Page 34

Wren

“ A lright. That’s the last of ‘em.” I toss my apron onto the countertop along with my notepad and pen.

The parking lot is nearly empty now, just a few motorcycles growling to life as the last customers ride off down the road in front of the Front Porch Diner.

“Hey, Bree, Jamie? Could y’all give me a hand?”

The two teenagers glance up at me, unimpressed.

“We have to help clean?” Bree asks, popping her gum and pulling her phone from her back pocket for the fifth time today, despite me already telling her— nicely —to keep it put away.

“We do,” I reply, clicking off the speaker that’s been playing soft country music.

Music always helps activities you don’t enjoy—like cleaning—go much faster, but I need these girls to hear me while I’m teaching them how to close up.

“Part of the job is helpin’ out wherever you’re needed.

It’s a team effort. When we all pitch in, we get outta here faster.

Plus, tomorrow’ll be a heck of a lot easier if you’re not steppin’ over yesterday’s mess.

Carson may not have spelled out every little detail for you, but some things are just implied. ”

They blink at me. I raise a brow.

After a beat, they shuffle toward the kitchen and grab cloths and spray bottles. While they wipe down tables, I sweep up the crumbs and footprints left from a day’s worth of traffic.

“See?” I say, patting Jamie on the shoulder once we finish. “That was quick and easy. Now just keep those phones put away while you’re workin’, and make sure you’re keepin’ track of orders. Those cute notepads in your aprons ain’t just there for looks.”

They both shoot me matching fake smiles—the kind I’ve given plenty of times in my life—but I really don’t care. They can go home and text each other about me all they want. Carson pays them well. They can handle basic responsibilities.

I don’t usually come down hard on people I barely know, but seeing Carson worn so thin—and knowing how hard he’s working to keep this place running—makes me less patient with those who are slacking.

I hate watching the people I care about being taken advantage of.

I know LouAnn has talked to the girls, too, but clearly, it has been falling on deaf ears.

By the time Carson steps out from the back office, both girls are gone for the night. The tired sag of his shoulders and dark circles beneath his eyes say enough about how today’s gone.

“Where’d everyone go?” he questions with a furrowed brow as he scans the empty diner.

“Home,” I reply. “And you should too. LouAnn had to leave about an hour ago to pick up her sick grandbaby from the babysitter. I told her not to bother you. And everyone else dwindled out since then.”

He nods slowly, his tired eyes holding mine. “Thanks for your help today. Pretty sure this is the first time I’ve finished a day without at least ten complaints about my servers.”

“You’re welcome,” I say with a smile. “And I’ll be back to train them some more. I commend you for hirin’ them and, well, not firin’ them yet.” I laugh. “But those two can still learn a thing or two.”

He chuckles. “Y’know what? I’m not even gonna argue with you about it. If you wanna come in and help out, by all means.”

I grin. “I’ll be here.”

“Are you ready to hit the road? Need to grab anything from the back?”

“Nope. And I rode in with you today, so I’m all yours,” I state, tucking my hands into my back pockets.

He raises a brow, and my cheeks heat a little too quickly. But thankfully, he moves on and leads the way to the truck.

As soon as he starts it up, hot air blasts from the vents. He quickly kills the A/C and rolls down the windows.

“You know what sounds good right now?” he asks, glancing over.

“What’s that?”

“A line in one hand, cold drink in the other.” He nods at the thought, a slow grin spreading across his face. “You wanna come with me?”

I don’t even have to think about it or ask where he’s going.

I nod and smile back. “Sure.”

The dock is still damp from the late-afternoon rain by the time we make it down to the pond.

“Good thing we brought chairs this time,” I state, pulling the folded chair from the bag.

Crickets chirp in the tall grass, and the cicadas start up in the trees all around us as Carson prepares our lines and casts them into the deep, dark water.

He then unfolds his bag chair and plops down. However, his relaxation is short-lived as he crashes down onto the wooden floor of the dock with a thud. I let out a snort of laughter, clapping a hand over my mouth.

“Are you okay?!” I ask, trying to keep a straight face as I move to help him from the broken chair.

“Yeah,” he grumbles, tossing the remains of the chair aside.

I do my best to hide my amusement, rolling my lips tightly together as I stifle another laugh, but it slips out anyway.

He narrows his eyes at me. “Think that’s funny, Tink?”

“No,” I reply, shaking my head just as another chuckle escapes.

Still glaring playfully, he reels in his line and flicks it back out with a satisfying whirrrr of the spool, the sound growing faster as it flies over the water.

“Here, take mine,” I offer, standing and motioning to my chair.

He gives me a look.

Then he glances at the chair.

Then back at me.

“I got a better idea.”

In one smooth move, he drops into the chair and hauls me into his lap.

“The chair can’t hold this much weight!” I squeak, trying to wriggle off his lap.

“You callin’ me fat?” he teases, pretending to be offended.

Fat is the last thing I’d ever call him. Muscular? Yes. Fit? Obviously. Delicious? Dangerously.

I shake my head. “I’m sayin’ these chairs are older than time and already failed once today.”

Though, truthfully, no part of me really wants to get off his lap. Not even a little.

Maybe get off on his lap.

Wow. I need to get some help… But not from him.

He’s not offering.

But judging by the…uh, firm situation I’ve settled into, I’m not the only one enjoying this arrangement. But who knows? Maybe he just has a stick in his pocket.

Yeah, let’s go with that.

“It’ll be fine,” he murmurs. “Just sit still and watch your line.”

I turn my focus back to the water, trying to calm my racing heart, just as I notice my line bounce.

Once.

Twice.

The third time, the whole rod bucks forward like it’s possessed.

“Carse!” I yelp excitedly as I jerk the pole back to set the hook like he taught me, nearly hitting him in the face. “I got one! I got?—”

RIIIIIIP.

Fabric tears beneath us.

I’m suddenly on my backside, sitting on damp wood, pole still in hand, Carson grumbling as a fish snatches his rod right off the dock.

We share a look before we both dissolve into laughter.

Well…at least we’re making memories.