by Anne Tenino
Smiling, Nate picked up his plate and started toward the sink. “Let’s say I have more than one signature dish.”
Good, he’d take that to mean the guy cooked everything well.
“So, the knife . . .” While Nate was rinsing his plate, Seth brought his own over, waiting for Nate’s train of thought to come out of his mouth. “I’ve got a few resources, so I’m sure we could figure out a few things.”
Excellent.
“I might need your help though.”
“Happy to give it.” Seth crossed his arms over his middle and leaned his hip against the counter. “What do you need?”
They spent nearly an hour in front of Nate’s computer, looking through old Bluewater Bay Beacon issues that had been uploaded to the internet. They didn’t figure a lot out, except that the Chinese maid had had a name—Hsiang Ah. In the coverage of her trial and hanging, her Chinese name was only mentioned briefly, and she was referred to mostly as “Adeline.”
“Do you suppose she chose Adeline herself, or would Mrs. Fennimore have foisted it on her?” Nate mused.
Seth snorted. “Knowing my ancestors, they picked the name.” He glanced over in time to catch Nate stifling a yawn.
Time to go. “Seems like figuring out her name is enough for the night, huh?” He was strangely proud of them for finding it, actually. “I was serious about taking Tarkus to the beach,” he blurted out of nowhere, then resolutely didn’t wince. Damn it, but he really did want to hang out with Nate again.
“Cool.” While navigating his mouse to click on something, Nate nodded. “I was serious about going to see Frankenstein. Opening night, if you can swing it.” He glanced sidelong at Seth, a smile quirking his lips. “That way you won’t be able to pump anybody for spoilers and ruin the shock and awe.”
As he prepared to go, they made nebulous plans to meet up again, and Seth didn’t force the guy to commit to a date. He was really starting to get the hang of this friends-only thing. He liked it better than he thought he would.
But, on Seth’s way out the door, Nate confused the hell out of him.
“Hey,” he said softly, grabbing Seth’s arm in passing. “Thanks. For the company, for the stories, for giving me another chance. I had a good time.”
Then he leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek.
“Sure,” Seth said before stumbling out the door in a daze.
“I kissed him.” Nate’s words were muffled and hollow—not surprising, since he was wearing a full-face respirator while he and Morgan finished pouring the breakaway glass goop into the mold for the first of those giant windows.
Morgan peered at Nate from behind her own respirator. “You know I can’t understand you when you’re masked up. I could swear you just said ‘I kissed him.’”
“I did. Right here.” He tapped the faceplate with one gloved hand. “Last Saturday.”
“I am going to murder you, Nate Albano. You should have told me first thing Monday morning, not sprung it on me out of the blue on Thursday afternoon.”
“I know.” He offered her an apologetic smile. “Sorry?”
“I ought to whack you upside the head for that, but in this rig, I can’t.” She flipped him off instead. “We’re cleaning up here and then we are taking a freaking break so you can tell me the whole story—in detail, at which point I might still whack you upside the head.”
When they stepped out of the workshop and stripped off their protective gear, Morgan pointed him toward the warehouse door. “Outside.”
Nate nodded and trudged toward the door. Maybe if he attempted to explain his feelings to Morgan, he’d stand half a chance of understanding them himself.
“Nate.” Her voice lost its drill-sergeant edge.
“Yeah?”
“Come here, baby.” She enfolded him in one of her world-class hugs, and his eyes prickled with the threat of tears. Shit.
He disengaged, turning his head away so she wouldn’t see him lose it. “Canteen? I could do with some coffee.”
Morgan seemed to know exactly what he needed, because she fell into step beside him, quiet, not even bothering to do more than wave to her many fans on the way across the lot.
They collected their coffee and retreated to a two-top in the far corner, away from a gaggle of noisy grips.
Morgan sipped her coffee, her dark eyes soft and kind. “All right, baby. You’re clearly freaking the fuck out. You want to tell me about it, or wallow some more?”
Nate wrapped his hands around the base of his cup. “Wallowing hasn’t gotten me very far. I’m more confused now than I was when he left Saturday night.”
She raised her eyebrows. “By ‘he,’ I assume we’re talking about Cute Bartender?” Nate nodded. “And when you say ‘left’—where exactly was he that he needed to leave?”
