Chapter 7 #2
A few seconds later, a dark head pokes out the door, and a pair of blue eyes locks on us. The man is built on a slightly smaller scale than Beckett, with a rounder face, but they have the same broad shoulders, thick muscles, and piercing gaze.
“Gotta go, Rob. My brother’s here,” the man says into the phone, shutting it off without looking away from us. “Beck? What’s going on? I thought you were doing the Wild Gherkin Chase.”
“Ames!” Beckett says in a too-loud, too-jovial voice. “H-hey, man. We were. I mean, we are! Griffin and I, we, um…”
He waves a hand at me like I’m supposed to pick up this part of the story.
Fortunately for Beckett, I used to be good at this shit.
“We were arguing,” I say with a rueful grin, because the most polite lies start with a grain of truth. I step forward, extending my hand. “Sorry, we haven’t met yet. I’m—”
“Griffin, the guy who inherited Jim’s place and immediately put the kibosh on Beckett being able to access our tract.” Ames shakes my hand without taking his eyes off Beckett.
I can guess where he heard this interpretation of events, and I glare at Beckett over my shoulder.
My glare fades instantly, though, when I realize what caught Ames’s attention. Beckett’s lips are bright red, his cheeks are flushed, his hair is sticking up in about twelve different directions, thanks to my hands, and his fleece is half caught in the waistband of his jeans.
I force a laugh, drawing Ames’s attention to me. “That’s one side of the story. Your brother has trouble acknowledging there’s another side to consider… which is kind of a theme for him. If he wasn’t so stubborn, we’d be finishing up the sixth riddle by now, and we wouldn’t have blown our lead.”
Beckett huffs, and I can’t tell if he’s genuinely annoyed or just committed to selling the act. “I think you mean it’s thanks to your stubbornness that we’re probably trailing behind the frat bros—”
“And if you’d listened to my ideas, we wouldn’t be—”
“Guys? Didn’t you hear them blow the air horn?” Ames points a finger, presumably toward Chapel Island Park. “I guess someone must’ve solved all the clues. The scavenger hunt ended like ten minutes ago.”
Beckett and I exchange a look.
“Oh,” Beckett mutters. “Fuck. We, uh… We must’ve been… arguing too loud to hear.”
“That.” I nod, knowing my face is the color of a ripe apple.
Beckett clears his throat and sticks his hands in his pockets. “Right. Well. I should get back to work. Invoices. Schedules. Stuff.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Good hunt, Griffin. I’ll see you around.”
“Wait, Beckett—” Ames begins.
But he’s too late. Beckett’s already gone, so fast I’m surprised there’s not a cartoon hole in the fence in the shape of a lumberjack.
That was supposed to be my dramatic exit, damn it, and he beat me to it.
“Nice to meet you, but I should probably go too,” I begin. “Stuff to, ah… do.”
Ames looks me up and down, and his lips twitch. “Come inside,” he instructs, turning away so he can prop the back door open.
Oh, god, I really, really don’t want to.
I’m sweaty and probably reek of sex. Worse, my adrenaline rush is about to crash out, and when it does, I’ll have no choice but to confront what I just did. I’d rather have privacy for that because it’s not gonna be pretty.
But Ames doesn’t leave me much choice. He walks back into the restaurant, expecting I’ll follow. And since the last thing I want is for him to immediately send up a smoke signal or text the Winsome Gossip Chat speculating about what he might have seen… I do.
Beckett owes me huge.
The fire door opens straight into the restaurant—the same warm, homey place where Milo and I ate lunch the other day.
I follow Ames past the bar, where rows of liquor bottles glow like stained glass, and through a swinging door I somehow missed before.
It leads straight into the kitchen, which is wide open to the bar and, beyond that, the dining room, so anyone sipping a drink or lingering over dinner can watch their food being chopped, grilled, or plated.
Back here, it’s all gleaming stainless steel and professional-grade equipment, but somehow, it still feels as warm and welcoming as the dining room. With the whole restaurant empty—no servers or sous-chefs yet—the space feels serene. Almost… cozy.
Or it would, if I had a clue what the fuck I’m doing here.
Ames doesn’t stop until he’s standing by a stainless steel prep table. He motions me toward a handwashing sink, “just in case you need to wash up,” and my face is on fire like I’m a toddler whose hand’s been caught in the cookie jar.
Except, you know, in this case, the cookie jar was his brother’s pants.
When I’m done, he motions me to one of the stools on the other side, then fixes me with a look every bit as fierce as his brother’s.
I try to stave off whatever he has in mind by blurting, “It’s lunchtime, right? Why aren’t you open?”
A crinkle appears between his eyebrows. “Oh! We do breakfast until ten on Saturdays and brunch on Sundays instead of lunch.”
