"I slept on it in October," Claire said. "And November. And on a booth cushion last night while the wind tried to take the roof. The answer is the same in every kind of weather. I am not going back to be retrieved."
Silence stretched. The heater clicked on, then off, then on again, as if nervous. Outside, snow fell with the soft insistence of time passing whether people agreed or not.
Peter's jaw tightened in the way it used to when a client questioned a policy. "So this is what? A holiday fling with a short-order cook in a roadside diner? Claire, be serious. You have a life. You have people waiting. You don't throw that away for—" he gestured vaguely at the paper turkeys, the chrome, the whole warm improbable room—"for atmosphere."
Jack turned then, slowly, with the ladle still in his hand like a scepter he hadn't meant to claim. His voice stayed mild, which somehow made it stronger than shouting. "Short-order cook's fine by me. Flings are your word, not ours. Atmosphere's free with the coffee. And if you insult her choices again in my diner, the storm won't be the only reason you spend the night on the porch counting snowflakes."