“My place. I invited him over for dinner to, you know, make up for being a dick.”
“When I told you to make it right, I was imagining something more along the lines of an apology—not a cozy evening at Chez Albano.”
Nate scowled into his coffee. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“I’m not saying it wasn’t, but it’s not like you. It’s like pulling teeth to get you to go out for a drink with the crew, and as far as I know, you’ve never had anyone up to your place except me.”
“I know.”
“So why the change in game plan?”
The knot lodged in Nate’s stomach since Saturday night coiled tighter. “I . . . I like him.”
“You like lots of people, even if you act like a sociopath, but— Ooh. You like like him.” Her smile bloomed. “That’s great.”
“No. It’s not. Do you know how many times I’ve felt even a hint of sexual attraction for anyone? Twice. Maybe three times, if you count the crush I had on my seventh-grade science teacher. It’s not like I have a lot of basis for comparison here.”
“Why do you need to compare it?”
“How do I know it’s a real thing, that it’s not, I don’t know, desperation?” He’d tried to convince himself he hadn’t been devastatingly lonely after Jorge left. The dogs had helped, but since neither Ratchet nor Sophie had lived for more than a few months after he’d adopted them, he’d had to deal with their losses too. He’d never stopped to consider whether he’d chosen to take on animals at their end-of-life because he didn’t want to commit, to get too attached.
Of course, with Tarkus, that ship had sailed after the first week. The first ten minutes, for that matter.
“I mean, Nara’s confidence and . . . and excellence at everything she did was part of the turn-on. And Jorge—well, he shone when he was onstage. I defy anybody to resist that kind of brilliance.”
“And the science teacher?” she drawled, cocking an eyebrow.
“He was just . . . cool. Enthusiastic, you know? We could suggest anything to him, any experiment, any tangential idea, and he’d say, ‘Let’s try it and see what happens.’ He’d lead us down the rabbit hole with no qualms, and we still managed to complete the curriculum before students in the other teacher’s class. We used to fight over who’d get to push his wheelchair—not that he needed our help. He had the upper body strength of Atlas.”
“And this is relevant why?”
“Seth is a bartender, for Chrissake. He doesn’t have anything in common with the others.”
She tapped her fingers on the table, lips pursed. “Did anyone ever tell you you’re an achievement snob?”
“Is that even a thing?”
“Yeah. We call them groupies.”
He gave her the stink-eye over the rim of his cup. “I am not a groupie. Lord knows we see enough of that kind of behavior around here to tell the difference.”
“If you say so, but bartender or not, there must be something there, or you wouldn’t be this freaked. Normally, you’ve got a pulse beat of forty-two. Forty-three in a real crisis.”
“Very funny.”
“Come on, Nate, you’ve known him for l
ess than a week and spent a total of, what, four hours with him? Do you really expect a relationship to go from zero to sixty that fast?”
“But that’s the point. Maybe that’s exactly how it works for other people.” He leaned forward. “My statistical frame of reference is minuscule, so I’m half-afraid to let it go any further, and half-afraid to hesitate in case the feeling dissipates.”
“Don’t borrow trouble, baby. You don’t even know if he’d be into it anyway.”
“God, don’t I know it. I mean, he’s part of this town, for God’s sake, not just a guy who’ll only be here until the fans get sick of Wolf’s Landing or until Finn Larson convinces the other producers that CGI is cheaper than practical effects.”
She reached across the table and flicked his forehead with her finger. “Don’t sell yourself short either, you dope. You’re a catch. You’re smart, gorgeous, funny—when you aren’t being a curmudgeonly bastard. Don’t rush to commit, but don’t give up before you try either. Let him get to know you.” She straightened, excitement making her eyes sparkle. “I’ve got it. Invite him here.”
“Here?” Nate looked around. “To the canteen?”
“Don’t be dense. To the lot. Give him a tour.”
“I don’t think people who actually live in Bluewater Bay are interested in that. It’s for tourists.”
“Not the public tour. The private one. Our space. What we do. I’m sure you could get permission from Anna.”
“You mean you can get permission from Anna. You could probably get special dispensation from the pope if you tried.”
