Page 43 of Next Season
I listened to him chatter about hockey…the Slammers’ losing streak, the coaches he’d wanted to impress in college, the time he’d cracked his ribs and the tape was so tight he almost passed out on the ice. I shared my own war stories, which brought us back to yesterday’s sports news. And you know, we could have been a couple of ordinary guys bellied up to the bar watching a game while nursing a beer or five, and not…lovers.
It was so easy to navigate between weighty subjects like fear of falling behind or fear of failure to current events with Riley. He was easy to be with, easy to talk to, easy to confide in.
Easy to fall for.
And on that somewhat disturbing thought, I kissed his cheek and pointed toward the diner. “I have a long commute to work. I’d better be on my way now.”
He walked with me to the gate, clearing his throat as I opened the latch. “Hey, uh…I could go with you to check out the pizza parlor. My grandfather was a contractor. He used to drag me with him to job sites thinking I’d be into the hard hats and heavy machinery. It wasn’t really my jam at all, so he’d end up taking me out for ice cream afterward. And now that I’ve said that out loud, I can tell I’m very unqualified to give an expert opinion, but if you want the company, I’d be happy to join you.”
My lips curled into a crooked grin without my permission. “Okay. I’ll text you.”
We smiled at nothing in particular, then leaned in at the same time, our mouths hovering an inch apart. I wanted a lot of information all at once. I wanted to know about his grandparents, his favorite flavor of ice cream, and while we were at it…his favorite color, his favorite song, his favorite movie. And yes, I wanted to taste him.
I brushed my lips over his as I caressed his cheek.
Crisse, I had it bad.
* * *
Pinecrest hada similar old-world charm to Elmwood with stately trees, narrow streets, and homes that had been around for a hundred years or more. A small lake rambled along the perimeter of the town, providing a natural border between Wood Hollow to the north and Fallbrook to the south.
Elmwood was the fourth town in the Four Forest region and was sort of like an annoying younger sibling to the west of the others, separated by a winding road and a lot of trees.
They were all picture-postcard pretty places, and while they were a bit out of the way to be featured regularly in “things to see” segments of Vermont travelogues, each town had undeniable New England charm—breathtaking fall foliage, antique lamplights on cobblestone alleyways, pristine lakes, and pretty church spires. Pinecrest, however, had a regal air the other three lacked.
Its Main Street was longer, the buildings were more ornate, and the people were wealthier and a bit…how can I say this nicely? Snootier. Sorry, but it was true. They drove Land Rovers, vacationed in Turks and Caicos, and owned a variety of Canada Goose jackets for cold, medium-cold, and super-cold weather. Oh, and they loved fine dining establishments.
Unfortunately for them…they didn’t have one. Yes, those snobby Pinecrestacians had to drive fifteen minutes along curvy, swervy roads for haute cuisine at the not-so-humble Elmwood Diner. I didn’t have to do any major research to know that a new restaurant would be heartily welcomed here.
No one would raise an eyebrow at the wine list or question the pricing. And they certainly wouldn’t ask what was inboeuf bourguignon.Don’t get me started.
I parked my SUV at the curb in front of Pete’s Pizza Palace on Barnaby Street and met Riley on the sidewalk. We stared at the peeling stickers on the wide bay window advertising two slices for five dollars, complete with a decal of two dancing pizzas. The homespun endorsement looked startlingly out of place next to the pristine black awning and understated storefront of the neighboring bakery…and every other shop on the street. It was a safe guess that the owner was the final holdout in the gentrification of Snobville and had either passed away or decided to retire.
Interesting.
“Ever been here?” Riley asked, pushing his sunglasses to the top of his head.
“No. I bet it was delicious.”
“I was thinking the same thing. So…who are we meeting again?”
“Boring Bryson. He’s a banker who sells commercial and residential properties. Like I said…boring.”
Riley chuckled. “Do you know him well? You must if Ivan knew you were thinking of opening another restaurant and suggested contacting this guy. You seem like a private person, so the fact that they know anything about you means Ivan and the real estate agent are both probably good friends of yours.”
I rolled my eyes. “That’s a stretch. They’re nice guys who both happen to be gay—like me. And they know how to be discreet. Bigots aren’t welcome in these parts, but you have to pick and choose your partners wisely because not everyone is…”
“Out,” he finished.
“Correct. In this case, it’s not discretion about clandestine romances. It’s about property. Ivan mentioned that Pinecrest needed a real restaurant to Nolan and me, and said we should consider expanding. Nolan said it wasn’t a priority, but I asked Ivan to keep me posted…quietly. I’m loyal to Nolan, but it’s smart to have options and maybe Nolan will change his mind. Who knows?”
“Right. Just curious.”
“Looking at this dump is like looking at an open house when you realize you might need to make a move. Not tomorrow necessarily, but someday.”
He inclined his chin slightly. “Got it. And what’s the story with this agent?”
I shrugged. “No story. Bryson is a good guy.”