Trust with a Chaser (Rainbow Cove Book 1) Page 6

  “It’s Sheriff Sexy.” Adam was supposed to be peeling potatoes, but judging by the band-aids on his knuckles, this wasn’t a task that Patsy had made him do often. “Come on, admit it. Flint made the barest mention of stew, and now you’ve got us browning meat and boiling potatoes.”

  “It’s not like that.” I slapped the rye dough I was kneading harder. Little rye rolls shaped like knots would be perfect with the stew. “We just haven’t done a soup as the special yet.”

  “Uh-huh.” Adam didn’t even pretend to believe me. Life-long best friend and he couldn’t give me the dignity of pretending I wasn’t out to impress Flint. Luckily, Adam didn’t have access to my phone—where I’d stored a good two dozen strawberry-rhubarb recipes for consideration—or I’d never hear the end of it.

  “And you’re sure I can’t play with the seasonings? Chipotle and cheddar? Or maybe cranberry and beer?” Logan had moved on to celery, lightning-fast flashes of knife work.

  “Beer is cool.” I had to give Logan something to work with. “But just keep it classic. You can do a twist on the sandwich for the other side of the specials board.”

  “If you’ll have extra rye, I’m thinking an updated Reuben with roasted beets.”

  “You’ve been awfully into vegetarian options lately,” Adam observed.

  Logan shrugged. “The vegan woodcarver guy is just as bad as Flint—always the exact same order. Maybe I want more choices for the vegetarian crowd—”

  “Or maybe you’ve suddenly developed a taste for eccentric?” Adam shook his head. “Trust Mason and me here—Curtis Hunt is nuts. Like carves-outside-shirtless-in-January nuts.”

  “There’s a rumor he recycles his piss to water his plants,” I shared because I was totally on board with anything that distracted from Flint and my motives for making stew.

  “He once hacked up this big eagle he carved because one feather was off.” And with that, Adam was off to the races with Curtis stories to try to shock Logan, who’d never known that chainsaw carving was a thing until he came here.

  By lunchtime, I was confident that they’d forgotten about Flint, even if I hadn’t and kept stealing glances at the front door. But the lunch rush came and went, and no Flint. I was feeling ridiculous about the whole stew thing when the door chimed at almost three and in walked Flint, heading right to his usual table.

  His broad shoulders slumped as he sat, and he rubbed at his temples once he removed his sunglasses. I could practically feel the weariness rolling off him, so I grabbed an iced tea on my way to his table. Our conversation yesterday had changed how I saw him—made him more human, more of a man and less of an authority figure who quite frankly had scared me more than a little for years. I’d never thought of the burdens he must carry, but the anguish in his voice had been unmistakable. Nash Flint needed a friend in the worst way. I was probably the least suitable person in the world for the role, but I couldn’t deny how much he’d been on my mind. I wanted to see more of the human, humble Flint I’d glimpsed yesterday.

  “Long morning?” I set the tea in front of him.

  “You could say that.” Flint took a long swig of his tea. “Saw your specials board on my way in. It’s June.”

  “The stew sold surprisingly well with the lunch crowd.” My voice was just a tad more defensive than it needed to be.

  “I guess I better see for myself.” He gave me a tired smile that made my stomach do a weird little wobble. “Extra bread, if you’ve got it. And I’ll skip the salad today.”

  “I’m on it.”

  “And Mason…” He rubbed his face again. “Thanks.”

  That thank you warmed me as thoroughly as a bowl of Logan’s stew, and I took more care than I needed to dishing up Flint’s lunch, giving him two rolls, plenty of butter, and a nice garnish on the stew.

  “You’ve got it bad.” Logan heckled me from across the kitchen where he was cleaning the grill.

  “Shut up.” Laughing, I shook my fist at him before taking the tray out to Flint.

  “Here you go.” Wanting to see his reaction to the bread and stew, I hung back after sliding the plate and bowl in front of him.

  “You going to hover like that, you might as well take a seat.” Flint gestured at the empty chair in front of him. “You eat yet yourself?”

