Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Archer poked around Noah and Ezra’s kitchen, hunting for leftovers while hiding from the party outside. Pickings were slim in the happy couple’s fridge, Noah having catered this year’s crush party from the restaurant kitchen.
And maybe also from the food truck—Meat an amateur distiller, if he had to guess.
Archer loosened his grip on the bottle and reached for the light switch, flipping on the overheads. “This area is off-limits.”
The man turned, and Archer’s world stopped.
Halted on its axis by a pair of dark eyes he hadn’t seen in fifteen years. Those eyes. The man they belonged to was here. Had stepped right out of Archer’s fantasies and into his distillery.
A singular moment from his past, here in the present.
His heart pounded, blood whooshed in his ears, and the beer bottle slipped from his fingers, shattering on the cement floor.
“Shit,” Archer cursed, the world suddenly spinning again, wobbling a little.
“I’m sorry,” the stranger said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“You’re not supposed to be here.”
In every sense of the words.
“Investigator,” the man said. “Occupational hazard.” He smiled, wide and easy, charm oozing from every pore, looking even better than he had a decade and a half ago.
He’d filled out impossibly more, his hair was gone now instead of merely shaved, and the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and mouth and across his forehead balanced out the hard line of his jaw.
Which was moving as he continued to speak.
“And don’t tell the one wearing the BoSox tee that you dropped that.
” He nodded at the broken glass. “Won’t end well. ”
Glass.
Debris.
Trash.
Fuck.
Archer mentally coached his motor functions to work again. He fetched a nearby dustpan and broom, swept up the debris, and pitched it in the corner trashcan. “If he finds out, I’ll blame you.”
“Fair enough.” When Archer turned back around, the man had moved closer, and fuck if he didn’t tower over Archer, in stature and presence, same as he had in Archer’s dreams. “Elton Moore,” he said, hand outstretched.
Archer slid his hand into Elton’s. His grip was firm, his skin smooth, the touch warm and electric, and Archer had to fight back a tremor at his fantasy come to life. He lifted his chin, meeting Elton’s gaze once more. Not a hint of recognition in those dark eyes.
He tried not to sound disappointed as he introduced himself. “Archer Scott.”
“You work here?”
“Winemaker, vineyard manager, and as of last year”—he gestured at the equipment—“distiller.”
“Maybe also don’t tell my lot that or you’ll never get rid of them.”
Archer chuckled. “We’re keeping it under wraps until the first batch is ready.” And until they finished the separate tasting room required by the county.
Elton mimed sealing his lips and throwing away the key, the gesture sexier than it had any right to be.
Or maybe it was just the attention the gesture drew to Elton’s full lips.
Archer had been so captivated by those eyes last time that Elton’s lips hadn’t starred in his dreams as frequently.
But looking at them now, he couldn’t help wondering how they’d feel wra—
Archer jerked his gaze up and his mind out of the gutter. “How did your lot all wind up here?”
“You know Under the Table in the city?”
“Of course.” The gastropub was another of Rosin Hospitality’s West Coast ventures.
“It’s become our remote office, so to speak.”
“Where’s your real office?”
“Federal Building.” He reached into his back pocket and withdrew a leather wallet, flipping it open to a shiny badge on one side, FBI credentials on the other.
Archer stiffened and stepped back. Fantasy was one thing, the law another. “We have permits for everything.”
Elton laughed, his warm, throaty rumble filling the cavernous space. “Wrong agency,” he said. “That’s the ATF, though one of the guys up there at the party used to work for them.”
“Who’s he work for now?”
Elton’s smile tipped into a smirk. “All the blond assassins up there too.”
“With your colleagues, the FBI agents?” Archer said, struggling to put the impossible together.
“Who would murder me if I interfered with the production of spirits. I mean, one of them is nicknamed Whiskey, and he’s married to an Irishman.”
Whiskey.
The hottie giant. Jameson “Whiskey” Walker. Former baller turned FBI agent turned basketball coach.
Hours spent babysitting fermentation tanks translated to hours spent watching late-night sports television, and Archer recalled the special about Whiskey Walker—and the man who used to be his work partner. “He’s married to the posh redhead?”
Elton nodded. “Aidan Talley, said Irishman.”
“And you’re all based in SF?”
“Them, yes. Me . . .” His features pinched, but only for a blink-and-miss-it second. “I’m in DC more than I like these days.”
“But San Francisco’s home?”
“Bay Area born and bred. You?”
“LA born and bred.” Elton wrinkled his nose, and Archer couldn’t catch the needling that fell from his lips. “Go Dodgers.”
“Oh, fuck you,” Elton said with a dramatic roll of his eyes that made Archer laugh. “Definitely don’t say that to any of my lot.”
“You all seem tight.”
“Could say the same about you RH folks.”
“Family,” Archer said, smiling fondly.
Elton returned the same. “Family.”
As if on cue, a brogue-laced “Hey, El!” boomed down the hallway. “You in there?”
“Coming, Talley,” he called back before offering his hand to Archer once more. “It was nice to meet you, Archer Scott, even if you are a Dodgers fan.”
His parting wink knocked Archer’s world off its axis again. Freezing him in place and stopping him from following his fantasy out the door. But it didn’t stop Archer from noticing what was missing when Elton pushed the door open with his left hand.
There was no longer a ring on his fantasy man’s finger.