Page 39 of Cinder
“Eventually.”
“Good.” He sets the glass down. “You should see Maplewood Lake at night. Beautiful.”
“And miss all this?” I gesture at Chip, frantically waving a docket at Gwen.
He laughs. “Fair.”
Behind me, Gwen clears her throat, and I glance over my shoulder to see she’s polishing a glass, eyes flicking between us once before returning to her work.
From the booth, Frankie is watching my interaction with open interest, while Mason leans across the backrest toward Evan and says something that makes his jaw tighten half a notch. He shifts slightly in the booth, mumbling something to Elle before his eyes flit toward the bar.
Tucker finishes his beer and nudges the empty glass forward.
“I’ll let you survive the rest of your trial,” he says. “But if you need a tour guide who actually knows the town—”
“And youdo?” Mason calls from across the room.
Tucker ignores him.
“—I’m around.”
“I gathered,” I say lightly.
He smiles once more, completely unbothered, before stepping back to join his partner near the pool tables. Tucker is clearly accustomed to being the center of attention, which used to be appealing to me, but it’s also familiar—in ways that make me wary.
The noise of the bar swells back in around me, and I turn toward the register again, aware of more than just the screen in front of me.
Behind me, Gwen slides a glass into place.
“That didn’t take long,” she murmurs.
By the time the rush thins, the music’s been nudged down a notch, and the kitchen bell isn’t screeching every thirty seconds.
Chip leans both hands on the bar like he’s just survived something heroic.
“I’m never emotionally recovering from tonight,” he mutters.
“You’ll be fine,” Gwen says, slowly drying a glass. “But you did almost cried twice.”
Chip gasps in protest, and I finish wiping down the section in front of me with a grin. Then I untie my apron, folding it carefully before placing it on the counter. Gwen looks at it, then at me.
“Well,” she says evenly. “You didn’t break anything too expensive.”
“High praise.”
“Youdidbreak your rhythm about six times, though.”
I groan, placing my head in my hands. “I lost count at four.”
Frankie abandons her booth and saunters over, sliding onto the stool beside me and tucking one leg under herself.
“I think you did fine,” she says.
Behind her, the firefighters have clustered into one booth and dragged over two chairs, all of them leaning toward each other like they physically can’t spread out.
Mason is mid-story, using his hands for emphasis, and Colt’s shoulders are shaking. Evan’s listening, one arm draped over the back of the booth, his posture loose. Even off duty, they sit like a unit.
Gwen sets a short glass in front of me with a clink and pours something amber over ice.
