He gives me a grateful smile before heading back to that table to refill people’s glasses. Then, dangling the empty pitcher off one finger, he does a quick sweep of the room, clearing plates from other tables and grabbing a credit card as soon as someone slaps it down on top of their check.

It only takes a few minutes before things settle down and he returns to me. Still, when he pours my coffee and asks what I want to eat, I just order a basket of fries, not wanting to be too much trouble.

He keeps working, stopping over to chat with me whenever he has a free minute. And watching him turns out to be a pretty good distraction. Then a bunch of tables leave at once, so suddenly the place is a lot quieter. Travis ducks below the counter and stands back up with an empty bus tub.

Glancing around at the dirty tables, I ask, “Can I help?”

“You don’t work here,” he says.

“So? You don’t work at the inn either, but you’ve helped me a lot.”

He reaches across the table with his free hand and takes one of mine, giving it a quick squeeze before letting go. My heart speeds up. There are still customers in here, but he doesn’t seem concerned. “You’re sweet, but I’m good. Eat your fries.”

My cheeks flush, and I duck my head to grab a fry. Did he really just call me sweet?

When he’s done with the cleanup, he returns to me and steals a fry off my plate.

“You know, I’ve bitten people’s hands for that before,” I warn teasingly.

He smirks. “I think I can handle you biting me.”

And just like that, I’m feeling flushed again.

“So you must be happy that Elise and Grant are at the inn now,” he says, moving on like it’s absolutely normal for him to make flirty comments to me.

I heave out a big sigh, not really wanting to talk about them and how they’re planning to stay even longer. Or how Elise wants to take May to the Mother’s Day brunch, and while I know she has every right to do so, the idea is killing me for some reason.

“What’s going on?” he asks, frowning in concern. “Did they do something to upset you?”

“They did some... things,” I say lamely. Where do I even begin with trying to explain the mess I’ve got going on in my head?

He needs to know about how they expect us to go on a dinner date, though. So I tell him, making sure to keep my voice down even though the place has mostly cleared out now.

“But we obviously don’t have to go,” I add, before he thinks I’m getting confused about what this thing with us really is. “I’ll just leave the house that night and hide out somewhere for a while. Maybe plot how to murder my daughter.”