Page 7 of Matchmaking On The Menu

“Yeah? Like what?” With her arms folded over her chest, she looks scarier than she is.

“Well… Quadri used the second-last tub of sour cream today. We’ve got maybe a quarter of the floor cleaner left. Either someone’s stealing toilet paper or we’ve got a gastrointestinal emergency on our hands. And next week is the annual truck rally, so we’re about to get a convoy of sleep-deprived truckers. We need to double the coffee order.”

Mary stares at me like I’ve just announced the apocalypse and clutches her order pad to her chest. “How the heck do you know all that?”

My shoulders sag. “It’s part of the job.” And part of the job now is neglecting my friends. The thought, loud and intrusive, hits my brain.

Shelly can obviously tell I feel bad, because she squeezes my shoulder. “I can stay and help. Many hands and all that. We can head to the bar after.”

I give her a small smile. “I’m good. You go. Have a tequila for me.”

She bites the inside of her cheek. I know her well enough to know she wants to say something, but she decides not to. Instead, she nods like she understands. And I really hope she does.

“You sure?” Mary asks.

“You heard the girl. She’s sure.” Quadri gives me a knowing look over Shelly’s head and flips her dark hair over one shoulder. “C’mon, gals. Let’s leave her to her spreadsheets.”

I shoot her a grateful smile, and she winks back. “Laters, Chester.”

“Back at ya, Four.”

“I say this every time, but you guys have the weirdest nicknames for each other,” Mary says.

I smile. Yeah, we do.

It started back in high school, when boys thought it was original to rhyme my last name, Chester, with my less-than-generous chest. Quadri decided if anyone was going to weaponize it, it would be us. So she claimed it and dared anyone else to try.

It took me nearly two weeks to land on “Four” for her.

The nicknames stuck. There is one rule, though. No one else gets to use them. It’s Cousin Law.

By the time I’ve submitted the order and locked up, a headache is building behind my eyes. I glare at my bike, daring it to nail me in the shin again like it did this morning, then swing a leg over. Pity we live in a town where nothing ever happens. I don’t think I’d even mind if the stupid thing got stolen tonight.

Jerk.

I’m home in less than ten minutes. When I open the front door, I can almost hear the hiss of hot water calling my name. Usually, I’d cut through the house and disappear through the in-law suite’s private entrance. Steam, silence and ten minutes of not thinking. That thought comes to a screeching halt when I see Mom and Grandma sitting at the dining room table. Waiting.

I stifle a groan. Not tonight.

I suss them out. They aren’t angry. They’re… composed. I think that’s worse. I drop my bag and start tugging out my ponytail. “Look, I know I messed up. But it’s not like I flipped you off and decided to sleep in. My phone genuinely didn’t charge.”

Shit! That sounded pissy.

Grandma pats the empty seat beside her and Mom doesn’t say anything. My stomach drops.

Double shit. This isn’t about being late.

“Honey, this isn’t about you being late,” Mom says, confirming my suspicions. Her deep blue eyes train on me. “We’re proud of you. You always give two hundred percent. We see how much you put into the diner. The restaurant has always been owned and run equally by your grandma, me, and Aunt Grace. But there’s always been a lead.” She dusts imaginary crumbs off the yellow tablecloth. “We’ve been watching you these past six months, and we believe you’re ready.”

My stomach drops. I know what she’s talking about, yet I still ask. “For what?”

“To step into that role. To take the lead on the diner.”

Warmth, unexpected but welcome, floods through me. They trust me. Not just Mom, but Grandma too. The woman who can spot a missing salt shaker from across the room, who knows a gravy is about to split by smell alone, thinks I’m ready to carry the thing she spent a lifetime building. I should feel honored, and the truth is, I do. That’s what makes this so much worse. Because if this were easy to dismiss, I could just say no and move on. But it isn’t. Part of me is deeply, ridiculously proud that Grandma sees me this way. That she believes I’m capable of stepping into her shoes one day.

And that’s the problem.

Their faith in me makes it harder to tell them I might want something else.