His brows drew together in a thunderous expression, and for an instant, she regretted saying anything. Then he relaxed, shrugged his shoulders. “She says she is, but you couldn’t prove it by me. Listen, I’m not in the mood to cook. What do you say we blow this Popsicle stand and find something to eat in town?” “In town” meant one of three options: the Jackson Diner, the pizza and sandwich shop inside the bowling alley, or Lola’s, which specialized in thick and juicy steaks, a fully-stocked bar, and karaoke on Friday and Saturday nights. Slim pickings by anyone’s standards. No dim sum, no plump and cheesy burritos, no handmade gelato. On the other hand, food was food, and she knew her father well enough by now to recognize that he wasn’t quite as nutrition-conscious as his wife. Whatever she chose, he’d be amenable, and he wouldn’t remind her that she hadn’t yet eaten her daily allotment of leafy green vegetables. There were advantages to having an old man who, when he wasn’t being a flaming ass, was laid back and flexible. “Sounds good to me,”
