Chapter Four
What in the hell are you doing? Preston hit the light switch then hurried toward the kitchen, calling himself every kind of dumbass. He didn’t know Zeppelin. For fuck’s sake, he’d just met the guy.
On the bright side, he got to ride on the back of Zeppelin’s motorcycle. You really are a moron.
This was not how Preston pictured his first night at work. Short-circuiting in front of the gorgeous leader, having a panic attack, followed by taking a ride from a stranger, and now coffee.
Hopefully his night didn’t end with getting hacked into tiny pieces. It seemed he was never going to learn his lesson about handsome faces. Like he was doomed to be an idiot for the rest of his life.
Which would be short-lived if Antonio finally caught up to him.
After removing Zeppelin’s leather jacket, Preston nervously fumbled with the coffee filter, his hands shaking as he tried to load one into the machine. When he popped the lid on the coffee canister, the grounds scattered across the counter like tiny black ants.
“Shit,” he muttered, brushing the mess with his palm into a small pile. More grounds tumbled to the floor. Great. Another mess to clean up. His life was just an ongoing series of messes lately.
After finally getting the machine going with a wheeze and gurgle that made him wince, the comforting scent of percolating coffee filled the quiet apartment.
Preston peeked around the corner into his small living room. Zeppelin moved through the space with casual confidence, his broad shoulders making the modest apartment seem even smaller than it was.
The apartment was modest at best. A small living room connected to an even smaller kitchen, with a bedroom and bathroom down a short hallway.
The walls were painted a bland beige that had faded to something closer to dirty cream. The furniture wasn’t his—a sagging beige couch, a coffee table with water rings, and a bookshelf with three lonely paperbacks he’d picked up at a gas station.
The landlord had advertised it as “furnished,” which had been Preston’s saving grace since his bank account was on life support.
A single floor lamp cast a soft glow across the room, highlighting the water stain in one corner of the ceiling. The place smelled faintly of pine cleaner and someone else’s life.
Zeppelin looked strangely out of place against the apartment’s mediocrity, like a movie star who’d accidentally wandered onto the wrong set.
Preston’s breath caught when he noticed Zeppelin studying the only framed photo in the room, perched on the bookshelf.
The picture showed him and his mom at the lake near their old house, both of them laughing, her arm around his shoulders.
They’d spent the whole day there when he was fifteen, just the two of them.
She’d packed a ridiculous amount of food, and they’d sat on a faded blanket eating sandwiches and talking about everything and nothing.
When the conversation had turned to his sexuality, she’d simply nodded and said, “I know, honey. I’ve always known.
” Then she’d handed him another sandwich and asked if he thought Brad Pitt was overrated.
It was the first time he’d felt fully seen and completely accepted.
Zeppelin turned suddenly, catching Preston mid-stare from the doorway.
“I, uh… coffee’s almost ready,” he blurted out, heat crawling up his neck.
“It’s not fancy or anything. Just, you know, coffee.
From beans. Ground up. Which is how coffee works, obviously, so I don’t know why I’m explaining that to you.
” His hands fluttered in the air like confused birds before he shoved them into his pockets.
“Not that you need a progress report on coffee. Obviously. You can hear it. Everyone can hear it. It’s not exactly stealth coffee. ”
God, why couldn’t he just shut up?
Preston retreated to the kitchen like it was a bunker during an air raid.
Then hurried back to the living room.
“Your jacket. Sorry, I forgot I was… it’s really nice leather, by the way. Probably expensive. Not that I know leather prices. Do leather jackets have seasons? Like fashion seasons, not weather seasons, though I guess both apply and—”
He held it out like an offering, his arm rigid.
Zeppelin’s lips curved slightly, eyes warm with amusement as he watched Preston ramble, making Preston wonder if Zeppelin thought he was a complete idiot or just mostly an idiot.
The silence that followed made Preston want to crawl under the coffee table.
“You and your mom look close,” Zeppelin said finally, nodding toward the photo.
“Oh. Yeah. We are. Were. Are.” Preston winced. “She’s not dead or anything. Just in Florida. With my stepdad. Not that you asked for her whole biography.”
Maybe inviting him in had been a mistake. The apartment suddenly felt too small, the air between them charged with something Preston couldn’t name.
“I’m going coffee.” Jesus . Preston escaped back to the kitchen, leaving the jacket draped over the arm of the couch.
Footsteps followed, and suddenly Zeppelin was there, filling the small kitchen with his presence. Preston could feel the heat radiating from his body, smell the leather and night air clinging to his skin.
The draw toward him was magnetic, terrifying in its intensity as he moved past Preston, their shoulders brushing. The contact sent electricity across Preston’s skin, and he stepped back, bumping into the counter.
“Where do you keep your mugs?” Zeppelin asked, his voice low and close enough that Preston felt it as much as heard it.
“Second cabinet on the left,” he managed, opening the nearly empty refrigerator to grab a small container of cream that was dangerously close to its expiration date. He reached into the tiny basket and pulled out a handful of sugar packets he’d swiped from the coffee shop this morning.
When he turned around, Zeppelin had set two drinking vessels on the counter. A chipped mug with cartoon dogs running around the rim and a wide-mouthed Mason jar.
“I’ll take the jar,” Zeppelin said, picking it up and examining it. “I prefer drinking coffee from these.”
“Really?” Preston tilted his head. “Is that a biker thing or a Zeppelin thing?”
“Just a me thing,” he replied with a half-smile that made Preston’s heart flip.
As if on cue, Preston’s stomach growled loudly, the sound impossible to ignore in the quiet kitchen. He cringed, wrapping an arm around his middle as if that could muffle the noise.
