Page 187 of Wild Card 13

“That’s complimentary,” Freya said.

The igloo door opened again before I could answer.

Arlo stepped inside carrying two plates along one forearm and a fresh teapot in his other hand. He wore dark jeans, boots, and a charcoal henley with the sleeves pushed to his forearms. A black apron was tied at his waist, and his hair looked like he had already run one hand through it too many times. Snow clung to one shoulder. “Morning.”

“You already ordered my Irish coffee,” I said, unable to hide the smile tugging at the corner of my mouth.

Arlo shrugged like it wasn't worth mentioning. “You were going to order it anyway.”

“You don't know that.”

He gave me a look.

I sighed. “Fine. You absolutely know that.”

“Thought you deserved to start brunch the right way.”

Warmth settled quietly in my chest. “Thanks.”

He reached over and squeezed my shoulder once as he passed. “Always.”

Lo brightened. “There’s my handsome boy.”

Arlo’s whole face softened instantly. “Hi, Lo.”

He leaned down to kiss her cheek. She caught his jaw in one hand for half a second, the gesture so familiar and maternal that something in my chest went quiet.

“How are you?” she asked.

“Busy.” He set one plate in front of Bea. “Eggs fully cooked through. No suspicious yolk activity.”

Bea looked down at the replacement plate with open relief. “I love you.”

“I know. It’s good for business.”

Freya leaned forward. “What about me?”

Arlo set the second plate in front of her. “Extra potatoes.”

It was easy to forget, watching him move through the restaurant with plates in his hands and a towel over his shoulder, that he was only twenty-four. North Line made him seem older. Or maybe responsibility did. He looked solid in a way he rarely had as ateenager, rooted into the place he had built with his own stubborn hands.

He checked the heater. Adjusted the teapot closer to Lo. Moved the mimosa pitcher away from Bea with the quiet confidence of someone who valued his life.

Arlo’s gaze slid to me. “Everything good?” There was a question beneath it. Not about the food. Not about the heat. About last night. About the arena. About every version of me he could read before I had decided whether I wanted to be read.

“Everything’s good,” I said.

His eyes held mine for one extra second. Then he nodded, accepting the answer for now.

That was one of the ways Arlo loved me. He pushed until he knew pushing would make me disappear, then pretended he had only stopped by to deliver breakfast.

Lo reached for his hand before he could leave. “Are you feeding yourself too?”

“Yes.”

She gave him a look.

He sighed. “I had a breakfast sandwich.”