needed more lip balm.

Not long after Cole went back to work, Molly left the restaurant to run some errands before she had to pick up Kali and Max from daycare. It was just me and Helen for the rest of the afternoon and evening, so while she managed the counter, I was in the kitchen, chopping vegetables for my chicken noodle soup.

It was supposed to get cold tonight and I thought soup would be a hit with the dinner crowd. Plus, it was one of Cole’s favorites. He was coming back here for dinner and I wanted to do something special for him, given all he’d done to fix up Jamie’s truck—which was parked out back.

Cole had taken my car back to the station so I could drive Jamie’s truck home tonight. As soon as we closed up The Maysen Jar, I was planning on driving around for a bit, listening to Jamie’s favorite country station, then finding a spot to park and cross that item off his list.

“Hey, Poppy?” Helen poked her head into the kitchen.

“What’s up?” I didn’t look up from the carrots on my cutting board.

“That girl is back.”

I dropped my knife and wiped my hands on my apron as I hurried to the door, peeking around Helen.

Sitting in the same seat she always did—tucked into the far back corner of the room—was a young girl who’d been coming into the restaurant regularly for the past few weeks. She always came at the same time, around three in the afternoon, and always wore the same clothes, faded black leggings and an olive-green coat that was two sizes too big and hung to her knees. On her feet were scuffed black ballet flats.

But even though her clothes were old and worn, she’d put effort into her appearance. Her face didn’t need much makeup—her light brown skin was flawless—but she’d dusted her cheeks with a bit of pink to match the shadow she’d used to highlight her large caramel eyes. Her long hair hung nearly to her waist, and she’d added some product to tame the frizz from her ash-brown curls.

“Did she order anything?”

Helen shook her head. “No. She just took one of the free cookies and asked for a glass of water.”

I frowned. The girl never ordered anything. Instead, she came and sat in that corner, attempting to blend into the wall as she read the same tattered book or worked on homework.

I didn’t care that she wasn’t a paying customer. I cared that she was young—probably only sixteen—and she seemed to be surviving on my free cookies alone. She’d gotten visibly thinner in just the time she’d been coming to The Maysen Jar.

But whenever any of us would approach and offer her something, she’d politely decline and leave the restaurant. So yesterday, Molly and I had told our staff to tell us immediately the next time the girl came in.

“Do me a favor,” I told Helen. “Go put a chicken potpie and apple pie in the toaster oven, then make a vanilla latte. I’m going to get this soup on the stove and then I’ll be out.”

While Helen went to prepare the food, I hurried to finish my chopping and toss the veggies into my chicken stock. With the burner set to simmer, I washed my hands and untied my apron. When I came out front, Helen had everything on a tray.

“Thank you.” I took the tray. “Wish me luck.”

She crossed her fingers and smiled.

The girl noticed me when I hit the halfway point of the restaurant. She sat straighter, shoving a paper into her textbook before stuffing them both in a canvas backpack.

So I picked up my pace before she could escape. “Hi.” I set down the tray just as she stood from her chair. “Please don’t go. Please.”

She eyed me warily but sat back down.

“Thank you.” I took the chair across from her. “My name is Poppy. This is my restaurant.”

The girl looked to the food, swallowing hard, then back up to my face, but she didn’t speak.

“I was hoping you could do me a favor. I made a few changes to my piecrust recipe,” I lied. “Maybe you could try these and give me your honest opinion. Tell me what you think.”

“Oh, um, I don’t—”

“I know it’s after lunch and you might not be hungry, but even just a couple bites would help. And it’s free, of course. Taste testers don’t have to pay. What do you say? Lend me your taste buds?”

Her eyes dropped to the food again, and this time, she licked her lips. “Okay.”

Victory! I held back my smile and stood. “I’ll let you eat without me hovering. Just don’t leave before you tell me what you think.”

She nodded and waited for me to step back before she picked up her napkin and silverware.

I turned and walked right back to the kitchen, resisting the urge to look over my shoulder. Then I stood in the middle of the kitchen, counting to one hundred, before I came back out to the counter, pretending to take inventory of the display case.

“Is she eating?” I whispered to Helen.

“Yeah.”

I sighed. “Good. I’m going to go make the noodles for the soup so they can dry for a while. When she’s close to done, come and get me.”

Helen nodded. “You got it.”

I’d never made noodles so fast in my life. Nervous energy poured from my fingertips as I kneaded the dough, and by the time Helen came back to get me from the kitchen, I had the noodles all rolled and cut.

With a towel in my hand, I walked back to the girl’s table and smiled. She’d finished everything except for the vanilla latte, which had gone untouched. “What did you think?”

“It was really good.”

“Great!” I cheered and sat down. “I’ll keep those changes then. Did you not like the coffee?”

She dropped her eyes to her lap. “I, um . . . can’t have coffee.”

“Are you allergic?”

It was a stupid question. The minute I asked, my eyes wandered

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