Chapter 4
Chapter four
Jasmine
I can always tell when a cop walks in.
Even before I see the badge, the room shifts—voices drop a notch, forks clink a little quieter, and every law-abiding citizen suddenly becomes very interested in their coleslaw.
I grab my order pad and head for the corner booth… and stop dead.
Well, well. Look who the tumbleweeds dragged in.
He looks up at me and the confusion on his face slides straight into resignation. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Oh, come on,” I say, cheerful as a bell. “I’m not that bad at crime.”
“You work here?” he asks, like we’re playing twenty questions.
“Try again.” I tap my pen against the pad.
His gaze flicks to my name on the chalkboard menu, to the photos on the wall, to the little “Owner” badge pinned to my apron. He exhales. “You own this place.”
“Bingo.” I flash a smile. “Staff’s slammed—which is a fancy way of saying there are exactly two of us on the floor and one of them is me. First time at Scotty’s?”
He shakes his head, then nods once. “First time.”
“That’s a shocker. This is a cop hotspot.” I lean in conspiratorially. “Hot dogs are to die for.”
“Are you saying that because they’re your hot dogs?” His eyes are different today—less cold, more curious.
“I’m saying it because my grandmother would haunt me if I lied about food.” I cock my head. “So, Sheriff Vaughn, are you here to arrest me again or just to destroy your cholesterol?”
“Depends,” he says dryly. “Are you planning to trespass between bites?”
“Do you know how to take a joke?” I shoot back.
“Do you?”
We stare each other down for a second. He lifts an eyebrow. I decide not to lose precious tip time sparring and flip my pad open. “What can I get you?”
“A chocolate shake,” he says, voice even, “and two glazed donuts.”
I blink. Then grin. “A classic.”
“What?”
“Nothing.” Like a moth to a donut. “Order coming right up.”
The bell over the door jingles as I pivot to the counter.
Scotty’s is its usual chorus: bacon crackling on the flat-top, the soft whoosh of the milk steamer, old Hank at the corner booth rattling the newspaper like it owes him money, and the citrus-vanilla of my lemon bars cooling on the rack.
On the wall, the photo of my dad grinning behind this same counter catches the light.
I tap the frame for luck—old habit—then slide behind the register.
“Corner wants a chocolate shake and two glazed,” I tell Sarah.
Sarah’s eyes sparkle. “You mean the new sheriff came for donuts?”
“We do not sing the song,” I warn.
“Cop walks into a donut—”
“Sarah,” I hiss. “He’s got ‘guy who can hear through walls’ energy.”
She laughs and plates the donuts while I whirl up the shake. I balance the tray just as a pint-sized tornado appears at my elbow.
“Miss Jaz, can I have extra sprinkles? Like, emergency sprinkles?” Evan from down the block blinks up at me, eyes the size of saucers.
“Only if you promise to do your math homework,” I say, grabbing the sprinkle shaker and giving his sundae a rainbow hailstorm.
“Ugh, fine,” he says, but he’s smiling. He darts away, nearly colliding with Hank, one of my long-time regulars.
“Careful, kid,” Hank gruffs, then tips his chin toward the corner booth where Asher sits. “New lawman looks like he was carved outta granite. Be nice to him, Jaz. Might be the stick-around kind.”
“I’m always nice,” I say primly.
Hank snorts. “Uh-huh.”
I deliver the tray to Asher’s table. “Two glazed, one chocolate shake,” I announce. “The breakfast of legal champions.”
He gives me a small, cautious smile and pulls the tray closer. He doesn’t start eating, though—just watches me, like I’m the one under a heat lamp.
“Do I pay now?” he asks.
“Nope.” I plant a hand on my hip. “We’re very trusting here. Also, the cash register is six inches from my elbow.”
“Is there a house policy where the owner… observes?”
“Only when the customer is a cop,” I say sweetly. “We’re making sure you don’t cite us for excessive deliciousness.”
He takes a slow sip of shake. “Why are you wary of cops?”
“Is that really a serious question?”
“You tell me. You acted like I was here to shut you down.”
“I never said—”
“You implied.” He breaks a donut cleanly in half, like he’s been training for this exact task. “For what it’s worth, I’m here to eat on my lunch break, not run inspections. Unless there are any health-code violations I should know about.”
A knot twitches under my ribs. “Do you always assume the worst of people?”
He looks up, steady. “You’re the one who assumes the badge is the enemy.”
This is getting un-fun fast. “You looked at my file,” I say. “Did that make you feel tall?”
“Arrests are part of processing a case,” he replies, maddeningly calm. “You were booked earlier this year. Trespass.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “Wow. So that’s your thing? Paint me like some career criminal because I stepped where a gate said ‘no’ while trying to keep our town from turning into an oil field?”
“I’m saying the law is the law.”
