Page 77 of Good For Me

“You did?”

His eyes flash in amusement. “Went into your room and everything. You told me, and I quote, ‘Get the hell out or I’ll remove your balls.’” He shrugs. “You seemed pretty serious so I left you to sleep.”

Now that he mentions it, I do have the faintest, sleep-hazed recollection of River next to my bed, murmuring soft things to me. I think he’d even brushed the hair away from my face. It had felt so good to have him touch me that I’d figured I was dreaming.

“I take my sleep very seriously,” I say, to cover for the fact that my heart has started to pound awfully fast at the hazy memory.

“Jas!” a shrill voice calls and then a little body is squeezing between me and River and I look down into CeCe’s brace-face smile. “Will you sit next to me at breakfast?” she asks, practically jumping up and down. If I thought Everly was too excited earlier, that was nothing on this kid. “I wanted to ask you about that fakie trick you were doing on the ramp last night. I can’t get my wheels right.”

“Let her wake up a minute, Ceece,” River says.

The little girl rolls her eyes and pulls me into a chair, taking the one at my side. “She can wake up while she talks to me about skating.”

“CeCe,” a deep male voice says and then hands reach down to grip her around her skinny hips and bodily pull her from the chair. “Stop being a pain.”

“Dad,” she whines, twisting in his arms. “This is so unfair. I want to talk to Jas. Cade is such a jerk face and he hogged her all last night.”

Cash Ransome rolls his eyes at his daughter. “You’re being a fan girl, and you know that’s not cool. You’re going to make Jas uncomfortable.”

“You never had a problem with fan girls, if I recall,” a woman—I’m pretty sure his wife, though I can’t remember her name—says drily, and he grins down at her, a squirming CeCe still trying to get out of his reach.

“Only until I met you, baby.”

He leans down to kiss the woman and CeCe squeals in disgust. “At least let me get out of here if you’re going to do gross stuff like that!” she whines to her parents.

“Excellent idea,” Cash says, setting her on her feet. “You can come to the kitchen with me and help with breakfast.”

She lets out a dismayed huff. “I thought you hired caterers for that!”

“The caterers are working late for the rehearsal dinner so they have the morning off.” He nudges her toward the door. “So if you want to eat, little miss, you can come help me crack a few eggs.”

“I can help,” I say without thinking, already out of my chair.

“Don’t be silly.” Cash’s wife—Sarah? Sam? It’s something with an S, I think—waves me off. “You’re a guest.”

“I don’t mind,” I say honestly. “My grandpa owns a diner. I’ve been cracking eggs since before I was tall enough to reach the counter.”

“Sweet,” Cash says. “I love diner food. What’s the name of his place? Is it in LA?”

I suddenly realize that I hadn’t used the past tense. My grandpaownsa diner, I had said. A wave of sadness washes over me and I wonder if I’ll ever get used to him being gone. It’s crazy the way it still hits me sometimes, as shocking and raw as the first weeks after it happened. It just doesn’t make sense to me—a world without Huck Weaver in it.

“We’re in Palms,” I say, trying to make my voice bright. “Just off Culver Boulevard. June’s Diner. You should definitely come in sometime.” A smile manages to break through the anvil of grief weighing me down. Lou and the guys would probably love that, if a bunch of famous rock stars suddenly started hanging out on their turf.

I grab my mug of tea off the table. “Just lead the way to the kitchen.”

“You really don’t have to do that,” River says, looking worried, and I kind of want to yell at him again. This overprotective thing is getting annoying.

“I want to help,” I say. And it’s true—nothing helps me calm down more than working in a kitchen. I can sling hash browns and scramble eggs in my sleep. It’s the best way I’ve ever found to clear my head and deal with stress. And the way I’m feeling about River lately is definitely causing me some stress.

“You could help too,” Cash tells him.

River grins up at his uncle. “Only if you let me wear your frilly pink apron.”

“Kid, you aren’t nearly cool enough for my apron.”

I assume they’re joking but as soon as we hit the kitchen I see they were totally serious. Cash opens a narrow pantry by the fridge to reveal what has to be a dozen aprons of different colors and styles. Sure enough, he pulls out a pink number, complete with frills, and ties it around his waist. The fact that he’s wearing flannel PJ pants with little guitars printed on them only adds to the effect.

“You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?” River whispers in my ear, causing that same reaction as before—chills washing over my skin while butterflies erupt in my stomach.