Page 11 of Terms and Traditions

EMMETT

Two out of three ain’t bad. I’ve never seen kids get the flu like dominos. One after the other within twelve hours.

Projectile vomit is something no one prepares you for as a parent.

ME

You are dangerously close to being TMI.

Need me to swing by with anything?

EMMETT

We’re good, but thanks.

Bummer about missing the party last night.

ME

I can feel your devastation from here. *eye roll*

Let me know if you need something. Give my love to the girls.

EMMETT

Thanks, man.

When a frazzled blur stumbled through the doors, I glanced up quickly and slid my phone back into the inner pocket of my coat draped over the chair next to me.

Relief mixed with regret flashed across Stephanie’s wind-chapped face as we locked eyes, and I stood quickly.

“I’m so sorry,” she gushed, her boots squeaking on the tile as she hurried towards me. The rush of words stopped when I tugged out the chair opposite me for her, and she glanced curiously between me and the chair. “Oh, thanks.”

It wasn’t the first time I’d done that. My Texan mama, for all her flaws, had raised a gentleman after all. I cleared my throat, trying to dislodge the uncomfortable lump that always rose when I thought of my mother. I’d been out on my own for fifteen years and hadn’t seen her in person in the last decade, but it still hurt to think of her.

Once Stephanie slid into the chair, the flurry of words continued. “You didn’t have to wait. I’m sorry I was so long.”

I resumed my seat opposite her, waving aside the apology. “Don’t worry about it. Did something happen?” I tried for levity, adding, “You’ve never been late before. Is this a fatal flaw I should know about your nonwork life?”

Redness that wasn’t from the cold flamed her face. Oops, I wasn’t trying to embarrass her. “I… I had car trouble and had to walk,” she said.

Trying not to fluster her further, I said quietly, “You could have called. I’d have picked you up.”

She shook her head fiercely. “It’s fine. Have you already ordered?”

Okay, we were moving on. “Not yet. How does a peppermint mocha sound?”

“Perfect, but you don’t have to—”

“Steph.” I smiled at her. “Just sit and catch your breath for a minute. I’ve got this.” Then I winked at her. From her slack-jawed reaction maybe I shouldn’t have, but the flush of her cheeks when I did it last night was too tempting to avoid getting a repeat performance. Giving the table a quick rap with my knuckles, I strode towards the counter.

“What can I getcha?” The goth teen behind the register loudly snapped her gum.

Before I could give her my order, a scolding voice hollered from the back storeroom. “Jazz, what did I tell you about chewing gum on the clock?” It was Maisie, the owner and queen croissant maker this side of France. And she must have had bat-level hearing to notice the bubble blowing over the hiss of the steamer and the upbeat rendition of “Deck the Halls” playing over the speakers.

Maisie’s silver head popped into view, nose scrunched. “Take his order, then spit it out. And don’t let it happen again.”

Jazz ducked her chin, so her jet-black hair hid half her face. “Sorry, Ms. Maisie,” she mumbled.