  “You implying I’m too skinny?” I had to work hard to keep the muscle on, but I was a far cry from the scrawny kid I used to be. After some dithering, I went ahead and slid into the chair. Flint was the only customer in the joint, and Adam was back having his food in the kitchen, so it wasn’t like he could tease me.

  “Didn’t say that.” Heat flared in the appraising look Flint gave me. He might not have admitted it in so many words, but Nash Flint was not straight. And I could tell myself all week that I didn’t care one way or another, but I couldn’t stop the little thrill at his purposeful glance.

  “Just…” He sighed, and it hit me how often Flint must eat alone—he lived alone in that big house, ate alone here, and I couldn’t see him socializing much over meals with his junior officers and employees.

  “I’m going to grab a soda.” I rushed to the bar, made myself the fastest root beer ever, and was back in the chair before Flint could change his mind about inviting me to sit. “So…your morning?”

  “Tell me what’s in the bread. It’s not white flour, is it?” Flint asked like he really wanted to know, not simply like he was dodging my question. So I told him all about my sourdough starter and the rye flour I sourced from a northwest mill. He asked good follow-up questions, and some of the tension in his shoulders and neck seemed to bleed away.

  “Soup’s good. Your guy’s got a good eye for seasoning, I’ll give him that.”

  “He’s not my guy.” I laughed, but I wasn’t sure how much more obvious I could get—I’d been pretty shameless in telling him that Brock had slept on the couch. I was not supposed to care so much that Flint knew I was single. “Logan’s a great chef. I’ve known him since culinary school.”

  “Why’d you end up in culinary school, anyway?” Having demolished one roll, Flint started in on the second.

  “Because of my asthma, I couldn’t go for sports like my brothers, and I was limited in how much I could go running after them on our property. So I spent a lot of time with my mom in the kitchen.”

  “My father never would have stood for that.” Flint shook his head. “Probably why I can barely boil water now.”

  “My mom always said hungry people have to eat, and if you don’t cook, you have to help clean. I’d much rather cook than clean. I left dish duty to the others.” Not that Freddy and Jimmy had done a ton of dishes, but Mom had tried to instill some basic self-sufficiency in all of us. It was sad that Flint’s dad hadn’t seen a need for that.

  “Smart woman.” Flint took a big bite of stew. “And a damn fine waitress, too—food in the old tavern wasn’t anything like this, but the service was always top notch.”

  “Thanks,” I said, both to the compliment on our food and the nice memory of Mom. She had worked hard for the old owners when she wasn’t working equally hard at home. “And after school, I’d hang out here when she had a shift and no one to babysit me. The old cook used to let me come watch some.”

  “I remember Clinker MacMahon well. He was a character.” Flint laughed. Man, I liked hearing him laugh, seeing him unwind even a small amount.

  “But really, I owe a lot to Mrs. Mueller at the high school—shop class was full my junior year, and they stuck me in home ec. She talked me into taking my love of food and trying for a scholarship. Way out of this town.” I remembered who I was talking to and added, “No offense. Obviously I love it here. But when you’re eighteen, you just want…something different, you know? Didn’t you ever want to explore?”

  Flint shrugged. “Not sure. Dad always painted the future as either the military or law enforcement. Easton picked the marines. He always was gung-ho on getting to see the world. Me, I was happy to do my four years in Eugene, get
my degree in criminal justice, and come on back home.”

  Flint’s older brother who’d died in Iraq was a hazy memory in my childhood. He’d gotten some big medal, and his funeral had been a huge deal in town. “My mom cried when your brother died,” I offered. There might be no love lost between my family and the Flints, but from all accounts, Easton had been a stand-up man.

  “Me too.” Flint’s gaze got far away and his mouth narrowed. Damn. I hadn’t meant to wander into unhappy territory.

  I toyed with the table-top flyer for Pride Night that I’d put by the condiments on each table. “They say you only live once…”

  “Mason.” Flint shook his head at me, but he smiled, which was exactly what I’d been after. “Quit trying to drum up business for your deal. And just so you know, I texted Curtis. Told him he should come out. Socialize.”

  “Come with him,” I urged.

