Chapter Five
CHAPTER FIVE
Mark
T he pub was empty except for the two of us and a bartender, who moved like a shadow, polishing glasses without a sound. The warm lighting from old-fashioned sconces matched the comfort of the leather booths and the faint aroma of aged whiskey. It was fancier than anywhere I usually drank. Dylan—that’s what he told me to call him—looked like he belonged there. Me? I felt like the guy who crashed a private party in cutoffs because his buddy told him it was a casual gathering.
My father’s words came back to me: Look him in the eye. Listen more than talk. Ask questions because people’s favorite topic is often themselves. My dad was a smart man.
I leaned back in my chair, beer in hand, and asked, “Do you enjoy owning a ski resort?”
Dylan glanced up, his eyes sharp. “I’m good at it.”
“Did your family own one?”
He turned away, then back. “No.”
Okay, so he wasn’t most people—or very talkative. I decided not to let his mood bring mine down and took another swig of beer. “Ever visit New Hampshire for Maple Weekend?”
“Can’t say that I have.”
“Consider this a formal invite. It’s the third weekend in March.”
He nodded without committing.
To break the silence, I added, “Running a Sugar Shack isn’t all that different from running a resort.”
He raised an eyebrow. “I doubt that.”
“Think about it,” I said, counting on my fingers. “It’s seasonal. We both deal with a lot of different kinds of people. Repeat visitors are our bread and butter.”
He sipped what looked like whiskey on the rocks and nodded. “I suppose there are similarities.”
“A lot of pre-work for events. Maintenance is a bitch.”
His eyes narrowed. “All that for something that happens in a shed?”
“It’s a big shed.”
His lips twitched, but he didn’t smile. Progress.
At that moment, the bartender approached our table with the bottle of syrup from my room on a tray along with two empty shot glasses. He set them in front of me. I thanked him, and he went back to whatever bartenders do when they only have one table to work. I lifted the bottle, its golden color catching the light.
Dylan leaned forward, eyeing the bottle with the curiosity of someone assessing a new investment. “What makes your syrup special?”
Some might have been offended by the question, but it was a question I’d never been bothered by. People who came to New Hampshire for Maple Weekend didn’t come solely for my parents’ Sugar Shack. Visitors often had long lists of places to tour and taste from. “Spiced maple syrup isn’t something new, but the combination of ingredients I use gives it a unique kick. People add it to alcohol as well as coffee.”
“I’ve sampled my share of maple syrup,” Dylan said as he accepted the shot glass I’d filled. “Vermont is better known for maple syrup than New Hampshire, and we buy quite a lot of it for the resort.”
If I knew him better, I would have told him that if this was a pissing contest, he should taste first and then decide if he wanted to run his mouth, but instead, I just instructed, “Try it.”
His brow furrowed, but he held the glass up and sniffed it.
I chuckled. “It’s not poison.”
My joke didn’t amuse him. He studied the content of his glass, then swirled it like it was wine.
Oh, for God’s sake. I downed mine and clapped my shot glass onto the table.
He sipped at his, took a moment to assess the flavor, then finished it as well. “It’s better than I expected.”
“Wait, because it gets better,” I said with a grin. The mixture of hot spices along with the sweet flavor of the syrup hit a person in warming waves.
Dylan set the glass down and let out a telling breath. “I see what you mean. It’s a lot. Not too much, but enough to wake a person up.” He poured himself half a shot glass and tasted it again. “I like it.”
“Thanks,” I said. “It’s a secret family recipe. The secret is I tweaked my dad’s recipe without asking one year, and people liked it enough that Dad made my brand a label.”
He put the glass down, his subdued expression almost thoughtful. “Sounds like the two of you are close.”
“He’s my dad,” I said automatically, then stopped when I remembered what he’d said about his relationship with his family.
“What do you do when you’re not making maple syrup?” he asked after a brief silence.
We were both eager to move on to a new topic. I told him about my friends, the small town I grew up in, woodworking, and the odd jobs I take on to make extra money. Slowly, he began to relax.
A couple of drinks later, I was starting to like the guy—or at least be amused by him again. It could have been the beer, but I felt like we were bonding. “You’re serious?” I asked, leaning back in my chair. “Treasure hunting? Like maps and pirate gold?”
“Not quite,” he said, his voice cool. “I finance dives for shipwrecks.”
“Is that lucrative?”
“Not really.”
“Neither is ghost hunting,” I admitted, taking a sip of beer. “But I feel like they’re out there waiting to be found.”
“That’s how I feel about the treasure.”
“We’re just two men, out there looking for shit we may never find.”
His amusement was small and fleeting, but it was there. He raised his glass. “To you one day meeting a ghost.”
I raised my mug and clinked it against his glass. “And to you finding gold coins or something worthy of putting in a museum.”
We both took a drink.
“I’ve found jewelry, but the modern variety. Nothing worth bragging about.”
“I’ve recorded static and random things falling off shelves.”
“Impressive.”
“Less expensive than financing unsuccessful dives.”
