The Bff Bride. Allison Leigh

here until January. But no, I leave the pool games to my brother.”

      She accidentally dropped the boxes and they scattered. “January!”

      As Sloan leaned over and picked up the boxes that had landed on the floor, the radio attached to his belt crackled. He adjusted the sound and set the boxes on the counter. “Sure I’ll be seeing more of you then,” he said. He gestured with his mug and picked up his own pastry box. “Thanks, Tabby.”

      “You bet.” She waited until the deputy departed before she focused on Justin again. “January?”

      “I know the thought’s horrifying to you, but try to dial it down a little.” He came around the counter and refilled his coffee mug.

      And even though she wanted to tell him to get back on his own side of the counter, she couldn’t very well do so.

      Like it or not, he was her boss. It didn’t matter that he’d always left the decision making to his brother when it came to Ruby’s. But Justin was still half owner. It wasn’t something she dwelled on, but when they were standing right there in Ruby’s, it was kind of hard to forget.

      She mentally counted to ten and tried again. “You’re here until January?” Calmer or not, her voice had still gone a little hoarse at the end. But she held up her chin as if it hadn’t. “Why is that?”

      “I’ll be working on a project here for CNJ. At the hospital, mostly. My aunt cleared it last night, though she’s going to have me jumping through a few more hoops than I expected because of it.”

      Tabby let his answer roll around in her head a few times. “Why can’t you work on it in Boston at that big state-of-the-art laboratory you love?”

      “Too many distractions there.”

      “Gillian being one of them?”

      “Yes, but not the way you th—” He went silent when the bell over the door jingled again, and Sam strolled in.

      She hadn’t yet changed from her jogging gear into her uniform. Tabby waited for the usual male reaction to register in Justin’s expression as he took in the sight of Sam’s figure lovingly outlined from neck to ankle in vibrant, clinging purple fabric.

      But he didn’t do the typical double take like all the other guys.

      Instead, he nodded politely at Sam and turned back to stare into his coffee mug while Tabby rang up a dozen rolls.

      If he was so crazy about Gillian that a beautiful woman like Samantha didn’t even merit a glance, what was he doing making Tabby’s life harder by sticking around Weaver for the next few months?

      The thought was more than a little irritating. “Sam, you haven’t met Justin Clay yet, have you? He’s Erik’s brother.”

      Sam turned her bright eyes back to Justin. “No kidding? You’re the genius scientist who works back East.” She stuck out her hand, cocking her blond head a little to one side. “I guess I see the resemblance to Erik,” she said with a smile. “Except you’re prettier.”

      Tabby nearly choked on her amusement when Justin flushed.

      “He’d argue that,” he said and nearly yanked back his hand from Sam’s.

      “Sam’s one of Max’s deputies,” Tabby told him. “Like Sloan.”

      “Well, I wear a badge like Sloan,” Sam allowed wryly. “But nobody calls me their boss like they do Sloan.” She picked up the box of rolls. “Still warm. Wonder if Ruiz will mind if one is missing before I get them to him?”

      “I’d like to see the day when you actually indulge yourself for once,” Tabby challenged.

      “Oh, I indulge.” Sam’s gaze sparkled as she glanced at Justin on her way toward the door.

      “With a sweet roll,” Tabby called after her.

      Sam just laughed and sketched a wave as she left.

      “Heard there was a lady deputy now,” Justin said when the sound of the bell over the door faded. “She still the only one?”

      “Max has been trying to recruit more women.” Tabby picked up a rag and started needlessly polishing the counter. “It’s hard. Small-town USA is bad enough. Small town in the middle of Wyoming—where the tumbleweeds often outnumber the residents—isn’t the life for everyone.” Her fingers clenched around the rag as she rubbed harder. “Not even when you’re born and raised in it. You ought to know that better than anyone.” He was the perfect example of getting out, after all. “So what’s this big project you’re doing? Curing the common cold?”

      “Nothing that profitable. Just an R&D project that should’ve been wrapped up already, but—”

      There was a loud bang from the back of the diner, followed by, “Yo, yo, yo!”

      Justin shoved his fingers through his hair, looking impatient. “Now what?”

      “Bubba,” Tabby said evenly. “If you want peace and quiet, Ruby’s Café isn’t the place to find it. Why do you think those profit checks you get have a decent number of zeros at the end? Not that you probably notice them much, anyway, with your gigantic pharmaceutical salary.” She pushed through the swinging door to greet her cook. “Morning, Bubba.”

      “Hey, girl.” Bubba Bumble had a gentle soul that he hid behind a lumbering, rough-looking, hard-talking exterior. “Figured you’d have the hash browns going already.” He was wrapping a white apron over his white T-shirt and slouchy, black-and-white-striped pants. Next came a pristine red-and-black bandanna that he wrapped over his forehead and tied in the back over his neatly shaved salt-and-pepper hair.

      “Sorry. I got—” Distracted by Justin. “Busy,” she said instead.

      Bubba grunted and grabbed a knife to start peeling potatoes. Leaving him to it, she went back out front. The regular waitresses would begin arriving any minute, but until they did, she was on deck. Once they were there, though, she’d spend most of her morning in the kitchen with Bubba. She could man the grill when she had to, but he was the cook. She took care of the baking—he didn’t like the ancient oven Tabby still used—and did the books and serving or kitchen prep when the load was heavy. And considering the pool tournament being held down the street, she was crossing her fingers for a heavy day.

      She topped up Justin’s coffee again without waiting for him to ask and began restocking the rack that held individual boxes of cold cereal.

      “Does anyone still order those things?”

      “Absolutely.” She gave the rack a whirl. “Or did you think these were the same boxes of Fruity Twirls that were here when your great-grandma ran the place?”

      He ignored her sarcasm.

      “Since you’re here, you might as well eat. Biscuits and gravy? Pancakes? Or have your tastes gotten fancier along with your running clothes?”

      “If they had, I wouldn’t be sitting on this stool,” he replied with such an even tone that she felt guilty. “What’s the special?”

      She kept a small chalkboard propped on a shelf behind the counter where she listed the daily specials. But she hadn’t gotten to writing them out yet today, and the board was still wiped clean, the way she’d left it two days earlier.

      “Bubba,” she called without looking behind her toward the pass-through window to the kitchen. “What’s the special this morning?”

      “Turkey hash,” he yelled back. “Turkey noodle soup and salad this afternoon.”

      She retrieved the board and chalk and wrote everything out. She’d just set the board back in place when the front door opened and a couple she didn’t know came in. They were both carrying long, distinctive cases. “Good morning,” she greeted. “Looks like you’re in town for the tournament. Sit anywhere you like. I’ll be right