“Broody face?” I ask before draining my glass and setting it on the floor beside his.
“Buffy throwback, but yes… you’re brooding,” he explains. “About what?”
“About Lowe Mancinkus,” I tell him as I fall back onto my bed beside him and stare at the ceiling.
“That ain’t no southern name,” Morri drawls in an exaggerated hick accent.
“No, it isn’t,” I mutter as I contemplate all the things I don’t know or understand about the infuriatingly sexy but frustrating man.
“So, what’s the deal?” Morri asks.
I shrug and roll my head to look at my bestie. “We’ve seriously butted heads and pissed off the judge so much that he’s ordered Lowe to work off his sentence here in this house. And he’s not a complete pig or jerk the way I thought he was, but he’s still a thorn in my side, and well… he kissed me.”
“He what?” Morri gasps as he sits up and then pulls me up by the arm. “Tell me everything.”
Laughing at my bestie… the only man in my life I’d ever take a bullet for—which is something to consider with Floyd patrolling town with a shotgun—I cross my legs Indian-style and fill Morri in on everything that’s happened in the last few days.
CHAPTER 7
Pap
The door to Chesty’s opens, and I blink in surprise to see Lowe walk through. It’s true my second oldest grandchild is still in the prime of his life at thirty-three, but he normally doesn’t hang out with me on a work night. This being a Monday and all, it’s odd him being here.
He walks past the row of three pool tables that separate the entrance from the actual bar that runs the length of the back wall of my humble establishment, getting a few back slaps from friends, one handshake from another, and flirty winks from a few of the ladies. Lowe takes it all in stride with an easy smile to everyone because that’s normally his nature. This snarling, riled-up man who has been showing his ass of late isn’t like my Lowe, so I know the loss of the Mainer House really hit him a lot harder than the family gave him credit for. Trixie told me she saw him last Friday and that he seemed to be taking things in better stride. She felt he was going to finish out the work ordered by Judge Bowe and then move on from it all, and that relieves me. No one likes to see their grandkids in pain.
“What’s up, Pap?” Lowe says with a squeeze of his large hand to my shoulder. He sits down in the chair that’s adjacent to mine at the corner. I always sit on the end, and that adjacent chair is usually reserved for Trixie, who was known to walk over from her law firm just next door to have a beer with me after work each day. Now that Ry’s taking up most of her heart, that chair’s been empty a lot, so I’m quite happy to see Lowe taking it.
My gaze cuts to the bartender. When I have his attention, I give a jerk of my head toward my grandson to indicate he needs a beer and I’ll be paying for it. The bartender—new boy named Sam-Pete who dropped out of college and returned to Whynot—lifts his head back in acknowledgment, so I turn my attention to Lowe.
“How’s life been treating you, boy?” I ask him.
He shrugs. “Can’t complain.”
“And yet, you’ve been doing a lot of that lately,” I say, pointing out the obvious.
Lowe snorts and then looks briefly to Sam-Pete, who sets his draft beer down before him. I’ve got the kid well trained as he unobtrusively takes a five-dollar bill from a small pile sitting in front of me to pay for Lowe’s beer and heads back to the register.
“Thanks, Pap,” Lowe says as he holds up his beer to me in a toast before taking a long slug.
“What’s the deal with that pretty little Yankee over there?” I push at him.
Lowe sets his beer down and mutters. “Pretty? You think so?”
I cackle in response. Can’t help it… when you get past the age of seventy, some of your laughs come out as cackles, and I’ve got ten years past seventy to perfect it, but it’s effective in this scenario. Lowe swings his head, shoots a hard glare at me, then goes back to his beer.
“Boy, you know damn well that girl is beyond pretty,” I tell him knowingly with a light punch to his shoulder that I’m proud to say rocks him slightly in his seat. Then I really go in for the kill. “Of course, no surprise she had some fella with her this afternoon when she got back into town.”
Lowe snaps his head back to me so fast I’m surprised his head doesn’t fly off his shoulders. “She brought a man back from New York?”
