Page 91 of The Strawberry Patch Pancake House

At the sound of Olive’s eager ‘Dad’ shouted out across the diner, Archer’s smile grew even wider and Iris’s heart ached at how sweet he looked staring at his daughter.

‘Hello, ladies,’ Archer said, laying the plates on the table, he caught Iris’s gaze and held it a beat too long to be normal. Iris’s face heated.

‘Let’s see, we have one Olive Special.’ He put the plate with the strawberry pancakes and whipped cream in front of their namesake. Iris started cutting the pancakes into little pieces for Olive.

‘One Noah special.’ Blueberry pancakes landed in front of Iris. ‘And the “as close as I can get to the original” pancakes for Bex.’ He laid the last plate down with a flourish. Naming pancakes after the people who suggested them was a huge hit. Of course, this town absolutely loved the idea of having menu items named after them. They’d even almost forgotten about the original pancakes. Almost. Iris knew for a fact that Archer was still working on them, not that she’d been brave enough to venture out to the kitchen the last few nights to join him.

Archer ruffled Olive’s hair. ‘Hey, kid. How was school?’

Olive shrugged. ‘S’okay,’ she said with her mouth stuffed full of pancake.

‘Just okay?’ That worried crease appeared between his brows. The one that said he would literally march down to that school and do whatever he needed to do to ensure his daughter was having a good day.

Olive swallowed her pancakes and gulped down half her chocolate milk. ‘Can Iris come to the Mother’s Day breakfast?’ she asked as soon as her mouth was clear, and Iris wanted to immediately stuff more pancakes back in. Of course Olive had waited to drop that bomb until Archer was here. Her gaze snagged on his over Olive’s head. This kid wanted so much from her. She wanted everything. She wanted Iris to be a part of her family, and Iris still didn’t know if she could promise her that. If she had it in her. Panic fluttered in her belly.

‘I’m uh … going to go wash my hands before I eat,’ Bex said, slipping out of the booth and bee-lining it for the bathroom. Iris desperately wanted to join her, but Olive was looking at her with those large, dark eyes.

She opened her mouth, hoping the words would just come to her once she started speaking but she was saved from having to figure it out by Archer’s answer.

He cleared his throat, pulling his gaze from Iris and turning his attention to Olive. ‘Mother’s Day breakfasts are not in Iris’s job description, Liv. But I can come. Or Grandma Paula, if you’d rather.’

Olive frowned and the feeling that Iris was letting her down weighed heavier than she wanted to admit.

‘It’ll be fun, okay?’ Archer went on, running his finger through Olive’s whipped cream and putting a dollop on her nose.

She giggled and tried to reach her tongue out far enough to lick it off.

Bex came back from the bathroom, her eyes flicking back and forth between Iris and Archer. ‘Should I go wash them again?’ she asked.

‘My dad’s going to come to the Mother’s Day brunch,’ Olive told her.

‘That’s great,’ Bex said, breathing a little sigh of relief. Iris wished she felt the same way, but the panic had shifted into something else. Something like regret. Or longing.

She tried to catch Archer’s eye again, but he stayed focused on Olive.

‘Enjoy your lunch and be good for Iris, okay?’

‘Okay.’ Olive slid a finger through her whipped cream and reached her hand up to Archer’s nose. He bent over so she could dab the cream on his nose. He smiled, that dimple popping in his cheek.

‘Thanks, Liv.’

Olive grinned.

‘See you later,’ he said and Iris willed him to look at her, but when he did, she instantly regretted it. Written on his face was everything he wanted.

He wanted Iris. And his daughter. He wanted a family.

‘See you at home, Iris,’ he said and all she could manage was a feeble wave.

As soon as he was gone, Bex leaned across the table. ‘We need to talk,’ she hissed. ‘What the he—heck is going on?’

‘Were you going to say hell?’ Olive asked.

‘Uh … no. Of course not.’

‘My dad says I’m allowed to say hell as long as I don’t say it at church or school. Or in front of my grandma,’ Olive said, still swirling her finger through the cream.

‘That seems reasonable,’ Bex said, digging into her own pancakes. ‘These still don’t taste like the original.’