“I haven’t eaten since breakfast,” he admitted, moving to the freezer. He pulled out a frost-covered TV dinner and held it up. “I’ve got a gourmet meatloaf entrée. Want to split it? It’s probably enough for one normal person or two really desperate ones.”
“I’m good, but thanks.” Zeppelin smiled, leaning against the counter with easy grace. “You go ahead.”
Preston shrugged and tore open the box, sliding the plastic tray into the ancient microwave. The appliance rocked precariously on the counter when he closed the door, forcing him to steady it with one hand while he punched in the time with the other.
It had clearly seen better days, possibly during the previous administration, and made an alarming grinding noise as it started.
“Should it sound like that?” Zeppelin asked.
“Probably not,” he admitted, patting the microwave like it was a loyal but elderly dog. “Previous tenant left it. I think it’s possessed, but it still works, so...”
The coffee finished brewing, and Preston filled the dog mug and Mason jar while his dinner rotated inside the temperamental microwave. He handed Zeppelin the jar, their fingers brushing in the exchange. Preston quickly pulled his hand away, focusing intently on stirring cream into his own coffee.
Three minutes later, with steaming coffee and a questionable-looking meatloaf, they migrated to the living room, settling on opposite ends of the couch. Preston balanced his plate on his knee, suddenly aware of how quiet the room was without a TV to provide background noise.
“So,” Preston began, blowing across the surface of his coffee, “what brought you to Crimson Hollow?” Great. Now Preston sounded like he was conducting an interview.
“A long while,” Zeppelin answered, taking a sip from his jar. How did he make drinking from the damn jar look so sexy?
“Most people don’t land here by accident.” Zeppelin studied him.
“I like mountains,” Preston offered weakly, cutting into the rubbery meatloaf that smelled vaguely of cardboard. “Just needed a change of scenery. And small towns. Everyone’s so... friendly.”
“Mmm,” Zeppelin hummed, clearly not buying it but not pushing either. “The Frothy Pine treating you okay? Ash can be a bear at times, but he’s fair.”
Preston relaxed slightly at the change in subject. “Yeah, he seems decent. Though, after tonight, he might be rethinking his hiring decision.”
“You did fine,” Zeppelin said, his knee brushing against Preston’s as he shifted.
The contact sent a jolt through Preston’s leg that traveled upward.
“If by ‘fine’ you mean ‘broke half the glassware and nearly set a customer on fire with flaming shots,’ then sure.”
Zeppelin laughed, a rich sound that filled the small room. “Everyone has a rough first night. You’ll get the hang of it.”
“Must be nice,” Preston said, trying not to think about how many times he’d had to uproot his life in the past few months. “Having roots somewhere.”
Zeppelin nodded, his eyes moving around the apartment again. “What brought you to town?”
Preston swallowed a bite that tasted like salt and disappointment. “Change of scenery,” he said, the half-truth sitting uncomfortably on his tongue. “Needed a fresh start.”
“From what?”
The question hung in the air, deceptively simple. Preston focused on his food, pushing gritty mashed potatoes around his plate. “Just life, you know? Sometimes you gotta hit reset.”
Zeppelin didn’t push, just nodded like he understood completely. “This town’s good for that. People here tend to mind their own business.”
“That’s the dream,” Preston said with a small laugh. “To be left alone.”
“Is it?” Zeppelin’s gaze was too intense, too knowing.
Preston dropped his eyes to his plate. “Sometimes,” he admitted. “Not always.”
They fell into conversation about the town, like the best place to get breakfast, the bakery with cinnamon rolls the size of dinner plates, the annual festival in the fall when the leaves changed.
Preston found himself relaxing despite his wariness, drawn in by Zeppelin’s easy confidence and the way he listened, really listened, when Preston spoke.
As they talked, the space between them on the couch gradually decreased until their knees were touching, neither acknowledging it but neither moving away. The contact felt both dangerous and inevitable, like standing at the edge of a cliff and feeling the urge to jump.
As much as he didn’t want this night to end, when Preston yawned for the third time in as many minutes, Zeppelin set his empty jar on the coffee table.
“I should let you get some sleep,” he said, standing up. “You’ve had a long night.”
Preston nodded, relief and disappointment mingling in his chest as he walked Zeppelin to the door. “Thanks for the ride home.”
Zeppelin paused at the threshold, looking down at Preston with an unreadable expression. “Lock up behind me,” he said finally. “And, Preston?”
“Yeah?”
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
It wasn’t a question, and Preston didn’t offer an answer. He simply nodded and watched as Zeppelin headed down the hallway, his broad shoulders disappearing around the corner.
Only after the sound of his motorcycle faded into the distance did Preston close the door, slide the deadbolt into place, and lean his forehead against the cool wood.
What the hell was he doing? Getting involved with anyone, especially someone as intense as Zeppelin, was the last thing he needed right now. He had enough complications in his life without adding another one.
Yet as he moved through his nightly routine, washing his face and brushing his teeth in the cramped bathroom, he couldn’t stop replaying moments from the evening.
The solid warmth of Zeppelin’s back against his chest during the motorcycle ride, the way his eyes had lingered on Preston’s photo, how he’d seemed to fill every space he occupied.
Preston collapsed onto his bed, staring up at the ceiling. Tomorrow, he promised himself he would establish some boundaries. Keep things professional. Not get swept up in whatever this was.
But as sleep pulled him under, his last thought was of honey-brown eyes and the strange, inexplicable feeling that he’d found something he didn’t even know he was looking for.