on the uniforms to come in.”
“Are you doing okay with sending her off to school?” Kara asked.
“I have to be. It’s a great school and with things picking up at work, we would need to send her to day care. This is the best thing. Can you believe they teach Mandarin in pre-kindergarten now? Frickin’ Mandarin!”
Kara laughed. “She’ll be smarter than all of us by the time she gets out of kindergarten.”
Jake’s phone vibrated. “Okay, sweetie, I need to get to my next appointment. Put your big-girl panties on and write something sensational.”
Kara touched his hand to slow him down for a minute. “Thank you.”
“Anytime.” Jake leaned over to kiss her. “I love you. It’s your turn to pay,” he confirmed, getting up from their booth. “Call me and let me know how it’s going.” And then he was gone behind the tinkling bells of the swinging front door.
Kara paid the bill, took a mint from the little bowl by the register, and pushed out into the afternoon sunshine. Jake was right. This was an opportunity. She wasn’t some lovesick child; she was an adult, a respected professional even. By the time she pulled back into the parking lot at work, she was ready to tackle Logan Rye. Well, maybe not him, but at least his restaurant.
Chapter Six
T he Rye family met at the same diner every Wednesday morning. It was the family-business meeting to go over where things were on the farm and now at Logan’s place. In sickness and in health, they arrived at the second leather booth near the window every Wednesday at 6 a.m. sharp. Schedules, routine, it was the fiber of Logan’s family. As a grown man, he recognized it was the way they survived when it was suddenly just the four of them.
Logan’s father, Herbert Rye, seemed about two days from his monthly haircut, Logan noticed as he entered Libby’s Little Breakfast Place. He was listening intently to something Garrett was telling him. Most likely something about their crops or else he was complaining about their distributors. Logan slid in next to his dad and sure enough caught the end of Garrett’s lecture.
“The thing is, it’s tragic because most Americans have no idea anymore what a real damn tomato tastes like.”
Their father nodded and added cream to his coffee.
“And then this guy asks me the shelf life of our tomatoes.”
Herbert laughed. “What’d you say?”
“I told him we could can them for him if he was interested in shelf life.”
“Lo, your brother’s a funny guy.”
“Isn’t he though.” Logan met his brother’s eyes. “Morning.”
“Morning,” both men replied in unison just as the only female of the Rye family arrived. Makenna was holding file folders stacked on top of her laptop. She was in jeans, muckers again, and what looked like the same flannel shirt their father was wearing. Her long brown hair was still wet and piled on her head. She smiled a morning-before-her-large-Coke smile, and Paige, already dressed for school in jeans and her green sweater with a cow on the front, ran behind her mother and right into the waiting arms of their father.
“Donk!” Paige exclaimed.
“Well hello there, angel. Let me take a look.” He pulled her out of their hug as if surveying her. “Yup, you’re beautiful even this early in the morning.”
Paige kissed his cheek and settled into the booth between her Donk and her Uncle Rogan. Kenna shook her head, set her laptop down on the table, and pulled her bag off her shoulder. Paige rested her head on Logan’s shoulder.
“Good morning, Uncle Rogan,” she whispered.
Uncle Rogan. Logan couldn’t have asked for a cooler name. Paige had trouble saying the “L,” and for a while Kenna gently corrected her, but Logan liked it. Eventually, Kenna stopped trying to change it and even though Paige could now say his name correctly, he was still Uncle Rogan. It pissed Garrett off, of course, because he wanted a nickname too. Paige called their dad Donk, which no one could
“Are you doing okay with sending her off to school?” Kara asked.
“I have to be. It’s a great school and with things picking up at work, we would need to send her to day care. This is the best thing. Can you believe they teach Mandarin in pre-kindergarten now? Frickin’ Mandarin!”
Kara laughed. “She’ll be smarter than all of us by the time she gets out of kindergarten.”
Jake’s phone vibrated. “Okay, sweetie, I need to get to my next appointment. Put your big-girl panties on and write something sensational.”
Kara touched his hand to slow him down for a minute. “Thank you.”
“Anytime.” Jake leaned over to kiss her. “I love you. It’s your turn to pay,” he confirmed, getting up from their booth. “Call me and let me know how it’s going.” And then he was gone behind the tinkling bells of the swinging front door.
Kara paid the bill, took a mint from the little bowl by the register, and pushed out into the afternoon sunshine. Jake was right. This was an opportunity. She wasn’t some lovesick child; she was an adult, a respected professional even. By the time she pulled back into the parking lot at work, she was ready to tackle Logan Rye. Well, maybe not him, but at least his restaurant.
Chapter Six
T he Rye family met at the same diner every Wednesday morning. It was the family-business meeting to go over where things were on the farm and now at Logan’s place. In sickness and in health, they arrived at the second leather booth near the window every Wednesday at 6 a.m. sharp. Schedules, routine, it was the fiber of Logan’s family. As a grown man, he recognized it was the way they survived when it was suddenly just the four of them.
Logan’s father, Herbert Rye, seemed about two days from his monthly haircut, Logan noticed as he entered Libby’s Little Breakfast Place. He was listening intently to something Garrett was telling him. Most likely something about their crops or else he was complaining about their distributors. Logan slid in next to his dad and sure enough caught the end of Garrett’s lecture.
“The thing is, it’s tragic because most Americans have no idea anymore what a real damn tomato tastes like.”
Their father nodded and added cream to his coffee.
“And then this guy asks me the shelf life of our tomatoes.”
Herbert laughed. “What’d you say?”
“I told him we could can them for him if he was interested in shelf life.”
“Lo, your brother’s a funny guy.”
“Isn’t he though.” Logan met his brother’s eyes. “Morning.”
“Morning,” both men replied in unison just as the only female of the Rye family arrived. Makenna was holding file folders stacked on top of her laptop. She was in jeans, muckers again, and what looked like the same flannel shirt their father was wearing. Her long brown hair was still wet and piled on her head. She smiled a morning-before-her-large-Coke smile, and Paige, already dressed for school in jeans and her green sweater with a cow on the front, ran behind her mother and right into the waiting arms of their father.
“Donk!” Paige exclaimed.
“Well hello there, angel. Let me take a look.” He pulled her out of their hug as if surveying her. “Yup, you’re beautiful even this early in the morning.”
Paige kissed his cheek and settled into the booth between her Donk and her Uncle Rogan. Kenna shook her head, set her laptop down on the table, and pulled her bag off her shoulder. Paige rested her head on Logan’s shoulder.
“Good morning, Uncle Rogan,” she whispered.
Uncle Rogan. Logan couldn’t have asked for a cooler name. Paige had trouble saying the “L,” and for a while Kenna gently corrected her, but Logan liked it. Eventually, Kenna stopped trying to change it and even though Paige could now say his name correctly, he was still Uncle Rogan. It pissed Garrett off, of course, because he wanted a nickname too. Paige called their dad Donk, which no one could
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