Page 9 of One Chance to Stay (Bears of Firefly Valley #4)

I eyed the floorboards where I nearly froze to death. The air had an aggressive bite while my muscles ached at the thought. My fingers tightened around the bottleneck, hoping for warmth through the glass. I knocked at the door. Would Seamus answer with a rifle, or had I been upgraded to a pistol?

He appeared from the living room and opened the door without fanfare.

Unlike last time, I could focus on him and not on my numb fingertips.

The knitted wool sweater swallowed him as if he might have been bulkier at one time.

The gray top and bottom were divided by a wide purple band, now drooping across his belly.

“In or out? I’m not heating the outdoors.”

I chuckled as he stepped to the side. My mom had said the same thing growing up. We’d run inside and out all day while playing. Eventually, she took her cue from the neighborhood moms. If I left in the morning, I had to be back at lunch, no sooner, no later. The same for dinner.

“Shoes.” One word, and I didn’t have to ask what he meant. I kicked off my boots, setting them next to the three pairs lined in a row.

Once inside, he shut the door. I nearly forgot my manners and held up a bottle of whiskey. “Mom told me never to show up without a gift. Besides, I owe you.”

He hesitated, glancing from the offering to me.

He scoffed. His version of a laugh? “This is the good stuff.” He waited another moment before reaching for it, holding it high so the light from the living room sparkled through the amber liquid.

“Should I pour a glass, or do you prefer it from the tap?”

“Seamus, did you crack a joke?” It wasn’t rhetorical. I honestly couldn’t tell if he jested with me or asked in all seriousness. He didn’t answer the door with a gun, and he offered me a drink. We were practically best friends.

“Have a seat. I’ll get the glasses.” He held the bottle to his chest, ensuring I wouldn’t take a swig. He had definitely cracked a joke.

With the lights on and my teeth not chattering, I could finally get a sense of Seamus’s house.

The living room had a couch on the far wall with a well-used recliner close by.

They were hardly worth a mention compared to the fireplace made of river stones, an old wooden beam for a mantle and flanked by floor-to-ceiling bookcases.

“Your home is amazing.” I could hear the glasses clinking from the kitchen.

I took off my jacket, tossing it on the back of the couch.

To my surprise, nowhere on his bookshelves did he have, How to be a Grump or Lady and the Grump .

Instead, they were filled with a mixture of literary classics, westerns, and practical books about farming and Maine agriculture.

“It’s rude to snoop.”

“If you didn’t want people to see them, don’t put them on your shelves.” I turned around, almost knocking the glass from his hand. “Westerns I expected. Agriculture makes sense. But Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea ?”

“Every now and then, a man needs an adventure.” Seamus’s eyes held… sadness?

His words held a melancholy, as if he once longed for an adventure and never took it. As quick as he said it, he let out a slight cough before handing me a glass. A moment later, he took a seat in his armchair. “Normally, a person brings that affordable swill. How do you know about good whiskey?”

“I’ve been bartending for the last five years. I know the difference between the good stuff and the… Well, you didn’t shoot me on sight.” I held the glass up in a salute. “That earned you quality. How did you learn about it?”

Seamus knew how to savor his liquor. A quick swirl. His nose hung in the glass, taking a breath that filled his lungs. Once satisfied, he had the tiniest of sips, his tongue licking his lips. It was only after he indulged his other senses that he had himself a proper drink.

“Pops. He didn’t drink often, but when he did, it had to be worth drinking.”

Seamus had said more in this conversation than in both of our previous encounters. I took it as a good sign. “I’d say you had your first drink at fifteen?”

“Thirteen.”

I let out a low whistle.

“Different times.”

I realized, at thirteen, I wasn’t even a twinkle in my father’s eye.

The age between us must hover somewhere near twenty years.

It made him more fascinating. He experienced a lifetime before I was born.

What had he seen before I came along? I wanted to ask, but assumed he would, at best, scoff, at worst, call me a whipper snapper and tell me to get off his lawn.

Seamus closed his eyes, his foot lightly tapping to the music.

If I didn’t know better, I could see him absorbing each note.

The instruments were bold, reminding me of an era long gone.

Is that why he listened to big band records?

They reminded him of a better time? I wanted to ask, but instead let the man lose himself to the music.