“I was heading into Chesty’s when she pulled up in her driveway,” I say as I lean toward him and lower my voice, like it’s the juiciest gossip ever heard around these parts. “Guy got out of the front seat. Had three suitcases, so I’m thinking he’s here to stay.”
Lowe just blinks once at me, acts like he might say something, then shrugs his shoulders again before changing subjects. “You going to the Lantern Festival this weekend?”
Well, that just won’t do. He’s usually easier to needle.
“When have I not gone to the Lantern Festival?” I ask in return. “It’s like the best party this town throws. I bet that Miss Rothschild will love it, and it’s the perfect place for her and her fella to get all romantic under the stars.”
“I guess,” he says vaguely, his eyes flicking up to the TV that has a baseball game on right now. My beloved Pittsburgh Pirates aren’t playing today, so I have the next best thing on.
Any sport that’s in season.
“Tall, dark, and handsome,” I toss out as Lowe watches the game. He hears me. I know he’s bothered because a tiny muscle in his cheek starts jumping, and that confirms what I suspected. He’s got a little something for the new owner of the Mainer House. “Like almost as tall as you.”
Lowe’s head swings my way. He’s not stupid. He knows what I’m doing, so he merely asks, “What’s your point?”
“Just curious as to the nature of your relationship with her.” I watch him carefully trying to read every nuance from his expression. I’m not an expert or anything on body language, but I’ve learned a few tricks over the years I’ve owned this bar.
“There is no relationship,” he says curtly. “Judge ordered me to do work on her house, so I am. We’re supposed to meet tomorrow morning to figure out what I need to do for her going forward.”
“And nothing more?” I push at him.
“Why would you think there would be something more?”
And that’s way too defensive. There’s something there.
“I don’t know,” I say vaguely. “You seemed to be bothered by the man she’s got shacking up in her house.”
Yup. There goes that muscle ticking in his face again.
“How tall is he?” Lowe asks, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek so I don’t cackle in victory.
“Pretty tall,” I hedge. “Maybe even an inch or two taller than you now that I think about it.”
This isn’t true, of course, but Lowe is my grandson and he’s comprised of roughly twenty-percent caveman DNA. Size totally matters.
“And he had three suitcases?” he presses carefully.
I nod.
Lowe turns to his beer and downs it in about four powerful swallows. When he sets it down, I ask, “Want another?”
“Nah,” he answers as he pushes off the barstool. “I have to get up before the roosters tomorrow.”
“Why so early?” I ask with a grin.
He doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t need to. It was all over town about his 5:30 AM wakeup call to Miss Rothschild last week, as well as the fact that yelling could be heard coming from the house when she answered the door. This came from Andy, one of the deputies on early morning patrol who was getting coffee at Wilson’s that morning while he was gassing up his car.
As Lowe turns for the door, he shoots me a warning look. “Quit meddling, you ol’ coot.”
I can’t help it.
I cackle and then cackle harder when Lowe glares at me once again before stomping toward the door.
CHAPTER 8
/> Lowe
I’m grumpy because not only do I hate getting up at the butt crack of dawn, but I’m put out by the fact that Melinda has a man at her house.
It’s not because I’m proprietary, because she’s not my girl, but it’s more to do with the fact that after I kissed her, I didn’t get a hard slap that said, “I’m involved with someone, you jerk.”
I didn’t even get an affronted glare.
Or a wipe across the mouth with the back of her hand.
No, I got a punch-drunk, wide stare from her that said she’d been as affected as I was, and so I’m a little put out that I’m that easily forgotten. That makes me grumpy because I’ve thought quite a bit about that kiss since she’s been gone, and now I feel ten times the fool for even considering being nice to her about this stuff.
At 5:30 AM, I am indeed banging on her door and my story is that I’ve got to be over at Millie’s by eight AM, which is partially true. I have to be there today; it’s just I can get there when I want since I’m the only one on site today putting in some custom balustrades on the staircase.
