Chapter Four #2
His expression darkens suddenly. “That’s classified information, I’m afraid,” he states, his voice low. “I’d tell you, but then I’d have to kill you. I’m a stock market broker by day, and a trained assassin in my spare time. ‘A particular set of skills’ and all that.”
My brows zip to my hairline. Fuck, I knew there was something shady about this guy. It’s allllways the ones you don’t expect. Never trust a man who thinks argyle sweater vests are a fashion statement.
Sarah giggles, leaning into him and pressing a hand to his chest. “Oh gosh, Steve. Always such a goof.”
I frown. She used to love when I was a goof. That is, until she didn’t. Then, she just called me dumb, immature, and—fuck. I will not cry. I am a grown man. I can do this. Buck up.
His stern facade cracks, and he chuckles with her. “I am just yanking your chain, Gannett. I met Sarah at the office. I’m a real estate agent as well. The only particular set of skills I possess are staging skills. As for my middle name? It’s Leopold.”
That is, I’ll admit, kind of funny. It coaxes a laugh out of me, despite my trying to hold it back for the sake of trying to appear cold.
Maybe, if the situation were different and he wasn’t screwing my ex-wife, I’d even find this jokester a kindred spirit.
Likeable, even. “Leopold? Out of all the classically nerdy sounding fake middle names to go with, you chose Leopold?”
Suddenly, I realize neither he nor Sarah are laughing with me. They’re blinking at me like I’m an asshole, actually.
“I didn’t make it up. That’s my real middle name. It’s been in my family for generations,” Steve explains while Sarah’s expression morphs into her trademark scowl. “Truthfully, I’m a little offended you seem to think it’s nerdy. I happen to believe it’s dignified.”
Well, okay then. Not sure if my mouth is wide enough to accommodate my size ten-and-a-half foot, but it sure does appear I’m going to make a valiant attempt at inserting it there anyway.
I clear my throat. “Right, well… Let’s go find some seats, then, shall we?”
Looks like I’ll be spending an exquisite evening learning how to coexist with Steven Leopold Stephens—my replacement. Maturely, of course.
“He puts actual pennies in his loafers.”
“Ah, yes. A true ruffian indeed. Sounds exactly like someone I wouldn’t want anywhere near my kids either,” Gordy says, sliding me my dark brown beverage of choice tonight. From his flat affect, I can’t tell if he’s actually in agreement with me, or if he’s being sarcastic.
“I just—ugh—I can’t believe Sarah’s moving on…”
“What’s the unbelievable part? The fact that she—a stunning, mature woman—would eventually try dating again, years after your divorce?
Or the fact that she left a ruggedly handsome man such as yourself to chase after who you’ve just described as a limp noodle—and whose first and last name are one in the same? ”
I sip my Moxie, narrowing my eyes at Gordy over the rim of my pint glass. “First of all, I can’t tell if that was a serious question. Secondly, if it was, I need you to know that what I took from that was that you think I’m ruggedly handsome.”
Gordy rolls his eyes. “Of course you would. You’re an idiot.”
I nod. “Fair point.”
“You know, if I didn’t know any better,” Gordy hums, pointedly glancing at my glass. “I’d say you were trying to give up drinking. You haven’t touched anything harder than that nasty-ass excuse of a soft drink all night. Add to that, you didn’t come by for over two weeks.”
I cock an eyebrow up at him with a snort. “Miss me, did you?”
“Your stool started complaining about how cold it was in here, without your ass on it. I almost splurged on missing person posters.” He dons one of his shit-eating grins, and I don’t know if it’s just because of what Marcus and Caleb have put in my head or what, but I find myself—I don’t know—noticing it, I guess?
I mean, Gordy’s about as stone-faced as they come ninety-nine percent of the time.
I’m not sure if I’m just taken aback right now because I’ve just realized I’m one of the few he does smirk around…
or if it’s just genuinely a nice looking smirk.
He does have nice lips, I guess. For a dude. Fuck, that’s weird, isn’t it? Admiring a mouth like his, I mean. It’s just a mouth. We all have a mouth, I know, but why does his look fucking kissable underneath all the dark scruff? And, furthermore, why am I envisioning it?
It’s only now, when my brain isn’t in a post-drunken haze, that I register other times I’ve envisioned those lips on another part of me.
Times when I’d wake up wondering why my sheets were stained with my orgasm, just like they’d used to after I’d pounded a pillow thinking about all those David Beckham GQ covers.
Because, if I’m being honest, the man standing in front of me right now does bear a striking resemblance to the Beckster…
Trying to snap out of my thoughts, my eyes lift from his mouth and find him studying me back, brows pinched. “Something in my teeth?” he asks me.
“Do you use lip balm?” I deflect quickly, trying like hell to ignore the way my dick is stirring in my jeans.
“What?”
“Your lips. They look, uh, soft. Do you use lip balm?”
Shaking his head, he starts making his way down the bartop with a cleaning rag.
“I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with you, Wee-Waters, but I’m starting to think perhaps you were dropped on your head one too many times as a child.
