Reminders of Him(37)

I go inside and return the cart to the rack and then pull my hair up with Diem’s scrunchie and wear it for the rest of my shift.





CHAPTER EIGHTEEN


LEDGER

There are a dozen chocolate cupcakes staring at me when I walk inside the bar.

“Dammit, Roman.”

Every week he goes to the bakery down the street and buys cupcakes. He only buys them so he’ll have an excuse to see the woman who owns the bakery, but he doesn’t even eat them. Which means that leaves me with the task of eating them. I usually take the ones that survive the night to Diem.

I grab one of the cupcakes just as Roman walks through the double doors from the back of the bar. “Why don’t you just ask her out? I’ve put on ten pounds since you first saw her.”

“Her husband might not like that,” Roman says.

Oh, yeah. She’s married. “Good point.”

“I’ve never even spoken to her, you know. I just keep buying cupcakes from her because I think she’s hot, and apparently I like to torture myself.”

“You definitely enjoy self-torture. You still work here for some reason.”

“Exactly,” Roman says flatly. He leans against the counter. “So? What’s the update on Kenna?”

I look over his shoulder. “Anyone else here yet?” I don’t want to talk about Kenna around anyone. The last thing I need is for it to get back to the Landrys that I’ve interacted with her outside of the one time they know of.

“No. Mary Anne comes on at seven and Razi is off tonight.”

I take a bite of the cupcake and talk with a mouthful. “She works at the grocery store on Cantrell. She has no car. No phone. I’m starting to think she doesn’t even have family. She walks to work. These cupcakes are fucking delicious.”

“You should see the woman who bakes them,” Roman says. “Have Diem’s grandparents decided what to do?”

I put the other half of the cupcake back in the box and wipe my mouth with a napkin. “I tried talking to Patrick about it yesterday, but he doesn’t even want the topic up for discussion. He just wants her out of town and out of their lives.”

“What about you?”

“I want what’s best for Diem,” I say immediately. I’ve always wanted what’s best for Diem. I just don’t know if what I used to think was best for her is still what’s best for her.

Roman doesn’t say anything. He’s staring at the cupcakes. Then he says, “Fuck it,” and he grabs one.

“You think she cooks as good as she bakes?”

“Hopefully one day I find out. Almost one out of every two couples divorce,” he says, his voice hopeful.

“I bet Whitney could find you a nice single girl to date.”

“Fuck you,” he mutters. “I’d rather wait until Cupcake Girl’s marriage falls apart.”

“Does Cupcake Girl have a name?”

“Everyone has a name.”



It’s the slowest night we’ve had in a long time, probably because it’s Monday and it’s raining. I don’t usually notice every time the door to the bar opens, but since there are only three customers right now, all eyes go to her when she slips inside and out of the rain.

Roman notices her too. We’re both staring in her direction when he says, “I have a feeling your life is about to get incredibly complicated, Ledger.”

Kenna walks toward me, her clothes soaking wet. She takes the same seat she sat in the first time she was here. She pulls Diem’s scrunchie out of her hair and then leans over the bar and grabs a handful of napkins. “Well. You were right about the rain,” she says, drying her face and her arms. “I need a ride home.”

I’m confused, because the last time she got out of my truck, she was so angry with me I was positive she’d never be inside of it again. “From me?”

She shrugs. “You. An Uber. A cab. I don’t care. But first I want a coffee. I hear you guys carry caramel now.”

She’s in a feisty mood. I hand her a clean rag and start making her a coffee while she dries off. I look at the time, and it’s been at least ten hours since I was in the store. “Did you just now get off work?”

“Yeah, someone called in, so I worked a double.”

The grocery store closes at nine, and it likely takes her an hour to walk home. “You probably shouldn’t be walking home this late.”

“Then buy me a car,” she retorts.

I glance over at her, and she raises an eyebrow like that was a dare. I top her coffee with a cherry and slide it over to her.

“How long have you owned this bar?” she asks.

“A few years.”

“Didn’t you used to play some kind of professional sport?”

Her question makes me laugh. Maybe because my short two-year stint as an NFL player is usually the only thing people around here want to talk about with me, but Kenna makes it seem like a passing thought. “Yeah. Football for the Broncos.”

“Were you any good?”

I shrug. “I mean, I made it to the NFL, so I didn’t suck. But I wasn’t good enough to get my contract renewed.”

“Scotty was proud of you,” she says. She looks down at her drink and cups her hands around it.