He smiled at that and raised his glass. “You are correct.” He tipped his head. “I can’t get over how much you look like me.”
“Yeah, we could be twins.”
He made a face. “We could be. I was adopted.”
I shook my head. “Sorry, I wasn’t. But that would have been cool.”
“Cool,” he echoed, then took another gulp of his whiskey.
Deciding to keep the conversation moving, I tossed out, “I’m allergic to silver. Gives me a rash.”
Surprise lit his eyes before they turned guarded again. “Me too.”
I checked my phone for the time. I considered ending our oh-so-stimulating conversation and going back to my room, but he hadn’t talked about reimbursing me yet, and I wasn’t tired enough to sleep. He’d probably have an issue with me walking around the resort, and even if he didn’t, I wasn’t keen to go back to the event.
“I have an idea,” I announced.
His response was a measured look.
I didn’t have anything to lose, so I said, “I say we drink every time we find something we have in common.”
“Why would we do that?”
“Because if I drink enough, I might pass out early and not care that this weekend was a total waste.” When he said nothing, I added, “And, frankly, this is boring. It’s beginning to feel like a really awkward job interview for a position I didn’t apply for.”
He didn’t say anything for long enough that I hoped he would slap down my four hundred dollars and admit that the initial curiosity he’d felt about meeting someone who looked exactly like him had been appeased.
“No one has ever called me boring.”
“Me neither.” I raised my mug and chugged some down. When he didn’t take a drink, I smirked. “But that’s because I’m not.”
He downed a healthy gulp of his whiskey. “Nor am I.”
“That’s the spirit,” I said with a laugh. Who knew, maybe a few drinks would give the guy a personality. “I love spicy food. The spicier, the better.”
“I have the same preference for cuisine.” He took another swig of his drink. I chugged the rest of my beer and waved for the bartender to bring another round.
Dylan stared down at his drink before saying, “I don’t enjoy social situations unless they’re work-related.”
I made a face. “That’s so sad that we should both drink even though we don’t have that in common.”
His brow creased.
My smile was apologetic. “Should I lie?”
“No,” he said abruptly. “I prefer the truth, even when it’s uncomfortable.”
“Me too!” I grabbed my fresh drink and chugged it down.
He watched me the way someone watches a cockroach scuttle across the bathroom floor—mild disgust, a hint of curiosity. “You should slow down.”
“You should lighten up.” I waved for the bartender to bring me another beer. “To move this along, let’s cut to the basics. I’m twenty-nine years old.”
“So am I,” he said.
I took a swig.
He drank from his glass but more slowly. “This will sound odd, but when I was a child, I used to be interviewed by a social worker regularly. It was part of the adoption agreement.”
My brain was getting fuzzy, but I rifled through my memories for something similar. “I was part of a social program as a kid. There was someone who came by and asked me questions. I think it stopped when I was eight or nine.”
“But you weren’t adopted?”
“Nope. Mom said they were collecting data for the schools.” I fought back a burp. “You’re not exactly crushing it at this game.” I couldn’t tell if that bothered him or not. “How about this one?” I snapped my fingers. “I like to wake up before everyone else because I enjoy the quiet before my day starts.”
“I do as well,” he said, and we both drank. “I hate when people put lemon in a glass of water,” he added.
“Me too.”
We took another swig.
I leaned toward him. “I don’t like anything that’s supposed to be real but is fake. Fake fruit. Animatronics. Even fake flowers. It all creeps me out.”
We both drank again.
The game went on like that for a while, each of us listing something until our drinks were empty and the bartender brought us refills. It was stupid, but it worked. By the time he asked about my weaknesses, I realized I was enjoying myself.
“Mine’s a dare,” I confessed, setting my glass down with a thud. “I can’t walk away from one. It’s a compulsion.”
He frowned. “People don’t dare me. They know better.”
“I’ll issue you a dare.” My words were beginning to slur.
“I doubt I’d accept one from you.”
“Because you’re a pussy?”
He laughed. That’s the fif—twelveteen—tenth—insult you’ve thrown my way. Why’s that funny?’
“Because you’re drunk.”
“I don’t get drunk.”
“Then you’re sober with a side of silly.”
He laughed at that. See, with enough alcohol, I knew he’d like me.
“Is this what you do in New Hampshire? Just sit around drinking with your friends?” He sounded oddly wistful.
“Sometimes. Not as much now that I’m older. Taking care of my aging parents takes up a lot of my free time.”
“Why don’t you hire someone to do that?”
I shook my head. “First,” I waved a finger at him. “I love them. Second, maybe when you give me back my four hundred dollars, I’ll put that toward pizza and have my friends hang out with them one night.”
He took out his wallet and put a thousand dollars on the table. I removed four one-hundred-dollar bills and pushed the rest back toward him.
“You can keep it all,” he said. “I’m not hurting for money.”
I shook my head. “Give the rest to the bartender. I’m good.”
He did, then sighed. “You married?”
“Nope.”
“Me neither.”
We both knocked back a swig.
I glanced at him. “You probably date a lot, you know, because you’ve got that pretty face.”
He chuckled. “You’re funny.”
