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What I feel is…nothing. Just stunned to meet him.
I’m disappointed in myself. I let the bewilderment steal away the joy I should be experiencing.
Snap out of it, Prue. Have fun. You can do it.
We step inside the old tile floors that add a charming allure to the place.
I tilt my head up to my father. Still no butterflies.
Doesn’t matter. They’ll come.
One step at a time.
“Hi, Zeke,” I say since I’m not sure how to address him. “I’m so happy to see you.”
I hug him back when he opens his arms for me. I smell the sun on his skin, his sweat veiled under layers of deodorant and the beer in his breath. Poor man, the long ride must’ve gotten to him.
He pulls away, holding onto my shoulders. Some of my initial surprise has evaporated, and I notice how tall he is, probably around six-two, and his arms are really friggin’ muscular.
“It’s Dad.” His rugged voice matches the one I heard on the phone. His expression is a harsh one as well. As if the fatherly side of him ended with his embrace. “Come on, let’s sit.”
Sheela, the older, blue-haired owner of Sweet Stuff, walks over to us as we head to the table he’s occupied.
I look over Dad to catch her gaze, my smile easier this time. “Hi, Sheela.”
“Hey, Prue.” She wipes her hands on her apron, comes to stand next to me, and does a once-over of Dad. “I heard you mention you’re her father? You should’ve said something earlier.” Her smile widens when our silence is theyesshe is looking for. “Your daughter is our favorite client.”
My cheeks burn red, my eyes darting to the floor. I swear compliments are my kryptonite.
“Oh, really?” There’s something off about his tone, not as if he’s proud to hear I’m liked.
My head snaps up with curiosity. He simply looks intrigued.
“She comes here a lot?” he adds.
What a strange question. Why is it important whether I eat out a lot or not?
“Yes, and yes.” Sheela beams at me. “I have to make a few calls. I hope to see you around more often, Mr. Bishop.”
He doesn’t correct her about the last name and neither do I. Too complicated.
When he resumes his path to the corner table, where there’s already a half-empty beer glass, something screams inside me to not go there.
While the shadowed area is as safe as any, and I’m sure Zeke won’t hurt me, something’s off. I need the security of the fresh air. Of the sun. Of more than a handful of people around us.
I stop him by placing a hand on his bicep.
“The beer bothers you?” He quirks an eyebrow, and gleams of agitation seep into his expression. “Wanted to be consistent since I got one on the road.”
“I don’t mind.” I put on my big girl pants, remind myself I’m not a kid so desperate for love I’m willing to endure anything to be loved, and ask him flat out, “Would it be okay if we got a table outside?”
He studies me, brow furrowing. “Okay. I thought you’d like to have a quiet conversation, but sure.”
“Thanks.”
Since he doesn’t move to get his drink, I walk over and grab the beer he ordered without me and follow him outside from the dark, somewhat isolated corner.
“I do want a quiet conversation.” While I’m behind him, a complacent part of me still drives me to explain myself. “Everyone here minds their own business, so don’t worry about it.”
