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Bingo.
“The Tavern?” And I’m officially reaching a new low.
“Yep,” she confirms.
“Are you positive? You just spent an extra hour with her.” As if we aren’t already en route. But maybe my conscience is creeping in. The full blame for this ambush belongs to me either way. It’s not her fault nuclear warfare is destroying my common sense.
Sydney and her stubborn streak rise to the occasion. “But I already miss her. She misses me too.”
There’s no arguing with that. “Then that’s where we’re going.”
“Yay! You’re the bestest, Daddy.”
More like a despicable shmuck, but I can’t find a single fuck to give. Besides, it’s not in my nature to deny my daughter simple wishes. Especially one that happens to align with mine.
I turn into the parking lot and find a slot in the front row. Based on the number of cars, the restaurant shouldn’t be too full. That suspicion is confirmed as we step through the heavy doors.
A teenage girl is ready to greet and seat us, but I’m already searching for an exact place to sit. My attention doesn’t register the rustic scene. Wagon wheels and rodeo trophies aren’t the purpose behind my gaze wildly scanning the room. Golden hair shining bright under the overhead lights sure as shit is. The pressure in my gut deflates as the desperate hunt comes to an abrupt end.
Harper is on the direct opposite side from where we stand, lounging on a cushioned bench that’s set along the entire length of the far wall. A man sits in a chair across from her. I can’t see his face, but my first impression isn’t appropriate for young listening ears. The sections in that area can easily be combined if the group size doubles from two to four. Once again, this couldn’t have gone better if I had planned it.
“We’d like that table.” I lift my chin toward the empty one beside Harper and her so-called boyfriend. That has yet to be confirmed.
The hostess falters over my specific seating request. “Uh, that would double seat a server. There are plenty of other—”
“But I wanna sit by Miss Harper! She’s right over there.” My daughter stabs at the air with far less subtlety.
I couldn’t have asked for a better interruption. “Is there anything you can do? Miss Harper is her favorite.”
The teenager glances at Syd, then studies her tablet. “It shouldn’t be a problem.”
“That’s great. You just made this little girl’s night.”
Sydney nods. “Uh-huh. Can we go now?”
“Sure,” the hostess replies while rounding from behind the stand. “Right this—”
Before she can finish, my daughter takes off in a blazing sprint across the restaurant. “Miss Harper! We’re gonna sit right next to you.”
The scene would be embarrassing if I wasn’t proud of her display. Rumors will spread far and wide about why we’re here, especially to any guys interested in Harper. It almost brings a skip to my step.
I follow behind at a leisurely stroll to appreciate the shock value. Syd’s outburst has everyone turning to stare, including the guy sitting where I want to be. But I’m not looking at him. My focus is latched onto Harper’s blinding grin as my daughter races toward her. She scoots over and opens her arms, eagerly accepting the hug Syd launches at her. My traitorous heart trips over the sight of their effortless connection. The evidence has my crumbling resistance prepared to raise a white flag.
After their brief embrace, Sydney wiggles free and flings herself onto the booth beside Harper. That leaves the chair for me, which puts me at an optimal angle from the main attraction. Her date isn’t the only one who should get to enjoy the view. He’s stiff in his seat, stunned still by the viral-worthy scene that just occurred.
Meanwhile, Harper appears to be gathering clues to solve our random appearance. Her keen sense roams over my daughter who’s glued to her side. “Hey, superstar. Long time, no see.”
Syd giggles. “You just saw me at dance class. Did you forget?”
She thumps her forehead. “Oh, that’s right. You’re still wearing your leotard and leggings.”
“We didn’t go home,” my daughter reveals, as if that isn’t obvious with our timely arrival.
Harper must’ve come straight from the studio herself. The only difference I can see from my vantage point is her loose hair and chunky sweater. Both are a quick change. She finally feels the weight of my stare and shifts her focus to me. “Hello, Jacob.”
“Howdy, Pitch.” I tug at the brim of my hat like it’s of the cowboy variety and not baseball. It fits the establishment.
Her eyes narrow into slits at my use of the nickname I rarely spout these days. “This is a surprise.”
