AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“No way. I’m texting you his number. You two don’t need me as a mediator, or matchmaker, or chaperone. Seems to me you’ve got this handled.”
“There’s nothing to handle. I’m not in the market for a relationship. I’ve got enough trouble as guardian—the last thing I need is the role of girlfriend on top of that. Can you text him for me, please?”
“Nope. That’s on you. And for what it’s worth, the Matthews brothers are the ones to hang on to. Just sayin’.”
Imani hung up, and two seconds later, Bryce’s phone dinged with a text notification from her.
It was ten numbers, followed by an eggplant emoji next to a peach, with a string of fireworks at the end.
Bryce shook her head, snorting. No way was his eggplant worth the trouble to introduce to her peach.
Although she agreed the fireworks would be amazing.
Chapter 5
Ryker kept his word, watching the garage’s clock, counting down until he could break for lunch. Yet when he arrived at PattyCakes at noon, he was surprised—and bummed out—to see a line snaking out the door and halfway down the block. By the time he’d reached the café’s inner sanctum, every tiny table in his mom’s place was taken.
He looked around furtively. No Mom—she was likely either in her back office or out making a delivery. No Drake, Zander, or either of his sisters-in-law. Ryker stood in line, marveling at the café’s business. Typically, Mom’s place was hopping in the morning, or late afternoon—times when the sweet tooth hit. However, come to think of it, he hadn’t been physically in the store in…how long? Since before Elise was born?
Instead of thinking about that, he spent his time in line staring at the menu board options. His mouth watered. Did he want chicken noodle soup, or was he in the mood for that special Bryce mentioned—the Italian wedding soup?
Finally, he reached the front. A young woman whose right arm was sleeved in a gorgeous garden of black-and-gray flowers stood at the cash register. He realized with a jolt that he didn’t recognize her—his mom had hired at least two new employees and he’d never even known.
“Can I say hi to the chef?” Ryker asked the woman, whose name tag readWillow, after finally ordering the Italian wedding soup. When Willow put it on the counter and proceeded to look to the next customer in line, he stopped her, adjusting his ball cap and attempting to peer through the swinging door’s window into the kitchen beyond. “I haven’t paid yet.”
Willow refused his money, one pierced eyebrow raised in surprise.
“I know. It’s on the house. Bryce told me you might stop by, and said to tell you she had to step out.”
His eyebrows drew together. He hoped everything was all right. “Okay, I’m Ry—”
Willow held up her hand, pointing to the picture on the wall behind the register of him in his Marine dress blues, his face impossibly young, his goals impossibly high. Then her impassive expression broke into a sly grin. “Oh, don’t worry. I know who you are, Ryker Matthews. You’re Patty’s reclusive son who does hero work on the side. Ten out of ten agree that was very rad of you, Mr. Super Absorbency. Here’s a free tip, though. Next time when she texts to thank you, hit Reply. We women like it when you reply, and if you can manage punctuation or an emoji, even better.”
Her advice was the final bullet to his mood, which deflated as he left, his mission of the day a complete bust. But when he got into his truck, the savory smell of the soup made his stomach growl in anticipation. He’d just dug in, his mouth full of soup and a massive hunk of the baguette chaser, so when someone knocked on his truck passenger window, he choked.
Coughing and thumping his chest, he turned to see Bryce. Her white chef’s coat was buttoned to the neck, hiding the goodness he knew existed underneath. Her dark hair was done again in a braid that lay against her shoulder, and her expression was a strange mix of annoyance and…worry?
Leaning over, he rolled down the window with the vintage crank until she popped her head in, elbows resting on the window frame.
“You need the Heimlich?” she asked, brows drawn together as he continued to sputter, a fist over his mouth to avoid splattering soup everywhere. When he shook his head no, blinking choke-tears from his eyes, she nodded once. “Well, I have a mind to give you a good thump anyway for how much money you spent on period products last night.”
He continued to cough, looking at her narrowed eyes and shaking his head in some kind of apology.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake.” She tossed her water bottle at him. He managed a one-handed almost-catch, trapping it between his fist and the steering wheel, causing the old Ford’s horn to give a wheezy beep, making them both jump. Dropping the baguette on his seat, he unscrewed the cap and guzzled water until the lump of bread slid down his throat.
“Sorry,” he wheezed, rapping a fist against his chest one last time. “And thank you for the comp’d lunch. Your soup really is ‘slap your ass and pull your hair’ good.”
Bryce raised an eyebrow. Then she shook her head, giving a small laugh.
“You’re welcome. And thank you again for the menstrual supplies last night. I didn’t find a receipt in the bag, but you must’ve spent a fortune. One free bowl of soup doesn’t cover what I owe you.” Then Bryce leaned away from his window, her gaze on the storefronts down the block. “Look, I’ve got to roll. I got a call from Mrs. Simon at the elementary school. Apparently, Cecily is getting teased and I need to do something about it…”
She trailed off, her face flushing and her eyebrows coming together in a fierce scowl. Ryker was immediately on guard.
“What’s she getting picked on about?” He felt defensive for her, although he barely knew the kid except to pull her out from underneath the grocery shelves.
Bryce scanned the sidewalk, then she met his eyes. She blew an escaped wisp of hair off her forehead in a breath of defeat. “They call her Garbage Girl because she’s always grabbing things out of the classroom trash can. I swear, she thinks everything is a treasure. Rocks. Scraps of paper. A broken pencil. It all ends up in her lunchbox, her backpack, her pockets, and even stuffed into the side of her sock. Plus, she’s got B.O. But I can’t get her into the shower unless I wrestle her into the tub, and forget about me washing her clothes. I have to wait until she’s asleep, or she screams bloody murder. The last time I did, a neighbor called the cops, thinking a child was being tortured.” After the rush of words, she barked out a hollow laugh. “Yet one more example of how I’m failing as a caregiver. Then, this morning, my BMW started to rattle, like I have the time to figure out what’s wrong there. I barely squeezed in an oil change and tire rotation last week, and now I have to get it into the shop to search out a mysterious rattling noise? Honestly, it’s like the world is conspiring against me. Do you ever feel like that?”
He’d been listening. Of course he had. But the passion and emotions flickering on her face were so mesmerizing, he’d lost track of the conversation. Scrambling, he clung to the piece firing an alert in his mechanic’s brain.