We quietly sipped as the music from the first track concluded.

For the life of me, I couldn’t remember ever sitting in silence with another man.

We always tried to fill the dead space with conversation, small talk that never amounted to anything more than noise.

Did Seamus spend his evenings in silence?

Even if I didn’t speak the words, my mind moved a mile a minute, creating its own conversations.

The music returned. To be honest, I couldn’t tell one song from the next. They all had over-the-top grandeur to them. Sometimes I could pick out horns, and other times booming percussion. I’d never be able to identify them later.

“I first heard this at the Sadie Hawkins Dance.”

“How old are you?”

He glared. I recognized the expression. It came with the unsaid, “Old enough to have some manners.” I wanted to ask when was the last time somebody joined him as he strolled down memory lane? Had it been longer than my self-induced seclusion? While Seamus seemed to turn inward, I did the opposite.

“Were there poodle skirts? Did you grease your hair back?” How did his glare intensify? At any moment, they’d shoot lasers. It wouldn’t stop me. “Did a fine young lady ask you to be her arm candy?”

The glare softened and his eyes turned down, focusing on his glass. Filling the air with levity, I had struck a nerve. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean?—”

“She did. I accepted.”

His head turned slightly to a collection of pictures on the wall.

At this distance, I couldn’t make out faces, but two adults and one pint-sized human explained it all.

The Sadie Hawkins Dance is where a love story started.

When he got up to inspect them, I set my glass on the coffee table and risked disapproval as I joined his side.

“The first of many dates?”

Instead of speaking, he grumbled with a slight nod.

With a quick motion, he downed the last of his whiskey.

If necessary, I could put the photos in chronological order, not because of Grace growing up.

What started as a smiling man transformed, as if he constructed his armor one piece at a time.

By the end, there was no more Mrs. Seamus, just him and Grace.

Had she died? Divorced? Whatever happened, the lively man from decades ago had all but vanished.

I turned to ask what happened. Seamus had one hand up, the other across his belly as he stepped in time with the music.

There were two types of people who sat at my bar: those who drank to remember, and those who drank to forget.

As Seamus moved about the room, dancing with a memory, I knew his reason.

I had come intending to say thank you for saving my life. Okay, part of me wanted to get underneath this gruff exterior. I didn’t expect the evening to involve dancing. I spotted it, slight as it may be. The corner of his lip had turned upward, hidden behind a graying beard.

I’d blame the alcohol when he grumbled. “Whiskey always clouded my judgment and made me friendlier than normal.” On his next rotation, I stepped in, taking his hand.

He froze. The smile faded as we stood there awkwardly, holding hands. I think I had gotten too used to serving drinks in a gay bar. At work, this would have scored me tips and more than one or two phone numbers.

Seamus’s fingers curled around mine. I half-expected him to bend my fingers back until I dropped to my knees, begging for mercy. He had a firm grip, and I believe he could do it if he tried.

“I lead.”

I didn’t speak as his hand moved to my hip.

It was my first time formally dancing with a man.

I hovered, not sure how to stand. He pushed it into place on his shoulder as he returned to my hip.

While the trumpets had their moment in the spotlight, Seamus pushed at my hip while tugging at my hand.

I watched his feet, trying to avoid stepping on his toes.

He’d be able to mock my lack of fancy footwork. Even as he guided me in a circle about the living room, I kept checking to make sure I didn’t trip over his coffee table or knock a glass on the floor. After the third revolution, I almost matched his steps. Maybe there was hope for me?

I smiled, looking up. Before I knew it, Seamus leaned forward, his lips pressed against mine.

My body stiffened as I tried to process the curmudgeon kissing me.

When I didn’t respond, he pulled back, his eyes staring downward.

I had a thousand questions. This wasn’t how I imagined the night going, but I had gotten what I wanted… sort of.

Sliding my hand behind his neck, I pulled him closer.

It was my second time being kissed by a man, but my first time doing the kissing.

His lips were incredibly soft, the exact opposite of the mustache tickling my nose.

Seamus’s body didn’t move, his hands holding still as he held my lip between his teeth.

If he pulled away, would he call it a mistake? I didn’t give him the chance.

I didn’t give him the opportunity.