lick of panic stung his gut as his mind raced over reasons she would be trying to get ahold of him this late. An urgent problem at the café, an opportunity to ream him for acting like such an asshole today . . . Hell, she could have been calling to fire him.
He tapped the speaker on his phone, held his breath, and played the messages back.
As soon as Trace heard the words, “Your dad showed up at the café,” all his air whooshed out.
“What?” He ground his teeth, holding in his fear and anger until he’d heard everything. The apology in her voice hadn’t been anywhere close to what he’d been expecting. But he didn’t jump to the conclusion that she’d want to mend fences with him, because, well, this wasn’t his first asshole moment with her. When her message finished playing, Trace scraped his fingers into his hair. “Jesus Christ.”
He deleted her message and played the next one.
“Me again,” she said to voice mail. “Just an update. Your dad doesn’t want to go home, so we’ll wait for you at the café. See you soon.”
“Oh, great,” he muttered. His dad was having one of his stubborn moments. “Just fucking perfect.”
Trace pushed harder on the gas. This was the last thing Avery needed—an ornery old man, with dementia no less—planting himself in the middle of her café at the end of a very long day. And his father’s mind only slipped deeper into confusion when he was stressed. The bar’s transition into a café, the replacement of Joe with Avery, the absence of alcohol and cards would rattle him enough to twist his thoughts into a dust devil and push his acceptance of change into the negative zone. All that would trigger irrational anger and mix memories until he made no sense at all and turned belligerent.
Thinking of that stress on top of all the stress Trace had already caused Avery made him anxious as he pulled into the café’s drive.
The first sign of trouble hit him immediately—a half-dozen cars in the lot besides Avery’s Jeep. The next sign hit a second later—Zane’s patrol car among those vehicles.
“Shit.”
Fear joined Trace’s stress. Reasons for all these cars to be here bounced around his brain, making it hard to think, to plan. He pulled up behind a couple of cars and turned off the truck’s engine but left the lights on and keys in the ignition as he jumped out and took the front steps two at a time.
Inside the café, he halted at the sight that greeted him—a bunch of people sitting around two square tables that had been pushed together near the piano. They all had cards and piles of chips laid out in front of them. The lighting was lower than usual, and the murmur of familiar voices touched Trace’s ears. Familiar faces registered in his brain.
What he didn’t understand was what . . . or why . . . or how . . .
“Okay, yo,” Zane said, turning his head toward Ethan, who sat in the next seat, letting a stack of chips slide through his fingers over and over, “we’re surfin’ the wall here. Are you grabbing your board or not?”
“Speaking English is a requirement to play at this table, kid,” Harlan McClellan groused. “If you can’t say something we can all understand, then stop your jabberin’.”
Ethan tossed his cards toward Delaney, who held the deck. “I’m out.”
That pleased Zane, and he turned his sharklike gaze on Phoebe in the next chair. “Come on, Pheebs,” he cajoled. “You know you wanna.”
“I know I wanna kick your arrogant heinie,” she said as she matched Zane’s bet and lifted her chin toward Trace’s father, who sat across from her. “Take it away, George. Because if I can’t be the one to kick his ass, there’s no one I’d like to see kick it more than you.”
The laughter around the table climbed. And his father was among those laughing. Trace hadn’t seen his father laugh in . . . He searched his memory and realized he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen him laugh. Possibly sometime in Trace’s childhood.
“Good call,” George said, matching his son’s sly grin. “Because no one can kick his ass like I can.” He tipped his head and shrugged. “Well, except Trace. Trace has a knack for kicking ass.”
Trace’s confusion deepened into shock. His father sounded positively lucid as he pulled up the corners of his two cards for a quick glance, then tossed in chips to match the others. “I’m in. You gonna wake up to play this hand, Avery? Or just win it while you sleep?”
Trace’s gaze slid to the shadowed chair beside his father, just outside the pool of light overhead. Avery had her arm curled on the table and her head resting there. He shifted to get a better look at her face and found her eyes closed. She opened them long enough to glance at the table and throw chips in the pot.
She closed her eyes again. “I’m a multitasking guru.”
Trace planted his hands at his hips and watched as the hand moved forward and his brain pieced together the answers to his what, why, and how. It didn’t take long for him to realize that because his father still thought this was Joe’s bar, he’d demanded to do what he always did at Joe’s bar when he’d come—drink and play poker. When Avery couldn’t convince him to go home, she’d either had to provide the environment his father wanted or suffer his wrath.
She’d obviously enlisted help from the piano, where the keys were uncovered, and called in the cavalry, soliciting those closest to her to put together the poker game his father had been asking Trace for since they’d arrived in town. Judging by the beer bottles littering the table, it was obvious Ethan had brought the alcoholic refreshments. By the food sitting on the counter, Avery had provided snacks. And between her family and his, she’d pulled together his father’s dream night on the spur of the moment.
When it all came together in Trace’s head, he experienced a sudden wash of emotions that almost overwhelmed him. Gratitude, affection, longing . . . and so much more. Too much more. He couldn’t process it all in the moment. He’d been so lucky to have Delaney call him at the start of this job, doubly lucky when Avery kept him on after the café had traded hands. Now both he and his father had the support of Avery and her entire extended family. Phoebe, Delaney, Ethan, even Harlan had jumped when Avery had asked, giving up their night to satisfy a crazy old man’s frivolous wish.
A round of shouts and laughter brought Trace’s thoughts back.
Zane jumped from his chair and planted his hands on the table, leaning toward Delaney. “Come on, baby—bring me a diamond.”
“Watch who you’re calling baby,” Ethan said.