Page 94 of Spicy Ever After
“Well, why don’t you?” Pop asks, frowning.
Hattie twists open the jar and sets it down in front of him. “Macros.”
Pop scowls. “Macros?”
“Macronutrients,” I say to Pop.
He aims his confused scowl back at Hattie. “Are you a farmer? Worried about soil depletion?”
“No. I’m not a farmer,” Hattie says, opening the fig jam now. “My mom says preserves have too much sugar, so we never buy it.”
“Hmph. Sugar’s the point when it comes to preserves,” Pop grumbles.
Hattie returns to the table. “I’ll remember that the next time Mom tries to crush my marmalade dreams.”
And then the impossible happens. Pop laughs.
It’s short. Anyone other than me or Grif would think it was a cough. But it’s not.
He looks as surprised as I am. He hasn’t so much as smirked since Sunday after Paul’s pronouncement. But he’s smiling at Hattie right now.
I’ll be damned.
She opens one of the pastry boxes and tips it toward my father. “Croissant? There’s French, cream cheese, chocolate, and almond,” she rattles off.
Pop blinks into the box, a little stunned.
“I know, right? That’s why I got three of each, so we wouldn’t have to make up our minds.” She gives a cute little shrug. “Take one of everything.”
A smile twists the corner of his mouth. “Maybe just an almond and a cream cheese,” he says.
Hattie holds the box patiently while he selects one and then the other, his tremors setting off a small shower of pastry flakes.
“Beck?”
It’s only when Hattie offers the box to me that I realize I’m staring at her like she invented starlight.
I take a croissant, not even sure which one I’ve picked, and set it on my plate.
“You only want one?” Hattie gazes longingly into the box.
I’m about to nod when I clock the disappointment on her face.
If I only take one, will she, like, hold herself back? Jesus, I want her to have as many as she wants. Enjoy the hell out of this rare feast she brought to our table.
“One? No way?” I reach in and grab another, this one almost square with little blobs of chocolate dotting two ends. Then I grab one covered in toasted almonds.
Hattie beams and puts the same three on her plate. A French, a chocolate, and an almond croissant.
I open the other box and moan at the sight. Pop frowns and peeks over.
The bacon cheddar quiche looks rich, savory, and satisfying. No, I am not going to have to cook tonight. Maybe not even tomorrow night.
“Good God, Beckett. Your girlfriend is trying to kill us.”
Hattie freezes, mid-reach for the marmalade. “No, I’m not—” She whips her gaze to me. “Do y’all have a gluten allergy? Or are you diabe?—”
“No,” I interject, trying my best not to chuckle. “He just means you’re spoiling us. Think of it as his way of saying thanks.”
