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“Yes, ma’am, although Miss Gina asked if I’d help her with her new batch of kittens after I helped you in the library.”

“More kittens?!” Kimmie squeals. “Aunt Deedee, we need another kitten to play with Smokey—then he can have a friend!”

Dylan holds up a finger. “One. Tell her we’ll take one more kitten, but that’s it.”

“She’s got to get those cats fixed.” Craig breezes into the room carrying a tray of ketchup bottles and salt and pepper shakers to be refilled.

Like me, Craig’s a close friend of the family. He was once Dylan’s ballet partner and now co-manages the restaurant.

He’s also head DJ and choreographer of her weekly “Dare Nights,” when Dylan makes a special ultra-spicy pepper dish for daring customers to try.

Sometime back, it turned into a raucous dance party with Coyote Ugly -style bar dancing and fire-themed music—all selected by Craig.

He sets the tray on the large, stainless-steel work table in the center of the room, and I automatically start turning the ketchup bottles upside down. “I’m thinking about trying this new sugar-free diet I read about…”

“Diet!” Dylan’s voice goes high. “What in the world, Al? You don’t need to lose weight!”

“It’s more about being healthy.” I look down at my medium-sized figure. “Do you know how much sugar is added to everything we eat? And I mean everything . It’s pretty shocking once you start reading the labels. There’s sugar in ketchup, pasta sauce—even peanut butter!”

“Not this again,” Thomas grumbles as he passes me on his way to the grill in the back of the room.

Thomas is head chef, and he makes the best hamburgers I’ve ever tasted—using a secret recipe, of course. Now I wonder if it contains sugar.

“Don’t you want our customers to be healthy?” I call after him.

He lets out another grumble, and Craig walks over, leaning close. “Remember when I tried to reduce the amount of french fries we were serving? Don’t be healthy. Customers don’t like it.”

“I didn’t mean the customers couldn’t have sugar. They can have whatever they want.”

“Give me the sugar!” Kimmie twirls around in front of Edward, doing some kind of modified cheerleader kick. “Cookies, cake, candy!”

“How much sugar have you had today?” Craig bumps her with his hip.

“None,” I laugh. “That’s her baseline.”

“Kimmie Joy, your daddy doesn’t let you eat all that junk food, and you know it.” Dylan fusses.

“Austin used to make me pancakes on Fridays,” she argues. “He said it’s for T-G-I-F.”

“It’s okay in moderation,” I try to explain. “But too much is bad for your pancreas, it can cause heart disease, Type 2 diabetes…”

“My sister has hypoglycemia,” Edward notes.

He’s standing with his back against the wall petting the cat, which has gone completely limp in his arms. Kimmie dances over to him, reaching up to pet the long animal.

“In that case, Rachel needs sugar.” I take six slices of bread out of the bag and butter one side of each before arranging them on a metal baking sheet. “I’m really just talking about adding it to things. ”

“Yo, D, what’s for lunch?” Garrett Bradford enters through the back door, dressed in his thick khaki sheriff’s uniform. “I could eat a horse!”

“Uncle Grizz-lay!” Kimmie spins on her toes, running to greet her giant uncle by jumping on his back.

He’s pretty intimidating at six-foot-four with a black gun belt at his waist, but he’s also a gentle giant, now carrying his niece piggyback.

“Miss Allie said we can’t eat any more sugar!” Kimmie’s head tilts to the side, and she practically yells in his ear.

Garrett lifts a finger to shake in his ear. “Dang, Allie, what’s that about?”

“That’s not what I said.” I take out four more slices of bread for Garrett and butter them. “And I was only talking about me— I’m trying to cut back on my sugar intake.”

I know it’s a cliché, but if I can’t control anything else in my life, at least I can control what I eat.

“She said it’s bad for your pancakes.” Kimmie continues.

“Pancreas,” Edward corrects her.

“What’s that?” Kimmie frowns.

“Particle Man.” Garrett holds out a fist for Edward to bump. “I’m supposed to give you a ride to Miss Gina’s. I heard she has more kittens.”

