Chapter 2
Heath stared into his freezer, trying to make a decision.
Pepperoni.
Four cheese.
Very veggie.
Ham and pineapple.
That one had been sitting at the bottom of the stack since he’d bought it, which might have been over a year ago. Did frozen pizzas go bad? Did it matter? He had no plans to eat it anyway.
Oh. Sausage and mushroom. We have a winner.
His phone rang as he reached for it and, when he saw who was calling, he almost didn’t pick up.
It wasn’t that he didn’t like Beckett, but it was Friday, and he’d left the office early on purpose.
Still, he wasn’t going to ghost his business partner.
Also, Beckett didn’t understand that a text was always preferred and would just call back in an hour, so he answered it.
“Hey, man. What’s up?”
“Hey, Heath. Do you want to come to dinner tonight?”
He blinked, startled by the random invitation—the random last-minute invitation.
Spontaneity wasn’t really in Beckett’s wheelhouse and, on top of that, he’d had dinner at Beckett’s house exactly never in all the years they’d been working together.
They’d been out to bars, restaurants, both with and without Skyler, but dinner at Beckett’s house? Never.
“You there?”
“Oh. Sorry. Uh… dinner tonight? I don’t—uh—” Shit.
“Why not? You know you’re just staring into your freezer anyway.”
“I am not!” He closed the freezer very quietly.
Beck started chuckling softly. “Uh-huh. Sky’s cooking…”
“Sky cooks?” Huh. He’d had it all wrong. “Is he the one who makes your lunches? I thought you did that.”
“Oh, hell no. That’s all my husband. I can help, but I just do what I’m told in the kitchen.”
He frowned. “Well, what’s he making? Is it good?”
Really? Had he simply asked that just like that?
“Enchiladas. Chicken enchiladas with homemade verde sauce. And there’s guacamole and chips and salsa. I believe he also bought a tres leches cake for dessert.”
Oh, damn. That was way cooler than frozen pizza.
“What time do you want me?”
Beckett laughed. “Maybe six? We’ll have some margaritas and then sit down for dinner.”
What was happening here? Was Beckett buttering him up for something? Retiring? Dying?
“No one’s dying, are they?” Yep. He asked that. Heath rolled his eyes. Go him.
“Heath, would I invite you to celebrate my impending demise over enchiladas?”
There was a bark of laughter in the background, which could only have been Skyler, and now they both knew he was an idiot.
A book-smart, lawyerly idiot.
“That does seem unlikely. I will see you at six.”
“Perfect. Come hungry. Bye now.”
The line went dead. Come hungry? He was already hungry, he was about to cook a—no, he wasn’t. He sometimes made other things for dinner, right? Like, uh, pasta. And scrambled eggs. He made some seriously mean rye toast.
He looked down at his after-work attire—boxers and a T-shirt—and decided he’d better go find something to wear. Did one dress for enchiladas?
Jeans. Skyler was a cowboy; jeans were always appropriate.
Also, it was about Christmas, so an ugly Christmas sweater was also always appropriate.
What should he bring? They were having margaritas, so wine seemed stupid. Maybe something for Charlie, Noah, and the little one. Huh.
“Oh!” Chocolate. He had a bag of chocolate Santas he’d bought for the office in his briefcase. He knew when he bought them that they would never actually make it to the office, but he’d expected to be sucking them down over an episode of Shrinking. It was probably better to give them to the kids.
He looked at his watch. It was after five already, and he needed to get moving. He dashed up the stairs and found jeans, then dug out his ugly sweaters, picked the most kid-appropriate, and pulled it on.
The last-minute invite from a non-last-minute guy was still bothering him.
Not bothering in that suspicious way but bothering in the he was dying of curiosity way.
Were they already having a party and he was on the B-list?
Were they having another baby? Maybe they needed a last-minute babysitter and were bribing him with food.
Which, by the way, would absolutely work.
It didn’t matter; he was just intrigued.
And late. He was running late.
He finished brushing his teeth, combed his beard, pulled on his black-frame glasses, which were more casual and fun than his wire-framework glasses, and checked himself out in the mirror.
“You are way too handsome for this sweater.” It had a big polar bear on it. It was perfect.
Well, it would be perfect if he had someone for it to be perfect for. He was having a bit of a dry spell, which you know, he could only do so much.
He headed down the stairs, pulled on his winter cap—it was waterproof and lined with cozy fleece—tugged on his coat and gloves, stomped into his boots, and he was out the door.
Damn. He should have remote-started his Silverado to warm it up. It took a minute to get out of the house in the winter.
He was going to be a few minutes late, so he texted Beckett.
Heath
Just getting in the truck.
He’d get there.
And then he’d find out what was going on.