  The door jangled before Flint could reply, and I hopped up to greet the trio of customers who came in. “I’ll be back,” I said to Flint.

  “See to your business.” He waved me away. “And thanks for the company.”

  His words pleased me, far more than they should have. It made my shoulders lift to know I’d been a good distraction for whatever bad morning Flint had had, even temporarily. I liked being a refuge of sorts for such a stoic man, but pride was a dangerous, dangerous emotion, every bit as stupid as the notion that Flint needed a friend. Even so, I couldn’t stop myself from hoping he’d be back for more.

  Nash

  I didn’t tell Mason, but I had Saturday night off—Candace Holmes had the shift with Locklear backing her up if need be. I went home when Holmes came on duty and showered like I always did after a long shift, then I went to stand in front of my closet.

  Like an idiot.

  Say I did want to go to this…thing of Mason’s? What the hell would I wear? On my disastrous last trip to Portland, I’d worn my usual off-duty wardrobe of a polo and Wranglers. The first guy I’d worked up the nerve enough to approach had called me grandpa and laughed. Apparently, I was officially near death by gay standards and no longer prime hookup material.

  I’d lied, of course, when I told Mason that I didn’t hook up. Over the years, I had very sporadically. Here and there, always away from Rainbow Cove. Even Coos Bay was a bit too close to home. Eugene was bigger, farther away, and the college town had a surprising quantity of guys okay with discreet encounters. But I hadn’t been lying about being too old for all that now.

  Mason had sat with me again yesterday when I’d had a late lunch, bringing out his own sandwich, and seemed happy enough to tell me about his cheesecake recipe and share stories of him and his chef at culinary school. But that friendliness didn’t mean he wanted to knock boots with me.

  Not that I wanted to knock anything with him, either.

  Mason was still trouble. But that didn’t explain why I was standing with my closet door cracked, wondering about buttons versus a pullover.

  My phone rang. I grabbed it off the bed, not sure whether I wanted it to be the station needing me or not. It was my mother, who lived up in Portland with my sister. In my dithering about whether to go to the tavern, I’d forgotten our weekly call.

  “Hey, Mom.” I tugged my towel tighter around my waist.

  “Sweetheart, I’m so glad I caught you.” She’d never have gotten away with the pet name when Dad had been alive—he’d always been quick to criticize her for making us soft. But Portland living agreed with her, had buffed off some of the hard edges created by years of living with Dad. “Off-duty tonight?”

  “Yup.”

  “You eating? I worry about you. Heard the Dairy Queen went out of business again.”

  I hadn’t frequented that place since my early twenties, but I made a sympathetic noise. “Yeah, sad to see another business close. I eat. Been going to the new tavern—they reopened under new management.”

  “I heard.”

  I sighed. “You’ve been talking to Marta.”

  “I have. Someone had to tell me Vera Matthews was in the hospital.”

  Oops. I’d been so busy that I’d neglected to make that call. Or maybe I’d known we might end up on this topic, and I’d delayed it, which wasn’t like me. Then again, I was acting in all sorts of out-of-character ways lately. “I’m sorry. I should have called. She’s due back home any day now.”

  “And Marta had to be the one to tell me about the tavern. That’s why I asked about you eating. You can’t be getting good food there.”

  “Actually, it’s decent stuff. Nice portion sizes, tasty flavors. Bit pricier than Rowdy’s, but nothing like what you pay in Portland.”

  “Oh, do not get me started on prices around here.” She made a clucking noise. “Or portions. I’ll never get paying for a ‘taste.’ Ridiculous. I’ll send you some vouchers for the sub place on 101. At least they’re healthy—”

  “Mom. I make decent money. I don’t need vouchers.”

  “Well, I don’t like you eating at that place. What would your father say?”

  Wasn’t that the ten million dollar question? I was almost forty, had been on my own in this house for years now, and still his ghost dogged me everywhere I went. Even knowing how silly it was to care, I couldn’t shake the image of his disapproving face. “He might be happy about increased business for the area. Times have been tough, tougher even than when he was around. Something’s got to change—”

  “But not our core values.” My mother was a good woman, always quick with a casserole or a kind word for ailing neighbors and a loving mother who had comfort to spare, but my father’s hard-line traditionalism had rubbed off on her in ways that made me grab the back of my neck and suppress another sigh.

