I just know what I like #2
We both turn as Chip drops a stack of coasters loudly behind the bar, and Gwen swivels a bottle mid-air without even looking.
I glance back at Elle. “I’m… enthusiastic.”
She nods seriously, and Evan steps closer now, his eyes taking in the busyness of the place.
“You surviving?”
I hum, amused. “Define surviving.”
His mouth lifts faintly at one corner, but before I can reply, Gwen appears beside me with two laminated menus and hands one to Evan.
“Booth’s open near the window,” she says. “Kitchen’s moving.”
He nods. “Thanks.”
Elle smiles wide at me before turning back toward her dad and taking his hand, and I slowly stand.
“Come on, Daddy. Before they run out.”
“They won’t run out,” he says calmly, but he lets her tug him toward the booth anyway.
As he passes, his shoulder brushes the edge of the bar, close enough that I catch the clean scent of soap. He pauses just long enough to look at me again before setting the menus back down.
“We already know we’ll get the cheesecake,” he says. “Blueberry.”
“Hm, confident,” I reply, tapping it into the register.
“I just know what I like.”
I press the wrong button on the register and have to clear it.
His gaze lingers a second longer than necessary, and then he moves toward the booths.
He greets Mason and Frankie, shaking his head at something Mason says, then waving to Colt, Remi, and their kids, before guiding Elle into their booth and getting her settled.
I don’t look up when I hear the doors open again, but Gwen does.
“Evening,” she says, not missing a beat.
Two men step inside with their jackets open, police department badges clipped at their belts. They’re relaxed, clearly off duty, but the first one scans the room once before heading straight toward me at the bar.
“Rough night?” he asks, leaning an elbow against the wood like he’s done it before.
“Depends,” I say, finishing the pour in my hand before looking up properly. “Are you here to make it better or worse?”
I hear Gwen scoff, and his smile widens. “That depends. Am I walking into friendly territory?”
From the booth by the window, Mason lifts his glass in a slow salute.
“Debatable,” Mason calls.
The officer glances over, an unimpressed look gracing his face. “Evening, Fletcher.”
“Evening, Officer Ego.”
The second cop mutters something under his breath and heads toward the pool tables, while Gwen bites her lip and busies herself with refilling the shelves.
“Kane Tucker,” the cop in front of me says, offering his hand across the bar.
I wipe mine on my apron before taking his warm grip in mine, and he doesn’t rush to pull it away.
“Penelope Easton.”
“New?”
“Yup. Trial shift.”
“Ah.” He glances around at the groups creating the noise and mild chaos behind me. “You’re doing fine. I’ll have a pint of the house lager.”
Behind me, Chip drops something that luckily bounces, but Gwen says nothing because she’s clearly listening. Tucker watches me navigate the register, and I feel his gaze drop briefly downward, then back to my face.
“You’re not from here,” he says after a second.
“Nope. I’m from Toronto.”
He lets out a low whistle. “That’s a decent commute.”
“I’m trying something different.”
“Yeah?”
“Seems to be working out.” I nod over my shoulder toward the booth area. “I’ve only mildly annoyed the FD so far.”
His eyes follow my gesture and land on the firefighters, then return to mine.
“Careful,” he says lightly. “You’ll get recruited.”
“For what?”
“Bad hockey and worse opinions.”
From behind me, Mason scoffs loudly. “We can hear you, Tucker.”
“Good,” Tucker calls back without turning. “Stay hydrated.”
I slide his beer across the bar to him.
“Maplewood treating you okay so far?” he asks.
“I’ve only been here a little while, but people introduce themselves here, which is nice.”
“That explains it.”
“Explains what?”
“You still look surprised I’m talking to you.”
I lean back slightly against the counter. “Unsure surprised is the word I’d choose. Are you always this observant?”
“Only off duty.” He grins and takes a sip of his beer, watching me over the rim of the glass. “You getting off soon?”
“Eventually.”
“Good.” He sets the glass down. “You should see Maplewood Lake at night. Beautiful.”
“And miss all this?” I gesture at Chip, frantically waving a docket at Gwen.
He laughs. “Fair.”
Behind me, Gwen clears her throat, and I glance over my shoulder to see she’s polishing a glass, eyes flicking between us once before returning to her work.
From the booth, Frankie is watching my interaction with open interest, while Mason leans across the backrest toward Evan and says something that makes his jaw tighten half a notch. He shifts slightly in the booth, mumbling something to Elle before his eyes flit toward the bar.
Tucker finishes his beer and nudges the empty glass forward.
“I’ll let you survive the rest of your trial,” he says. “But if you need a tour guide who actually knows the town—”
“And you do?” Mason calls from across the room.
