Wearing Someone’s Coffee
WEARING SOMEONE’S COFFEE
PATRICK
Declan Connelly entered the kitchen, took one look at Patrick’s stained shirt, and poured himself a glass of water before calmly saying, “You aware you're wearing someone’s coffee?”
“Yeah,” Patrick answered, opening the fridge. “Mine.” The thought made him smile for some strange reason.
Patrick moved things around in the refrigerator, then grabbed one of the neatly labeled takeout containers from among the dozen or so on the shelves. There were perks to having a mother who was the executive chef at the Celtic Goddess.
“And you haven't changed because…”
Patrick removed the lid and popped the container into the microwave. “Because I have to change soon for my shift at the pub anyway. Why dirty another shirt if I don’t have to?”
Declan made a gruff noise of agreement in the back of his throat.
The golden rays of the late afternoon sun poured through the curtainless windows, painting the outdated kitchen in a more flattering glow than stark daylight did. Their fixer-upper needed a lot of work, but he and his cousins had made good progress in the few months they’d lived here.
When the microwave dinged, Patrick grabbed his dinner and sat down at the scarred wooden table. Like the old Victorian house itself, the table had seen better days, but it was functional and sturdy.
Garrett was working a job across town. Wade had the cemetery's south section to deal with before dark. It was just Patrick and Declan at this hour, which meant an easy, companionable quiet that neither man felt compelled to fill.
At least, not usually.
Today, Declan dropped into the chair across from him. He had the look he sometimes got—not suspicious, just attentive. Like something was different, but he hadn’t quite figured out what yet.
“Moving job go okay today?” Declan asked.
“Fine. It was a couple in their seventies relocating to be near their daughter. Light load, easy drive.” Patrick grinned between bites. “The husband offered me a twenty-dollar tip. The wife slipped me a fifty.”
Declan snorted, but women did tend to tip much better than men.
He tilted his chin toward Patrick’s chest. “Tell me more about that.”
There was a reason Patrick had approached his slightly older cousin first when he’d come up with the idea of a private investigation and security firm. Declan, a Ranger like his father, instinctively knew when someone was withholding information.
“I stopped at the café on the way back.”
“And?” Declan prompted, then waited patiently.
This was another of his more effective traits.
He wielded weighted silences as skillfully as others did humor or fear.
Patrick had known him long enough to both admire the technique and find it annoying.
Either way, his cousin made a hell of an interrogator.
“There was a woman,” Patrick said.
Declan raised an eyebrow.
“Not like that.” He stopped. Started again. “We collided. My fault, technically, but she took the blame upon herself. Very precisely, too.”
He could still smell the coffee in the fabric of his Henley though it had cooled and dried hours ago. He was also aware that he'd had ample opportunity to change and had, for reasons he hadn't examined closely, not done so. Though the laundry excuse he gave Declan was plausible.
“She was—” He searched for the right word. Interesting felt thin. Unusual felt clinical. Pretty was accurate and also somehow completely beside the point. “Different,” he finished, which wasn't right either, but was the closest he was going to get.
Declan set down his glass. “Different how?”
“Just… different.” Patrick frowned at his meal. She hadn’t smiled at him or flirted. Hadn’t even looked at him with the flare of feminine interest he was accustomed to.
Declan's expression shifted in a way that, on someone else, would have constituted a smile. “She blew you off? Didn’t succumb immediately to your charms? How refreshing.”
“I’m serious, man.”
“So, she didn’t tell you to fuck off?”
“Not exactly. She wasn't rude. She wasn't cold. She just—” He made a gesture that didn't fully communicate what he meant. “Dismissed me, I guess. Like I was no more interesting than the décor.”
She'd offered to buy him a coffee, blinked blankly at his attempt at a joke, then just turned around and thoroughly ignored him. Not hostile, just completely unaffected.
He was not a man who had to deal with unaffected often.
“Local?” Declan asked.
“I don’t think so. I didn't ask.” He hadn’t charmed a single piece of information from her, which was notable in itself. He was an expert at getting people to talk about themselves, particularly women. He’d inherited his father’s skill for making people feel interesting.
But not her. He'd been too busy not being able to read her.
“Get a name?” Declan said.
“No. She was gone before I—” Patrick stopped. Looked at his cousin. “Don't.”
“Don’t what? I haven't said anything.”
“Your face is saying plenty.”
