“Same as usual?”
“Yeah,” the clean-shaven one says, stepping up. “And whatever’s fresh outta the oven.”
“Oh, Colt—I saw Remi earlier,” Rose adds over her shoulder as she turns to start packing the order. “Took half the cabinet with her. Thought I was going to have to start rationing.”
“Ahh, must be picking up supplies for her mom group,” he replies.
Rose snorts. “That’s what they’re callin’ it?”
“That’s whatshe’scalling it,” he says. “I call it a yap session disguised as a playdate.”
“Smart woman, your wife.”
“Terrifying.”
My eyes coast over the firefighter who’s now grinning at the mention of Remi, and I realize this guy—Colt—must be her husband. I open my mouth to tell him how lovely his wife is after meeting her earlier, but Rose beats me to it, this time directing her question toward the grumpy dark-blonde from earlier.
“And where’s Miss Mabel these days, Evan?”
“Gone back to Toronto,” he replies. “Left during winter break.”
“That’s a shame. She was lovely.”
“Yeah.”
“You find someone else yet?”
“Workin’ on it.”
He doesn’t sound convinced.
Mason, clearly recovered from the cinnamon bun betrayal, leans against the counter to stage-whisper. “We’re building him a questionnaire.”
Rose pauses mid-pour. “That sounds concerning.”
“It’s comprehensive,” he replies. “Personality-based.”
“And I’m absolutely not using it,” mutters Evan.
Rory sets my coffee down in front of me, and I thank her with a nod, wrapping my hands around it straight away and letting the heat sink into my fingers.
Mason keeps going. “We’ve got a strong working theory that your Spice Girls preference tells you everything you need to know about a person.”
I pause mid-sip.
Oh no. This isdefinitelymy kind of conversation.
Rose blinks, and I keep my attention on my coffee, as though that’s going to stop me from inserting myself into a verypertinent pop-culture discussion that has absolutely nothing to do with me.
“Depends which one you pick,” I murmur, raising my coffee to my lips.
Their collective gaze swings to me, and a soft sound escapes me before I can stop it. Slowly, I place my coffee back down and consider reading every single word on the menu in front of me instead of making eye contact.
But it’s too late now. They’re still looking. I'm officially involved.
“Because if you say Ginger,” I continue, turning in my seat to face them, “I immediately don’t trust your decision-making skills.”
Mason narrows his eyes. “That’s a bold statement from someone who couldn’t decide which pastry she wanted.”
