Chapter 2 #2
I should have guessed he’s a local. He certainly wears the uniform, a soft charcoal flannel open over a navy thermal.
But these days, even city boys wear hiking attire to stare at a screen all day.
Jeff’s favorite brand was Patagonia, even though the outdoorsiest thing he ever did was drag the trash to the curb.
This guy wears it like it’s meant to, filling out the chest and shoulders like he chops wood, shovels snow, and volunteers as a firefighter to carry people from burning buildings.
The crew neck of his thermal grazes a tree branch of a clavicle that’s putting in some work to support those sizable deltoids.
Even his hands are brawny, and his forearms flex below his rolled cuffs as he spins his beer on the tabletop.
You don’t see guys like him in my world, working from home as a nonprofit fundraiser while mourning my failed marriage. To be honest, I don’t see many guys at all in my world.
I gesture toward his beer, dragging my gaze away from the distraction of his physical form. “What’s the secret to ordering something around here? I’ve been trying to get the bartender’s attention for ten minutes.”
“I’ll get you a drink.” He watches me over the rim of his mug as he takes another sip. His eyes reveal nothing but seem to drink me in.
“No, no. I didn’t mean to imply—”
“Don’t worry about it. I’m not trying to pick you up.” He offers a tease of a smile, hinting at the transformation his face might make if he unleashed a full grin. “I saw that idiot strike out. I don’t like my odds.”
“Oh . . . uh,” I stammer, and he chuckles, seemingly enjoying my awkwardness. He spins a large menu on the table so it’s facing me.
“I’m just waiting for a to-go order, and then you’ll have this booth to yourself. Let me know what you want. I know the secret to getting the bartender’s attention.”
I bet he does. My gaze trails to his calloused fingertips, his forearms, his shoulders.
“Does it require having a beard and biceps?” I ask before ducking my head to scan the menu.
Am I flirting? I don’t flirt. Well, I haven’t in fifteen years, at least. His silence on the opposite end of the table is telling.
He just said he wasn’t interested. And I’m not interested in men on principle. My face heats in embarrassment.
“Well, that,” he rasps, “and her cell.” His thumbs hover over his phone. “What are you having?”
I feel the pressure to choose quickly. Comfort food seems like a solid choice before heading into an uncomfortable confrontation with Mom. “The grilled cheese and tomato soup combo. And sparkling water.”
He fires off the text and settles back in the booth, taking a long sip of his ale.
He studies me for a moment, removing his beanie and rubbing a hand through his hair until it’s a tousled mess.
If I had to guess, I’d say he hasn’t had a haircut in months.
Probably hasn’t trimmed that beard either.
He’s a far cry from the guys back home with their beard wax, expensive trimmers, and impeccable grooming.
They can’t compete with those amber eyes of his, though, which seem to be stripping me as I inspect him.
He’s not wearing a ring. If he works with his hands, as I suspect, he likely wouldn’t wear one anyway, so he could be married. But I would bet my house that he doesn’t have a girlfriend. Girlfriends inspire boyfriends to groom themselves, even if they give up once married.
“Where do I know you from?” he asks abruptly.
The question catches me off guard, and it must be a line because we have not met. I would remember him.
“I thought you weren’t trying to pick me up.”
He shakes his head. “Seriously. I know you from somewhere. Are you a seasonal?”
“A what?”
He leans onto the table, hands clasped and forearm muscles engaged, as his gaze picks me apart. “Do you come on summers and holidays?”
Not since I was a teenager, and that was too long ago for either of us to remember.
“Nope, and I don’t think we’ve met.” But he’s so certain.
I strip away the years on his face to find the younger version of him without the fine lines around his eyes and the overgrown beard.
I’m drawing a blank. It’s hard to picture the boy underneath all that scruff.
We’re probably about the same age, give or take a few years.
Was he one of the few locals who attended summer camp?
Mostly, I got to know a rotating group of kids who, like me, came from out of town. Maybe he was a counselor one summer?
“What’s your name?” He drags his gaze across my face, and I stammer before a paper bag lands on the table between us.
“All right, Sunshine. Two burgers, fries, and one potpie. You taking the potpie to Nicki?” I glance up at the bartender. She has two full sleeves of ink. She’s wearing a white crop top, high-rise Levi’s, and a small black apron tied around her tiny waist.
“Yeah.” That rasp returns to his voice before he clears it. “Thanks.”
Nicki? Hmm . . . Maybe there is a woman in his life. Which is fine, considering he was clear about not being interested before trying to convince me we knew each other way back when.
“You’re good to her. Give her my love, okay?”
“Yeah. Will do.”
She turns to me. “And you ordered the grilled cheese, right? It’ll be out in a few.”
She has the bone structure for beauty risks, like those tattoos she might someday regret and the close-cropped purple hair that would make me look like a Teletubby. “Yeah. Thanks. And separate checks, please.”
She offers a perfunctory smile and strides away.
The man saws at his bottom lip as he grabs the bag off the table. “All right,” he says, still studying me. “Enjoy your trip.” He slides out of the booth, and I hurry to offer another thank-you as he slips through the crowd. The hand he holds up is the only proof that he hears me.
When the meal comes, I eat quickly so Darren won’t notice I’ve been left alone.
The cheddar and mozzarella are melted to perfection between golden sourdough bread, and the tomato soup is just the right balance of tangy and sweet.
It’s the comfort food I need to fortify me for the confrontation to come.
When I ask for the check, the pretty bartender waves me away.
“Already taken care of. He said to tell you it’s your official Grand Trees welcome.”