  “It’s a restaurant, not a strip club. I don’t think their sweet-potato fries are going to corrupt anyone.”

  “Don’t you be flip with me.” My mother could still do stern when she wanted to. “Nash, you have to think of your image. I know…your personal life is one thing, but just think of your reputation. That’s all I’m saying.”

  Ah. Now we were getting to the heart of the matter. And it wasn’t anything that I hadn’t been telling myself for weeks now, yet it still stung. My father had never known—or at least not so as we ever talked on it—but Mom had figured out me and Steve years ago. We’d had an argument, and she wasn’t the type to disown me over it. However, she never missed a chance to remind me about my professional image. “I know,” I said wearily.

  “I love you, Nash. You know that. I’m just concerned for you.”

  That concern felt like a wet wool blanket pressing down on any lightness I’d managed to gather over the last few weeks. “Love you, too. How’s Trisha and the kids?”

  Conversation shifted to the grandkids, as I’d hoped it would, and I wandered back across the room. I shut the closet door firmly, closing off my earlier foolishness. I didn’t know what I’d been thinking, acting like I could actually go out tonight. I hung up with another round of “I love you” and headed downstairs to search for a dinner that wouldn’t be half as good as what Mason served.

  Eight

  Mason

  “If you keep watching the door so closely, you’re going to need Lasik by Christmas,” Adam joked as I brought a tray of empties to the bar.

  “Not watching anything,” I protested. “Just wish our turnout had been better.”

  Our first Pride Night wasn’t a bust, exactly, but turnout was far below the last few Fridays, and by ten o’clock, we were down to a few stragglers and not heating up as I’d hoped. An older, more mature crowd had come for Logan’s amazing food, but we’d yet to get much of a weekend drinks-and-dancing crowd, tonight included. Still, though, it had been nice to see so many same-sex couples there—including the local librarian and her partner. Never guessed about those two growing up. A few couples had even driven up from Gold Beach and Brookings, which was nice.

  “You and me both. But, honestly, I’m okay with it being not too busy
.” Adam’s hand shook as he poured a rum and coke. Fine lines radiated from his eyes and his shoulders were tense.

  “Headache?” I knew all his warning signs. Adam might look like an indestructible lumberjack, but he’d struggled with migraines even as a kid. We’d bonded over missing lots of school, and, even now, the urge to protect him was strong.

  “Yeah. Not terrible—”

  “Yet. Listen, it’s getting quieter. I can mix drinks and handle the close.”

  “You sure?” Adam had to be really hurting to not fight me on leaving. “I’ll see who needs a refill and then if it’s still bad—”

  “You’ll go home regardless. Need me to call Ramona for a ride for you?” I asked. Adam lived with his sister, a few doors down from his mom’s bed and breakfast.

  “Nah. I can still drive.” Adam rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “No need to bring her and Teddy out.”

  Logan came out of the kitchen. “I can drive,” he said. “I’ll just toss my bike in the back of your truck.” We closed for food at ten, but there hadn’t been a food order in the last hour. Eventually, we’d try to keep the kitchen open until midnight for appetizers and bar food, but so far, there just wasn’t a demand for it. “I’m almost done cleaning the kitchen.”

  Logan rented an apartment over Adam’s mom’s garage. She’d branched out her business interests beyond the B&B and had invested in several rental properties. She owned a large chunk of her block now, all properties with a view of the lake.

  Logan’s shaggy blond hair was artfully styled, even after a full day in front of the hot grill. His teen-idol looks were more suited for one of Brock’s hipster Portland haunts than our small-town kitchen. His eyes swept over the sparse crowd.

  “You’re just as bad as Mason.” Adam shook his head and winced. “Curtis Hunt wouldn’t come out for something as tame as Pride Night. We start offering alligator wrestling or a leather night, then maybe he’ll be interested.”