Page 37 of Cinder
Elle nods. “He likes it ‘cuz there’s lots of good smells.”
My mouth twitches. “I’m afraid to ask.”
Evan almost smiles. “You should be.”
“So do you work here now?” Elle asks, eyes on my apron.
“Sort of,” I say. “Gwen is testing me.”
“Are you good at it?”
We both turn as Chip drops a stack of coasters loudly behind the bar, and Gwen swivels a bottle mid-air without even looking.
I glance back at Elle. “I’m… enthusiastic.”
She nods seriously, and Evan steps closer now, his eyes taking in the busyness of the place.
“You surviving?”
I hum, amused. “Define surviving.”
His mouth lifts faintly at one corner, but before I can reply, Gwen appears beside me with two laminated menus and hands one to Evan.
“Booth’s open near the window,” she says. “Kitchen’s moving.”
He nods. “Thanks.”
Elle smiles wide at me before turning back toward her dad and taking his hand, and I slowly stand.
“Come on, Daddy. Before they run out.”
“They won’t run out,” he says calmly, but he lets her tug him toward the booth anyway.
As he passes, his shoulder brushes the edge of the bar, close enough that I catch the clean scent of soap. He pauses just long enough to look at me again before setting the menus back down.
“We already know we’ll get the cheesecake,” he says. “Blueberry.”
“Hm, confident,” I reply, tapping it into the register.
“I just know what I like.”
I press the wrong button on the register and have to clear it. His gaze lingers a second longer than necessary, and then he moves toward the booths. He greets Mason and Frankie, shaking his head at something Mason says, then waving to Colt, Remi, and their kids, before guiding Elle into their booth and getting her settled.
I don’t look up when I hear the doors open again, but Gwen does.
“Evening,” she says, not missing a beat.
Two men step inside with their jackets open, police department badges clipped at their belts. They’re relaxed, clearly off duty, but the first one scans the room once before heading straight toward me at the bar.
“Rough night?” he asks, leaning an elbow against the wood like he’s done it before.
“Depends,” I say, finishing the pour in my hand before looking up properly. “Are you here to make it better or worse?”
I hear Gwen scoff, and his smile widens. “That depends. Am I walking into friendly territory?”
From the booth by the window, Mason lifts his glass in a slow salute.
“Debatable,” Mason calls.