You probably shouldn’t just blurt that shit out.
It’s giving ‘you sure do have a purdy mouth’ vibes. ”
I scoff. “Why you always gotta be such an asshole? What did I ever do to you?”
He shrugs. “I’m a dick to everyone. Don’t think you’re anything special.”
I roll my eyes. “Trust me, I don’t.” That much is true. Hard not to think that way when that’s all you’ve ever been made to feel.
Seeing that the few other patrons in here tonight are all taken care of, Gordy tosses his towel over his shoulder and leans back, propping his ass on the counter behind him.
He crosses his ankles, settling in with his black-and-gray tatted, sinewy arms folded over his broad chest. Fuck, and here I am noting how goddamn good his arms look in those rolled up cuffs of his button-down flannel, now? Who the hell even am I?!
“How’d the twin terrors do tonight?” he asks, startling me from my visual appraisal of him.
“I’m sorry—what?” I blink back my shock. He asked about my girls? The ones who he’s only met less than a handful of times?
“Your daughters had a play tonight, did they not? I asked how they did…”
“So good,” I tell him proudly, because, believe it or not, I did actually watch the show instead of stewing in my jealousy all night.
“Tati was the most adorable little snow angel up there, and Terra—well, she forgot her reindeer lines once, but she ad-libbed and the audience loved it. Fuck man, of all the ways Sarah and I went wrong, at least we can’t add ‘making cute kids’ on that list.”
He nods. “Can’t argue with that. They are adorable. Sarah getting them for Christmas this year?”
“Yeap,” I drawl, popping the p. “She and Steven Stephens are going down to Mass so he can meet her parents, I guess.” I snort. “They’re just going to love his pedigree. I was never good enough in their eyes. I swear, it’s like some people only see you in dollar signs.”
“Yeah,” he sighs, “I hear that.”
I tilt my head. “Trista-Lynn’s parents?”
He shakes his head. “No. Oddly enough, they’re decent people.
Which makes zero sense, given how she turned out the way she did.
It’s her that’s the problem, she got too used to their money, I guess.
That’s all she expected out of life with me.
As soon as she saw that I was stickin’ around here to run Portside and not going into the MLB, she decided to cut me loose.
” His roughly stubbled jaw flexes, and he spins to start hanging the clean mugs back up—effectively putting an end to our little chat.
I’m shocked as hell he even gave me that little detail, not gonna lie.
Why did he decide not to continue with his baseball career anyway?
The rumor around town was that it was from an injury.
But hell, even now—eyeballing the way he generously fills out every inch of his clothing—he looks fit as a fiddle.
If fiddles looked like they were cut from stone, that is.
It’s clear to see he still works out, since working at the bar isn’t a physically intense job. Not like with mine on the boat, anyway.
What made him decide to stick around to take over Marlin’s bar after he died?
He certainly doesn’t seem passionate about the job.
Most barkeeps at least have a knack for engaging with their customers, but Gordy hasn’t ever been like that.
He’s a stone wall. Well, one who is tatted from his neck clear down to his knuckles, and who can also expertly pour a mean drink.
But it’s obvious I shouldn’t keep prodding for details.
Just when I’m about to change up the subject, since it was clear he doesn’t want to bring up the past, my phone vibrates in my pocket.
Glancing at the caller ID, I see it’s my landlord.
Odd. I’m all paid up, and it’s after normal business hours on a weekend…
“What’s up?” I answer the call.
“There was a small fire in the store earlier,” he tells me. “It’s all out now, and it’s mostly just smoke damage, but—I’m sorry, Gannett. The sprinkler system to the whole building went off, and there’s been some water damage too.”
“Fuck,” I huff out, scrubbing my palm down my face.
You alright? Gordy mouths to me. I nod, holding up a finger.
“Is there anything I can do?” I ask.
“You might want to come home and sort through what’s salvageable, though I’m not sure how much there will be.
The sprinkler system we use has a chemical fire retardant in it, which is why I get so flustered about it going off,” he hums. “You’re also going to need to find a place to set yourself up while we get this mess taken care of.
I can get you some cash tonight if you need a hotel until the insurance picks this up. ”
“Oh, no way, man,” I tell him. “I imagine the set back will hurt enough. I’m not taking your money. I’ll figure something out. Be there in a few, I’m at Portside.”
“I’m so sorry,” he apologizes again. “The fire marshal says, at first glance, it looks electrical.”
“No worries. Shit happens, right?” I say calmly. Truthfully, I’m not materialistic, so my possessions are the least of my worries. I’m just glad my girls weren’t there when it happened. Their safety means more to me than anything money can buy.
“What’s going on?” Gordy asks, genuine concern etched into his expression.
“Oh, fire at the store I guess. Just my luck, right? I gotta go home and grab what I can. Looks like I’ll be living out of the houseboat for a bit,” I sigh. “That’ll be fun. Heater’s been busted in that thing for a while now.”
Without missing a beat, Gordy stuns me for a second time tonight by asking, “I’ve got a spare bedroom. Why don’t you just stay at my place?”