Declan picked up his glass again and finished the water, wisely saying nothing.
Patrick changed the shirt eventually. Instead of dropping it in the hamper, he folded it and set it aside, refusing to analyze the why of it.
He came back downstairs to find Declan back at the kitchen table, scrolling through online job listings.
Since getting out of the Army, he’d put his size and military skills to use, picking up gigs as a bouncer at Angels and occasionally as a security guard for events and whatnot.
It paid the bills, but as Declan often said, was less than fulfilling.
“Any luck?” Patrick asked.
A heavy sigh. “No.”
“Security firm,” Patrick said. “We should do it.”
Declan didn't look up from his screen.
“I'm just saying.”
“You've been just saying for two months.”
“And I'll keep saying it until you admit it’s a good idea.” Patrick grabbed his keys and jacket from the hook. “There’s a need. We've got the skills. We know the area. We've got the contacts. We're just missing the infrastructure and the paperwork and—”
“The clients,” Declan finished. “As well as the equipment, the licensing, the insurance—”
“Details.”
“Significant details. Expensive ones, too.”
Patrick knew. The fact that they wanted to build the business themselves without financial help from their family made it even more challenging.
“We start small. Hell, we can work right out of the house. The library makes a great office space, and the turret room is a perfect waiting area. Think about it. Seriously.”
Declan grunted.
Which, from Declan, was practically a hooah.
The pub was half full at seven, which was typical for a weeknight in October.
The crowd consisted of mostly locals. Familiar faces sat in favorite seats, the low rumble of conversation a pleasant background hum to the flat screens playing at muted volume.
It was a nice change after the chaos of the previous homecoming weekend.
Patrick had practically grown up in this place, spending as much time here as he had in his family home, and he’d been working behind the bar from the day he’d turned eighteen.
His movements were smooth and rote. Pint glass under the tap, angle, settle, top it off.
Change back across the bar. Pick up the next one.
He talked while he worked because that was as much a part of bartending as pulling drafts, and, like his father, he was good at it.
Tonight, however, his mind was elsewhere.
“Killian’s, not Guinness,” his cousin Riley corrected when he was about to pull the wrong tap. “What’s with you tonight? You’re distracted.”
“I’m not.”
Riley narrowed her bright violet eyes, so like her mother’s. “Right. What’s her name?”
“Whose name?”
“The girl who’s got your boxers in a twist.”
He laughed. “No twisting involved. I went commando tonight.”
“Ew. TMI.” Riley scrunched up her nose, grabbed a tray, and headed toward the lounge.
Patrick pulled another pint—Killian’s, this time—and slid it down the bar, then picked up some tips and gathered empty mugs.
He looked to the lounge where Riley was handling a group of college-age kids who’d laid claim to the pool table, currently working on a best of seven series, his innate protective instincts floating close to the surface.
Not that he had to. Riley could take care of herself.
And him? He was checking the door every other minute.
He could tell himself that he wasn’t looking for the woman from the coffee shop, but he tried not to lie to himself when he could help it.
It was silly, really. There was no reason to believe she would suddenly appear, even though most out-of-towners did find their way here. Jake’s Irish Pub had a way of drawing people in.
But apparently, not her.
Chances were she’d just been passing through and was already long gone.
A subtle but surprising wave of disappointment washed over him at the thought.
Which was also ridiculous.
He didn't know her name. Didn't know what she'd been doing in Pine Ridge on a weekday afternoon, alone, walking into a café with the careful eyes of someone thoroughly reading a room.
Yeah, he’d caught that. He’d seen his dad and uncles—former Navy SEALs—do it every time they entered a room.
She’d done the same thing. He'd thought nothing of it at the time, but it was there now, living rent-free in his mind. The question was, why? Did she have training, or had something happened to make her cautious?
“Whoever the woman you’re not thinking about is,” Riley said, returning with more orders and a tray of empty mugs, “I need to meet her. You’ve been watching the door all night.”
He said nothing, just smiled and shook his head. His cousin knew him too well. Denying it would only substantiate her theory under the protest too much rule.
The door opened and his head snapped up. Two regulars entered, taking their usual stools, placing their usual orders. They started talking about the homecoming game win and the state university’s chances of getting a good bowl bid.
“Oh, yeah. I really need to meet her,” Riley tossed over her shoulder with a smirk as she walked away.
So did he.
He pulled a mug out of the dishwasher and polished it harder than necessary.