I catch the tail end of whatever pop song he’s butchering and sigh. “Finn, please.”
He flashes a grin over his shoulder. “Please what? More falsetto?”
“Please don’t make me fire you before sunrise.”
He gasps like I’ve mortally wounded him, but the grin still lingers on his face as he disappears into the kitchen.
The front door swings open, letting in the scent of rain and sawdust and something else that smells vaguely like cow. A blast of cold air follows.
Mabel steps inside like she owns the place. Seventy-two, five feet tall, and somehow more intimidating than a tax audit. She’s been here longer than I’ve been alive. Alice hired her back when gas was under a dollar and Dolly still had big hair and bigger dreams.
“You look tired,” Mabel says, dropping a twenty-pound sack of flour like it weighs nothing and adjusting her glasses like she’s about to diagnoseme with something chronic.
“Morning to you too, sunshine.”
She pats my cheek on her way past, all grandmotherly affection with the subtlety of a freight train. “I’ll get some biscuits going for you.”
Andthat—right there—is why Mabel’s got lifetime immunity around here. She could set the place on fire and we’d still name a breakfast special after her.
I turn to grab a fresh pot of coffee and nearly trip over Hudson, who’s somehow materialized at my side like a small, silent assassin.
“Jesus, kid,” I mutter, pressing a hand to my chest. “You ever consider wearing a bell?”
My son blinks up at me, deadpan. Unbothered. Brown eyes sharp beneath the disaster zone he calls a haircut—something he insists on styling himself now, which explains why it looks like he lost a fight with a leaf blower.
His skin’s already golden from baseball season—a soft hazelnut against my year-round ghostly complexion. He’s all elbows and knees these days, growing like he’s trying to outrun me.
Without saying a word, he slides onto the stool at the counter, baseball magazine in one hand, the other already reaching for a cinnamon roll.
“You were in my way,” he says, voice flat.
I raise a brow. “Youwere standing directly behindme.”
He shrugs and takes a bite that’s at least three sizes too ambitious for his mouth. Cinnamon smears at the corner of his lip, but he doesn’t blink. Doesn’t pause. Just chews like he’s got a game to prep for and no time for nonsense.
He’s twelve. He’s insufferable. He’s my favorite person in the world.
I pour him a glass of orange juice, then ruffle his hair on instinct. He swats at my hand like I’ve just mortally offended him but misses by a mile—too focused on whatever stat line he’s studying now.
Baseball is his obsession and has had him in a chokehold since preschool. Player trades, batting averages, ERA rankings—he talks about them the way I talk about payroll: with reverence, anxiety, and the full understandingthat one bad call can screw up everything.
He flips a page, muttering something about the Red Sox bullpen like it’s a personal betrayal and I just watch him for a second. Because he’s got my dad’s fire. My stubborn. Alice’s humor.
And I’d go to war for him a hundred times over.
I wipe my hands on my apron and lean against the counter. “Anything interesting today?”
Hudson flips a page, eyes still scanning. “The Cubs traded for a new shortstop.”
I hum like that means anything to me. “Bad trade or good trade?”
He finally looks up, expression pained. “Mom. You can’t just ask that. There are factors.”
“Factors,” I repeat.
“Yeah, like, how does he fit into their defensive strategy? Is he a long-term play or a short-term fix? And don’t even get me started on his OBP—”
I hold up a hand. “Oh, trust me, I won’t.”