The house is dark, but within seconds of me knocking, the interior foyer light comes on. This surprises me because I didn’t hear any footsteps stomping down the staircase to give me the satisfaction of dealing with a riled-up Mely Rothschild. My hand falls to my side.
And then the door is swinging open by none other than tall, dark, and… gay?
Totally gay.
He’s absolutely tall, and dark since he’s black, and I’ll admit he’s handsome if that were my thing, but it’s not so I won’t, but there’s no way he’s not gay. Not with the pair of bronze satin pajamas with matching slippers adorned with black fur across the top band. I also think the matching bronze satin turban-like thing sitting on his obviously bald head, so has to be merely for decoration, is telling.
The man’s eyes travel down my body and up again appraisingly, and then he says in a voice that confirms he is indeed gay, “Mmm. You must be Lowe Mancinkus.”
“And I’m thinking I’m going to kill my grandfather,” I mutter under my breath before giving a forced smile through pressed lips.
“Well, come in, come in,” the man says as he opens the door wider. I step in and see the glow of the kitchen light visible from the hall that runs beside the staircase. “Mely is still sleeping, but I’ve been having trouble so I’ve been up for a while. I’ve got coffee going.”
“Coffee?” I ask with sincere interest.
“It was the only way I’d agree to leave the city and venture into the country.” The man sniffs. “She told me there wasn’t any decent coffee shops around so I insisted she get a pot.”
Now that pisses me off. “My sister owns Sweet Cakes right across the street and makes amazing coffee.”
“Is she open right now?” he asks with a raised eyebrow more perfectly arched than any woman’s I’ve ever seen, in the height of skepticism.
“No,” I admit.
“Then it’s not decent,” he says with a snap of his fingers by his shoulder that dares me to argue.
I don’t because he sort of has a valid point.
“I’m Morris D,” he says, holding his hand out to me.
“Morrisdee?” I ask as I accept a hard but fast shake from him. It’s not too hard to indicate he might harbor ill feelings toward me if Mely filled him in on our past, but not too soft, which would be stereotypical, and I try hard never to stereotype people. I went to college in one of the most culturally diverse cities on the East Coast, so I know better.
“Not Morrisdee,” he corrects as he heads to the kitchen and I follow. “Two words. Well, a word and an initial. Morris. And then the letter “D”.”
I’m a little blunt at times, but I don’t think will offend. “What kind of name is that?”
“My stage name,” he responds. “My real name is Morris Dwight, but that doesn’t sound very flashy.”
“Broadway?” I hazard a guess, because although he’s tall, he’s a graceful sort of dude so I can see him as a dancer.
“Off-Broadway,” he says vaguely and then offers, “How do you like your coffee?”
“Black,” I tell him, and then offer a secondary, “Sorry if I disturbed you.”
“Interesting you apologize to me,” Morris D says as he takes a Styrofoam cup from a stack sitting next to what looks like a brand-new coffee pot. “But you seem to enjoy disturbing Mely in the early morning hours.”
His voice is aloof and challenging, and I realize I mistook his initial politeness as being nothing more than a means to size me up.
“I have to start work at my regular job at eight so prior to that is the only way I can get the work done here,” I tell him casually.
“If you say so,” he says dismissively, but those are kind of fighting words.
“You doubt me?” I ask him.
Morris D—which is sort of a stupid name now that I think about it—turns to me and purses his lips, causing him to look the way Laken does sometimes when she gets catty with other women. “Oh, I totally doubt you. You kissed my girl, so I know you’re sniffing around here like an alley cat.”
“An alley cat?” I ask mockingly. “Seriously, dude.”
“Oh, girlfriend, you have no clue how serious I am about this,” he says as he slaps the Styrofoam cup down on the counter. I know my invitation to coffee was just revoked. Lip curled and eyes narrowed, Morris D sort of sashays aggressively up to me and pokes a finger into the middle of my chest. Yet, it’s not done in a way that comes at the end of a sashay. It’s quite hard and it’s done to convey a message. “Do not let the delicate beauty of Morris D fool you. I am protective of my Mely.”
