but not enough to send him into a tirade—at least not with others watching.
The new guy glanced toward Jamison. “Whatcha drawing?”
Savannah recognized the gesture for what it was—an attempt to defuse tension. She also knew it would backfire.
“Picture,” Jamison said without looking up.