Tucker ignores him.
“—I’m around.”
“I gathered,” I say lightly.
He smiles once more, completely unbothered, before stepping back to join his partner near the pool tables. Tucker is clearly accustomed to being the center of attention, which used to be appealing to me, but it’s also familiar—in ways that make me wary.
The noise of the bar swells back in around me, and I turn toward the register again, aware of more than just the screen in front of me.
Behind me, Gwen slides a glass into place.
“That didn’t take long,” she murmurs.
By the time the rush thins, the music’s been nudged down a notch, and the kitchen bell isn’t screeching every thirty seconds.
Chip leans both hands on the bar like he’s just survived something heroic.
“I’m never emotionally recovering from tonight,” he mutters.
“You’ll be fine,” Gwen says, slowly drying a glass. “But you did almost cried twice.”
Chip gasps in protest, and I finish wiping down the section in front of me with a grin. Then I untie my apron, folding it carefully before placing it on the counter. Gwen looks at it, then at me.
“Well,” she says evenly. “You didn’t break anything too expensive.”
“High praise.”
“You did break your rhythm about six times, though.”
I groan, placing my head in my hands. “I lost count at four.”
Frankie abandons her booth and saunters over, sliding onto the stool beside me and tucking one leg under herself.
“I think you did fine,” she says.
Behind her, the firefighters have clustered into one booth and dragged over two chairs, all of them leaning toward each other like they physically can’t spread out.
Mason is mid-story, using his hands for emphasis, and Colt’s shoulders are shaking. Evan’s listening, one arm draped over the back of the booth, his posture loose. Even off duty, they sit like a unit.
Gwen sets a short glass in front of me with a clink and pours something amber over ice.
“On the house,” she says. “Because trial shifts require recovery.”
I lift it cautiously. “Am I fired?”
“No,” she says. “But you’re not hired either. And you’re definitely not built for Friday nights.”
“You move at a different pace,” Frankie says, nodding with agreement.
“I move at conversation pace,” I admit.
Gwen nods once. “You’d be fine on a quieter shift, which is not really when I need help. But you could be an emergency call-in on Sunday afternoons?”
We both know that’s generous.
“I appreciate that,” I say. “And I will definitely take you up on it if I get desperate enough.”
“You’re good with kids—you rescued Max without thinking,” Frankie adds.
“That feels like basic human decency,” I reply dryly. “Not a qualification.”
“In this town?” Gwen arches a brow. “Human decency will get you far.”
I swirl the ice in my glass and stare at it for a second.
“My dad used to say if you can’t remember someone’s name by the second visit, you’re not paying attention,” I say lightly. “I think that stuck.”
Frankie’s expression softens. “My parents ran the town’s annual gala ball. Knew everybody’s name.” There’s a pause. “They’re gone now.”
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly. “Mine, too.”
She gives me a sympathetic look, then looks down at her hands.
Across the room, Remi stands, bouncing Zela gently against her shoulder. Max is mid-argument with Colt about whether dinosaurs could swim, and he slowly guides him to follow his mother.
Remi catches my eye as she passes the bar.
“Good shift,” she says warmly.
“Night night!” Max calls as Remi shepherds him toward the door.
“Night, Max. Stay off the furniture.”
The door closes behind them, letting in another ribbon of cool air before settling shut. Inside, the noise shifts again to something much more contained. Gwen eyes me while she wipes down the bar one final time.
“So,” she says casually, “what actually brought you here?”
I take a sip of the drink she poured me, my nose screwing up at the bitter taste.
“I wanted to go somewhere people didn’t already know who I was,” I say quietly. “Or worse—who I was expected to be.”
Frankie tilts her head slightly. “That’s very specific.”
“Corporate family business.” I shrug. “Lots of suits and expectations. And a lot of my stepfamily.”
“And you thought,” Gwen says mildly, gesturing around the room, “small-town bar.”
“I thought,” I correct, “fresh start.”
Gwen studies me for a moment, then nods as though that makes enough sense. We all turn as Mason pushes away from the booth and stretches. He crosses the room with purpose and hooks a finger in the belt loop of Frankie’s jeans as he passes.
“Ready, Red?” he asks her casually, but the look he gives her is anything but.
Frankie rolls her eyes, but she’s already sliding off the stool.
“I live here now,” she tells me.
“And she’s not leaving,” Mason says easily.
“Don’t make it weird.” Frankie nudges him in the ribs before turning back to me. “See you around, Penny.”
Her fingers brush briefly against my arm before Mason steers her toward the door.
“Night,” I call after them.
Chip disappears into the back room, muttering about inventory, and Gwen starts stacking some fresh glasses.
“You walking?” she asks without looking up.