Hattie pulls her chin in and eyes Pop with suspicion. Behind his glasses, amusement twinkles in Pop’s eyes. The same way he used to tease us over breakfast when we were kids, the four of us sitting around this table on Sunday mornings.
God, I haven’t thought about those days in years.
“Oh… um… Even though I’m not attempting murder, just brunch, and even though I’m not Beck’s girlfriend since this is only our second date and—” she shakes her head, looking adorably baffled, “I don’t even know how people go from Hell-Yes-It’s-A-Real-Date-Coffee-Date to being someone’s girlfriend because I’ve never been someone’s girlfriend—you’re welcome.”
Pop stares like he’s just swallowed a boiled egg. In the shell. Then he turns to me and clears his throat.
“I like her.”
My smile is a runaway train. “I like her, too.”
Hattie’s brunch is a field trip to heaven’s front porch.
The croissants are so light and soft, eating the three I’ve served myself is nothing. Pop wears this funny grin as he slathers each bite of his with orange marmalade. And when he digs into the bacon cheddar quiche, his grunt of satisfaction startles all three of us.
The food is so good. And I honestly don’t know if it’s one of the best meals I’ve ever had because the local French bakery is a thing of wonder… or if it’s because it’s from Hattie.
I mean, having her here feels like we replaced all the bulbs in the kitchen with 1000-watt halogens.
We linger over the food, but not too long. I don’t have long to begin with, and I want to show Hattie around.
I also want to find a quiet corner in one of the store sheds and kiss her until the sun goes down.
When Hattie offers to help clean up, I tell her I’ll leave it until tonight.
“But it’ll just take a few minutes,” she says, already standing from the table, plate in hand.
Gently, I take it from her and set it back down. “We only have a few minutes before I have to get back to work.” This might be an exaggeration. I have about forty minutes left, but none of them are going to be spent doing dishes.
I take her by the hand instead. “C’mon.”
Hattie blinks at me before looking back at Pop. “It was nice meeting you. You’re not nearly as grumpy as Beck said you’d be.”
My snort catches me off guard, but Pop only grins at her.
“I blame the company,” he says with a wink.
I tug Hattie toward the door, but not before catching Pop’s look of warning.
“Mind your manners with that one, Beckett,” he threatens, low and rumbly.
Hattie frowns at my father. “Beck has excellent manners, Mr. Olivier. He asked for consent the first time he hugged me, and he didn’t even want to hug me today before he had a chance to wash up. But I don’t even care about a little dirt or sweat because Beck’s hugs are so good. He should do a podcast, teaching people how to hu—” She stops mid-sentence, eyes widening. “Wait. Did he learn that from you?”
“I—” Pop coughs and clears his throat. And I’ll be damned, but Pop blushes. He fucking blushes.
Griffin will never believe this.
Fighting my laugh, I grip Hattie’s hand tighter. “C’mon, sweet. Let’s go.”
Chapter Twelve
HATTIE
“Did you just address me as sweet?” I nearly trip over the threshold onto the front porch, but Beck’s firm grip on my hand steadies me.
He arches a sun-bleached brow. “Is that okay? I was hoping it was better than baby.”
I consider for a moment then nod. “It is better than baby.”
