Page 57 of The One Who Never Left: Colter

“Morning, Lynlee.” Jo held out her fist.

Lynlee didn’t miss a beat. Bump. “Morning, Miss Jo.”

Sutton smiled, reaching for her wallet. “A Wake-Up Call, please." She hesitated. "Heavy on the cream this morning."

Jo was already sliding a cup across the counter before Sutton finished the sentence. "Nope."

Sutton looked at the cup. "What is this?"

"Cortado. Strong, small, no hiding behind the cream." Jo's eyes were steady and entirely too perceptive. "You don't need comfort this morning. You need to think straight."

“How did you know?”

"The bean whisperer," Jo said, tapping a finger to her head. "Runs in the blood." Jo snapped her fingers. "Oh, and this is courtesy of Colter, by the way. He ordered it for you before I even saw your face."

Sutton stared at the cup.

"He ordered a cortado," she said slowly. "For me."

"Down to the shot count," Jo confirmed. "Man's got your order memorized better than his own social security number, and he doesn't even work here."

“Did Colter leave me a present?” Lynlee asked.

“Pumpkin,” Sutton said, hoping to ward off any heartbreak.

“Right here, kiddo.” Jo handed Lynlee a muffin.

She opened it and started jumping up and down. “It’s pumpkin. My favorite.”

Her daughter’s joy landed square between Sutton’s chest and sternum. Not just because he had remembered her coffee order, but because he had remembered the little muffin Lynlee always asked for without fail.

He wasn’t just paying attention to Sutton. He was paying attention to her daughter. And that kind of care, quiet and unshowy, reached places Sutton kept heavily guarded.

“He didn’t have to do that,” she said on a fake laugh—as if the gesture was some kind of inside joke.

“Men don’t wake up generous by accident, and they don’t have to do a lot of things they suddenly start doing when something’s going on.”

“Nothing’s going on,” Sutton said too quickly.

"Nothing's going on." Jo repeated it back slowly, then leaned forward across the counter, elbows planting firmly as she closed the distance. Her eyes narrowed and, blunt as always, said, “I. Call. Bull. Shit.”

Sutton’s stomach dropped. Whatever she’d been trying to hide was apparently written all over her, bold and underlined—like her face had subtitles.

“You said a dirty word,” Lynlee said her little hand already out. “Mommy, she said a dirty word.”

Jo grinned at Lynlee. “Sounds like you’re Dirty Word Police. Well, I’ll be putting you through college then since I’m the inventor of the dirty word dictionary.”

Lynlee wiggled her finger like a drill sergeant. “Consider me on patrol.”

Without saying another word, Jo reached into the tip jar, pulled out a bill and handed it over.

Lynlee stuffed the bill into her jacket pocket. “Can I haves a blueberry muffin too? For snack time.”

“Sure thing, kiddo. That will cost you one buck. Which I happen to know is in your pocket.”

It took everything Sutton had not to laugh because her daughter was weighing what she wanted more. A dollar or the muffin. Finally, she pulled the crinkled bill out of her pocket and handed it back.

A four-year-old with a better understanding of return on investment than most of Sutton's college econ classmates.