“I want to help with Miss Gina’s kittens, too!” Kimmie cries, and her uncle gooses her with his elbow.

“You’re breaking my eardrum, Peanut.” Reaching around, he pulls her off his back and sits her on the metal work table.

She hops off the table at once, following Edward to put the cat outside. “Uncle Grizz said I can help you with the kittens!”

They continue out the back door, and Garrett leans closer to me, lowering his voice. “Heard anything new?”

“Not a peep.” I shake my head, pressing my lips together.

We’re doing our best to keep the situation with Rip under wraps around the kids. I don’t want to scare the littles, and I don’t want to get in Austin’s head right now, in the middle of summer camp with Jack picking his starting lineup.

“Like I said, he’s breaking parole if he leaves the state.” Garrett watches as I finish preparing the sandwiches and pop them into the broiler. “If he shows up here, I’ll be glad to arrest him and ship him right back to Angola.”

“Liv can help you get a restraining order,” Dylan adds.

Garrett’s wife Liv is a lawyer.

“You could get a restraining order all by yourself,” Garrett notes, “but it might alert him to your location.”

“I’ve done everything I can to stay off social media and keep a low profile.

I’m praying if we do that, he won’t know where we are.

” Hugging my arms over my body, I lean against the refrigerator.

“The few friends I have in New Orleans know not to say anything, and we didn’t leave a forwarding address. ”

“You should move into the house with Logan and me.” Dylan walks over to wrap her arms around my waist, over my arms. “You could have the entire upstairs floor, and Logan will be there if anything happens.”

I give her a squeeze. “What would I tell Austin?” Shaking my head, I step out of her embrace. “It’s better if we stay where we are. We’re not too far from everyone, and I have a house alarm.”

Dylan’s lips twist, but she doesn’t pressure me. Instead, she taps my arm with her finger. “You haven’t told me your favorite movie for girls’ night yet.”

“ Party Girl , of course.”

My friend’s brow furrows. “Why of course?”

“Because she wants to be a librarian, she spends all night learning the Dewey Decimal System… Although, we’re not really using that anymore—Melville Dewey was kind of a jerk.”

“Gah, weren’t they all?” Dylan laughs. “What are you using now?”

“Library of Congress system. It has more categories.”

“Have you ordered your glasses yet?” She leans on her forearms on the table, waggling her eyebrows .

“You’re wearing glasses?” Garrett returns from chatting with Thomas, munching on a handful of french fries.

“No.” I cut my eyes at her.

“I’m confused.” Garrett frowns at his sister.

“I was just saying, as a librarian, Allie should wear glasses.” She gives him a wink.

Garrett picks up on what she’s saying at once. “Riiight… so you can take them off.” He gives me a teasing grin. “And let your hair down. I know someone who’d be into that.”

“We just have to figure out a way to lure Coach Jack to the library after hours,” Dylan adds, and I’m on my way to the back door.

“Flip the grilled cheeses. If you’re taking Kimmie with you, I’m headed home—see you tomorrow.”

“Allieee,” Dylan cries after me. “Don’t leave. I’m only teasing!”

She is definitely not teasing, and I’m not standing around turning bright red in front of Sheriff Grizz.

I might think Jack Bradford is the best-looking thing I’ve ever seen and the kindest and the best mentor to my son, but I’m not having the entire Bradford clan meddling in my love life—or ruining any chance I might have with him, which up to now seems like none.

“Call me if you need anything,” Garrett yells after me, and I wave a hand over my head.

When I get to my car, my eyes slide to the plastic bag on my passenger’s seat. Inside it is a pair of prescription glasses.

They’re pretty mild, but Dylan has a point. It couldn’t hurt to have a pair on hand, and I’ve been experimenting with messy, updo hairstyles.

A laugh huffs through my lips, and I shake my head at my own self for getting sucked into their silly, match-making conspiracies.

As if I even know what Jack Bradford likes.