Page 75 of Just One More Thing

“It’s for you, Emory,” Maddy hollers before we’re even fully through the door.

Mo comes out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel, hair piled up, cheeks flushed from the heat, flour or sugar dusting one side of her face and the bridge of her nose. She stops when she sees me. Then she smiles.

“Hi,” she says. “I wasn’t expecting you.” She swipes at her cheek with her forearm.

“Don’t.”

She pauses, her arm still in midair. “Don’t what?”

“Wipe your face.” I step closer and take her jaw in my hand. “You’ve got…” I lightly kiss the side of her face. The sugar is sweet against my lips. “Sugar on your cheek.”

“Occupational hazard.”

“I’m not complaining.”

“About time,” Maddy calls from behind the counter.

Mo’s smile widens, but before I can do something like kiss her again, Hank huffs at my leg. I glance down at him. “Right. Your turn.”

He plants his front paws against her and lets out a proud little arf. She laughs, stumbling backward before steadying bothof them, and that’s when she spots the note tied to his bow tie. “What’s this?”

I keep my mouth shut and let Hank take the credit.

Her fingers move to the twine.

I take one step back. Then another. Hank hops down. We turn toward the door.

“You’re just leaving?” she calls after me, half laughing.

“Yes, ma’am.” I don’t look back.

If I do, I’ll stay.

I close The Knuckle at four o’clock.

Bethany stares at me like I’ve just announced I’m selling the place and joining a monastery. “It’s four o’clock,” she repeats.

“Yes. It’s four.”

She looks at the clock. Then at me. Then back at the clock. “We have a full house tonight.”

“Had.” I reach for the bacon and line it up on the prep counter, giving it my full attention so I don’t have to look at her. “I called and moved them to next week. Gave them dinner on me. The staff’s covered too.”

Bethany sets her knife down very slowly. That kind of slow never means anything good. “So you’ve lost your mind generously,” she says. Then, after a breath, “Is this about Emory?”

I don’t answer.

“Jake.”

“I’m cooking dinner.” That gets me three full seconds of silence.

Then she unties her apron, folds it with the kind of precision people use when they’re trying not to say ten things at once, grabs her keys and her boatkin, and heads for the door.

“You’re leaving,” I say.

“I’m leaving.” She pauses, one hand on the push bar. “To get you flowers.”

“Already got them. And I’ve got dock lights.”