“You did not just talk about yourself in the third person, did you?” I sneer back at him. “Because, dude… that’s a bit arrogant.”
“No, arrogant is vandalizing something that doesn’t belong to you,” he snarls like a big overgrown kitten at me.
“It was just some pink paint,” I say with a huff of frustration. “I’m going to fix it.”
“I’m not talking about her house,” he hisses at me. “I’m talking about her lips.”
And that right there shuts me up. I just stare at him without any clue as to what to say.
Luckily, I’m saved from the trouble when I hear Mely say in a hoarse voice. “What in the heck are you two talking about at freaking 5:30 in the morning?”
I turn around. Any pretense that I’m not actually interested in Mely Rothschild evaporates as I take in the gut punch that happens when I see her standing there with her hair all messed up from sleeping and her voice croaking like a frog, and I think she might be the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
Crap.
Just… crap.
“Driving by to the other job and saw the light on,” I say in a bald-face lie. “Thought you were up, but had the pleasure of meeting your friend here instead.”
Morris D lets out a huff of indignation at the lie, but Mely just gives me a sleepy smile. “I just woke up. Heard the noise down here.”
“So I see,” I say pointedly and let my gaze take in her cute little PJs that are sexy as all get out. She doesn’t glare at me in return, although Morris D harrumphs again. For some weird reason, I find perverse pleasure in irritating him.
Ignoring the man in bronze satin, I walk over to the coffee pot and help myself to the discarded cup. When I turn, I offer it out to Mely, but she shakes her head. “I’m a tea kind of girl.”
Morris D reaches out for it, but I ignore him pointedly, bringing the cup to my lips for a small sip as I stare at him over the cup’s edge. He glares back at me.
When I pull the cup away, I tell Mely, “I was thinking I’d start on the exterior paint today. I’ve got to put a primer over it.”
“Because neon pink will bleed through?” Mely asks sarcastically, but also with a little bit of amusement. That’s nice that she can look past the anger.
“Exactly,” I admit with a grin and absolutely no
shame. “Probably take me a few days, but then I can work you in a few hours each day at your convenience to do whatever else you want to serve my sentence.”
“That’s awfully nice of you,” she says hesitantly.
“What can I say?” I offer her a charming smile. “I’m a nice guy.”
“No more 5:30 AM wakeup calls?”
“Not unless you specifically request it,” I tell her with a slight suggestion in my tone.
She laughs and waves a dismissive hand at me. “You’re bad, Lowe Mancinkus. But I’m good any time after seven AM, so I’ll let you pick the time.”
“Let’s make it seven,” I say genially and level her with a smile I’ve been told can make a woman fall into a dead faint if they’re not quite ready for it.
“Looking forward to it,” she says back with a slight grin and twinkling eyes. That’s total flirtation right there, but she does not faint as expected.
“Ugh, I think I’m going to vomit,” Morris D says dramatically and then proceeds to flounce out of the kitchen, calling over his shoulder. “I’m going back to bed.”
I watch him exit the room, my gaze slowly coming back to Mely, who’s watching me pensively.
“That’s Morris D, huh?” I ask deadpan.
She laughs and nods. “My bestie.”
“It took all of two hours to make it around town that you’d dragged back a tall, dark, and handsome man from New York to move in with you,” I say, leaning a hip against her counter.
“All true except the moving-in part,” she replies, and her expression morphs into one of sudden enlightenment. “Is that why you showed up so early this morning? Because you thought I’d moved a man in?”
This catches me so off guard I almost drop my coffee as I come flying off my perch against the counter. “What? No! I just happened to be getting an early start today, and like I said, I saw the light on here, and well—”
“Morris D is gay,” Mely says mischievously as she crosses her arms over her chest. “You don’t have to pee around me or something to establish your territory.”
Stubborn as a Mule Page 6