“Oh. Right. Uh… I bet it’s good.” I find a stool and pull it out.
“I certainly hope so. Hey, is it true…?” he begins.
I freeze with my legs bent and my ass halfway to the stool, waiting for him to finish that sentence.
…that you’re locked in a weird rivalry with my brother?
…that you were fucking around with that same brother on my back patio?
…that you were the guy in that billboard TikTok?
…that Jim left you his house for no reason whatsoever and you totally don’t deserve it?
“…that you don’t like pickles?”
“Oh.” I huff out a relieved laugh and drop the rest of the way onto the stool. “Your mom mentioned that, huh? Yeah, it’s true. Though it feels like kind of a liability to admit that in this town, especially during the Brine.”
Ames grins. “Meh. Maybe it’s time the vinegar-hating minority of Winsome had representation.” He grabs a loaf of crusty, golden bread from the cooling rack next to an industrial oven and begins carving it into thick slices with quick, practiced motions.
“I think your brother might feel differently,” I say lightly. “I think he’d like the pickle majority to stay firmly in power.”
Ames’s smile doesn’t falter. “Beck would happily control the whole universe if he could just find the right levers.” He flicks a glance at me. “Wouldn’t we all?”
“Some of us would just like to have control over what happens to our own lives,” I point out. “And our own land.”
“Touché.” He winks. “For now, how about you control what kind of sandwich you want. Grilled cheese again, or are you feeling adventurous?”
“Oh.” I immediately shake my head. “No. Thank you, but you don’t have to do that. Like I said, I should probably—”
Of course, this is the moment when my stomach decides to remind me that I’ve been running around town for hours, had a quickie in a semi-public space, and haven’t eaten since breakfast.
The growl it makes is loud and mournful and reverberates around the little kitchen.
Ames laughs. “Adventurous it is.” He eyes me across the table.
“Sit back and calm down, man. You look like you’re expecting me to torture you for information, but I promise, I’m not that guy.
” He gestures toward himself with his knife.
“Baby brother. Former Eagle Scout. Current volunteer fireman. A lover, not a fighter.”
I’m not sure I believe his cute and innocent act. He is, after all, Beckett’s brother. But Ames manages to achieve the same wide-eyed cherub look Milo gets at his most cunning, and it’s so familiar I can’t help but laugh.
From the giant refrigerator, Ames pulls a roast chicken, a jar of something suspiciously green, and a block of cheese.
As he assembles the sandwich, he moves around the kitchen with easy efficiency, all the while giving me the life story of every ingredient—the cheddar’s from Fox Creamery, the spread’s made from garlic scapes he grows out back.
It’s so chill and pleasant that by the time he’s slid the plate in front of me, I’ve relaxed in spite of myself. And when I take the first bite, I groan. “Oh my god, Ames! You’re amazing.”
“That’s what all the boys say.” He winks. “Did you want some butternut soup? I think I have some in the fridge I could heat up.”
“Nah. My friend Milo’s the soup fiend. But he’s in Arizona on a wellness retreat for a couple weeks at some big spa with a bunch of other influencers.” I lick a bit of garlic sauce from my finger. “Kind of a coup to get invited,” I hear myself volunteering.
“You sound like a proud mother.” He grins. “Must be weird, being here without your wingman, though, eh? I’d be sunk without mine.”
“It’s… a little weird.” I chew thoughtfully. “Milo and I have been friends since college, and we’ve been through a lot together. Family drama—mostly his—guy drama, career drama—mostly mine. But, I mean, I’m fine on my own,” I add quickly. “And even if I weren’t, I want him to be happy.”
I wonder what the fuck is in this sandwich that’s making me such a share-er all of a sudden.
“Yeah.” Ames sets his elbows on the counter and blows out a breath. “Yeah, I get that,” he says softly.
The kitchen door swings open, letting in a rush of cooler air and a man who fills the doorway.
“Amesie!” the newcomer says, striding in with a paper bag clutched in one giant hand. He’s wearing a polo with a Winsome Fire Dept. logo over the breast, and it’s barely containing his huge shoulders and biceps. His grin’s nearly as big.
In the next breath, his free arm is slung around Ames’s shoulders like it belongs there. “Who’s the best friend in the entire history of friendship?” he demands.
Ames’s face softens, just a little, in a way I haven’t seen yet, but he pulls a face and pretends to think about it. “Hmm. Bunsen, maybe? He’s really nice…”
“Oh yeah? Did Bunsen come to help you and bring your favorite apple cranberry muffins from Ruby’s?” The giant shakes the bag.
Ames laughs. “No, Robbie. You’re the best friend ever, Robbie,” he recites dutifully.