“You too, even though you don’t try to be.”
We drank again.
My brain betrayed me in what should have been a lighthearted moment by bringing Lanie back into my thoughts. For a moment, I was back at our high school prom, feeling on top of the world right before everything came crashing down.
“I’ve dated a lot, met a lot of nice women,” I said, breaking the silence. “But I never wanted anything permanent with them. There’s only one woman I’ve ever missed. The one that got away. They say every man has one.”
Dylan nodded slowly, his expression uncharacteristically thoughtful. “Jennifer.”
“Lanie, for me,” I admitted. “What happened?”
“Bought a ring. Thought she was the one. We fought. She left.”
“Why?”
“She thought I’d cheated on her. I hadn’t. She didn’t believe me.” His jaw tightened, his gaze distant. “And you? What about Lanie?”
“Friend-zoned me so hard I still have whiplash,” I said, shaking my head. “She moved away after high school, and we lost touch.” There was more to it than that, but nothing I wanted to discuss drunk or sober.
“Lame,” Dylan said, his lip curling faintly.
“Really? Yours was better?” I shot back.
“I could’ve gotten Lanie out of the friend zone in one date,” Dylan said, leaning back in his chair with a smug grin.
“Please,” I retorted. “I’d have solved your Jennifer problem with one honest conversation—something I think you struggle with.”
His grin faded. “She didn’t love me. There was nothing to talk about.”
“Do you know that for sure?”
His silence stretched between us like a challenge. Eventually, he muttered, “Do you know for sure your Lanie never had feelings for you?”
I swirled my beer in my mug and stared into the foam. “No,” I admitted. “I’d ask her now, but I’m sure I don’t want to know.”
He nodded, his expression grim. “Some doors are better left closed.”
The alcohol was definitely doing the talking when I said, “Too bad we can’t pretend to be each other to find out. You could rizz up Lanie and ask her if I ever had a chance with her. I could track down your Jennifer and find out why she thought you cheated on her.”
“That would be a waste of both of our time,” he said, with a slight slur to his speech.
“It would be. They’re probably both married.”
“I’d kill you if you so much as held Jennifer’s hand.”
“And I’d punch you right in your mouth if your lips ever touched Lanie’s.”
“It’s a stupid idea.”
“Yep.”
We stared at each other for a moment before he sighed and muttered, “I do want to know why Jennifer was so damn sure I’d cheated.”
“I’d like to know if Lanie ever thinks of me,” I murmured. Yes, I’d messed up, but my life, not hers. I thought we had the kind of friendship that could weather anything. I was wrong. “It would be nice to have some answers.”
Dylan snorted. “You’re worse at letting things go than I am.”
“Too bad we can’t trade places and figure this out for each other.”
“Sure. That would work.” His voice was thick with sarcasm. “No one would ever believe you’re me.”
“Your staff sure did.”
His eyes narrowed, and he didn’t deny it because we both knew it was true. The only reason the bartender had stopped looking at us like he was seeing double was because Dylan’s security guy had gone over and said something to him.
We were as identical physically as two people could be, but could I convince anyone I was as pompous and bitter? The thought made me smile and shrug. How hard could it be?
Could this work? My inebriated self thought it could. I’d thought of little else than Lanie since being unable to attend her grandfather’s funeral.
And I snapped my fingers. “I dare you to trade places with me.”
“Dare? What? Are we in grade school again?”
I chose to ignore that. “Hear me out. I’m good at talking to people, and you seem like someone who doesn’t give a shit if a situation gets awkward.”
“I can’t tell if that last part was a compliment or an insult,” Dylan said, laughing.
“Or genius,” I countered, grinning. “You said you wanted to know why Jennifer thought you cheated, but you don’t want to ask her. So, I will.”
“And what would I do?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “Track down your ex—”
“We never dated,” I interrupted.
“Even worse. What would I do? Ask her why she hasn’t cared enough to contact you all these years?”
That did sound bad. My shoulders rounded. “I was hoping you could be a little more discreet than that, so, yeah, I guess this is a bad idea.”
We both took a long drink, and then Dylan slammed his mug down on the table. “If we do this, we tell no one.”
My head snapped up in surprise. Holy crap, were we really doing this? “No one,” I agreed.
“I’ll set you up with a driver and everything you need to pass as me.”
“You can borrow my truck,” I offered, grinning at the thought of him behind the wheel of my beat-up pickup.
He shook his head, as if trying to clear it. “This is insane.”
“Yeah, it is,” I said, chugging down another beer. “But do you know what doing this will make you?”
“What?”
“Not so fucking boring!” I burst out laughing as soon as the words left my mouth.
To my surprise, he laughed too.
We lifted our glasses and clinked them together. “To the truth, even if it’s ugly,” he said.
“To the truth,” I echoed, letting out a belch that sent me into another bout of laughter. The alcohol buzzed in my veins as I staggered back to my room.
Later, as I lay in bed watching the walls spin, I thought, Okay, so I’m not going home with any vendor contacts. But I do have a story I can’t tell my parents.
Winning.