“And I’m saying community is community.” My voice softens, despite the spark ping-ponging around my nerves. “You’ve been here, what, two weeks? We watch out for each other in Golden Heights. We’ve always cooperated. We don’t let money come in and devour the land we live on.”
He scrubs a hand through his hair, exasperation slipping for the first time. He looks… tired, under the stubble. Human. “If the paperwork’s in order, I can’t just—”
“See, that’s the problem.” I lean in, unable to stop now. “You’re looking at permits. I’m looking at people.”
We lock eyes—stubborn versus stubborn, heat meeting granite.
“Protests are legal when they’re legal,” he says finally. “And trespass is trespass. I can’t pretend otherwise.”
“And does your job include stopping folks from protecting their own turf?” I ask. “Because that’s what it felt like when you cuffed me.”
A silence settles—heavy, awkward, threaded with the hiss of the grill behind me and the jukebox crooning Patsy Cline. Somewhere a fork hits a plate too hard.
Then he says, quieter, “Is that what happened with your earlier arrest? Another protest?”
My cheeks flare. My mouth moves before my brain can catch up. “If you could get your head out of the law’s—” I clamp my lips shut, inhale, and try again. “You know what? Enjoy your donuts, Sheriff.”
His expression doesn’t change. Mine definitely does.
I turn to go—and nearly collide with a teenager balancing four milkshakes. The tray wobbles. I shoot a hand under it, steadying the whole leaning tower of lactose just before it baptizes Asher’s lap.
“Whoa,” the kid breathes. “Thanks, Ms. Wallace.”
“Two hands, Jamal,” I say, nudging him on with a smile. I set a napkin on Asher’s table without meeting his eyes.
“Quick reflexes,” he says.
“Cost extra,” I mutter, but my mouth betrays me with a tiny smile.
I manage to retreat three steps before Hank pipes up across the room, loud enough for the state line to hear: “Hey, Sheriff! You treat our Jaz right, or Ms. Rainbow’ll sic you.”
A ripple of laughter. I press my lips together, mortified and warm all at once.
“Who’s Ms. Rainbow?” Asher asks, and his mouth almost—almost—curves.
“Our town’s gentlest rottweiler,” I say. “Also my best friend’s roommate.”
“Good to know,” he says, and I hate that the words sound like a promise.
I bail before my face can betray anything else. The bell jingles. The fry cook calls out an order. A woman at the counter leans in, conspiratorial. “You hear Mrs. Hartley’s meeting with that out-of-towner again tonight? The one with the oil money?”
My shoulders notch tighter. “I hear a lot of things.”
“You be careful, Jaz,” she says, patting my hand. “We need your pies and your bullhorn.”
I breathe out. “Yes, ma’am.”
When I look back, Asher’s watching the room like he’s measuring it—counting exits, sure, but also taking it in. Hank razzes him; he takes it. The teenager heaved over with milkshakes gives him a grateful nod; he tips his chin back. It would be easier if he were just a brick wall in boots. He isn’t.
Which is annoying.
By the time I circle the floor twice more, he’s finished the shake and both donuts.
He leaves cash plus a tip that’s either generous or he can’t do math.
He stands to go; our eyes catch for a half second.
Something like a thank-you flickers across his face.
I pretend I don’t see it and pivot to the register before my mouth can accidentally smile.
Add one to my list of people who make my eye twitch.
Shocker: it’s a cop.
***
Riley’s tiny house sits at the edge of town, tucked behind a wind-tossed mesquite and a rusting mailbox painted with sunflowers. It’s adorable and extremely allergic to tall people. If I stand up too fast, I head-butt the loft.
We’re on her built-in couch, her only couch, in the glow of the world’s smallest TV. Riley’s in plaid pajama pants even though it’s barely seven, and she is double-fisting a spoon and a pint of vanilla ice cream like it’s a competitive sport.
“Have you gotten taller?” she asks, squinting at me as I bonk the back of my head against the wall for the second time.
“Don’t you dare,” I warn, rubbing the spot. “I will ‘accidentally’ spill your ice cream.”
“You wouldn’t.” She holds the pint closer.
I flick her spoon. A dollop smears her cheek. I grin. “Whoops.”
She dabs it off, unimpressed. We’ve been friends since high school—when no one wanted to sit with the weird poetry girl (me) and the overachiever with a rottweiler desktop background (her).
We did separate colleges, then drifted back home.
I reopened Scotty’s with a secondhand espresso machine and my grandmother’s pie recipes.
She took a job teaching at Golden Heights Elementary, then somehow became assistant-everything without the title because that’s who Riley is.
If something’s broken, she quietly fixes it.
“Okay,” she says, stretching out her legs. “Tell me about the cop.”
“I sent you a perfectly reasonable, nuanced text,” I say.