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“Want me to have Sloane arrest him?”
I chuckle as we cruise out of the parking lot in his beast of a car. I’m low-key jealous he got himself this bad boy when I’m stuck driving the practical Tahoe.
“You can’t arrest him for being an asshole,” I say, shaking my head. “But if it were possible, he’d totally be in cuffs right now.”
“I’m sure my woman can dig up some dirt on him. She’s pretty good at that shit.”
I reach over and pat Dempsey’s hand that’s on the stick shift. It’s a reminder of why I can’t drive a car like this. I’d have no idea how to even make it go.
“I love you,” I tell him. “Just knowing you hate him on principle because I do makes my day.”
He groans when I disconnect his Bluetooth and hook mine in. It’s our deal. If he’s going to drive, I get to choose the music. I settle on something new I heard while scrolling through social media the other day. The smooth voice of the singer calms my erratically beating heart.
“I found a new place the other day,” Dempsey says as he dutifully uses his blinker. Sloane must be rubbing off on him. He’s marrying a cop who doesn’t put up with his bullshit. “It’s small and cozy. They probably don’t even have a Facebook, so you can’t post it to the ’Gram or whatever.”
My brother seriously has no clue what I do. I think he thinks I make posts and people pay me for it. Technically, when you boil it down, I suppose they do. Well, the sponsors at least. But I hate when he minimizes it.
However, the thought of going someplace hidden and private sounds enticing. I’m in need of Dempsey time without an audience.
“Sloane meeting us there?” I ask, glancing at the clock on the dash.
“Nah,” he grunts. “She and Montgomery are working a case. There was a body found on Park Mountain Lake this weekend.”
“It’s too cold to swim,” I say, shivering. “Do you think they drowned or…”
“Or. Definitely or. But Sloane doesn’t need my help.”
Dempsey drives us down Main Street and whips into a parking spot. The building in front of us is weathered and the windows are painted brown. A sign is tacked to the worn-out wooden door that says, “Soup and More. 8-8.”
“This place looks sketchy,” I mutter, squinting against the sun to get a better look. “You sure you don’t want to grab something to eat at your place?”
He laughs as he shuts off the car. “Come on, princess, you’re going to be fine.”
Rolling my eyes, I climb out of the vehicle, following my brother into the building. At first, the darkness of the building is such a contrast to the sunny outdoors that I find myself temporarily blinded, which has my heart hammering in my chest. But as I begin to adjust, I realize the restaurant isn’t sketchy at all.
First off, it smells heavenly. A cooked garlic and onions scent permeates the air, making my stomach growl. There’s a small counter that has glass displays filled with various breads and desserts. Behind it, a tiny woman around Mom’s age roots around in a cabinet. The restaurant itself only has three tables and four booths. Along the walls, there are shelves filled with knickknacks, candles, and other small items that look to be for sale.
Soups and More.
I’m guessing all that stuff is the “more.”
“Hey, kids,” the woman says in greeting. “What can I get ya?”
Dempsey orders for the both of us and then ushers me over to a cozy booth near the big painted window.
“Why doesn’t she scrape that paint off?” I ask, gesturing to the window. “I bet she’d get a lot more business.”
Dempsey grunts and shakes his head. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Start trying to figure out a way to help this lady get business. I can see your wheels turning. Do not, for the love of God, put anything on your socials. I’m serious. If this turns into some stupid trendy hangout, I’ll never forgive you.”
The woman brings over the drinks Dempsey ordered us—frothy rootbeer in frozen mugs—and promises to be back shortly with the daily soup special.
“I don’t put restaurants on there,” I remind him. “It doesn’t fit my aesthetic.”
“Thank fuck for your carefully culled aesthetic, whatever the hell that means.”