“Don’t exaggerate.” She clapped her hands. “It’s settled. In fact, let’s make it tomorrow. I don’t want you to have a chance to chicken out.”
“Is that a challenge?”
“You know it, baby. Go big or go home.”
“Go big. Right. I can do that.” So why did he feel so fucking small?
As Seth stood, alternately looking at the half a pomegranate he held in his left hand and the citrus reamer in his right, he realized there was a lot he didn’t know about the fruit. The juice wasn’t going to be difficult to get out, he was pretty sure, since it was currently dribbling over the edge of the peel and down between his fingers. One dark-red rivulet was starting down his wrist.
“Okay,” he muttered, setting the pomegranate back on the cutting board. He had the basics down for making grenadine, with a couple of different recipes printed out even, but obviously getting from finding a pomegranate in the supermarket to “combine the juice with the sugar in a saucepan” was going to be a little different than he’d thought.
Maybe he should have done more research before bolting out of his place with a half-assed plan this morning. But he’d needed to leave to stop thinking about Nate Albano.
He’s not interested. And it wasn’t even personal—he wouldn’t be interested if Seth were a woman, either. Not unless he had romantic feelings for him first.
What did it take to elicit romantic feelings in a guy like that? Seth owned it—he really wanted to know, but he could also accept that he wasn’t likely to be the right person.
Except Nate had kissed him, and even though he’d been kissed good-bye on the cheek by men before, Seth couldn’t stop, well, mooning about it. That kiss was 100% of the reason he’d decided he needed to make grenadine. To avoid thinking about how dry Nate’s lips were, yet how soft. How they’d felt grazing across his cheek. And about that slight hint of moisture on his skin as Nate had pulled away.
Footsteps behind him told him he wasn’t alone anymore. “What are you doing again?” Dave, Ma Cougar’s head bartender, asked, accompanied by the clatter of a rack of beer glasses being set down.
“Making grenadine.” Sighing, Seth barely stopped himself from running his purple-stained fingers through his hair. That was all he needed—his hair was light enough to show the streaks, and he’d bet pomegranate juice marked like hell.
“We have grenadine.” Now Dave was looming over his shoulder. He moved on before Seth could turn, though. “It even has real pomegranate juice in it.”
Well, yeah, because Seth had insisted they needed the better one.
“Don’t you want us to be known as master mixologists?”
“I don’t care.” Seth could practically hear Dave’s shrug in his tone. Just like he’d said earlier, he was happy for Seth to tinker if he wanted, as long as he didn’t poison anyone and didn’t expect to get paid for his hours “messing around.”
“You be careful what you agree to, man, or I may just invent some world-famous cocktail and get your job.”
Dave snorted. “Be my guest,” he said, voice echoing in from the pass-through to the kitchen. The dude truly didn’t care—he was one of those retirees who’d returned to work to keep from getting bored. He’d gotten the position as head bartender when there was a lack of qualified people to promote, and he made no secret of the fact that he was doing them a favor by taking the job.
So really, Seth was gunning for his position already, and they both knew it.
“Is it too early for a beer?” someone new asked.
“Uh . . .” Seth glanced up to find Shannon Schumer parking herself on a barstool. “How’d you get in?” They didn’t open until eleven. And technically, he wasn’t on shift until three thirty.
“I know a guy.” Shannon hiked her thumb back over her shoulder, smirking. Of course she did—she was dating the dining room manager, Alan.
“That’s the problem with living in the same tiny town you grew up in,” Seth said half to himself.
Shannon assumed he was talking all to her, of course. “Repeating your past over and over?” At his quizzical look, she said, “I dated Alan in high school. Right after I broke up with Jim.”
“Ahhh.” She and Jim Schumer had just gotten divorced. “Well, in that case, maybe a beer is in order. But really, why not be classy and have a mimosa? It’s what the septuagenarian set has when they come in for lunch.” Since, of course, they came in for lunch at eleven on the nose, complaining about having to eat later than normal.
She squinted at him suspiciously, like he was trying to sell her a bill of goods. Or short her on alcohol content. “Can I get a double mimosa?”
“Why not?” After all, he’d already broken with tradition by serving the senior citizens a community mimosa in a punch bowl. Old Herman Thompson had gleefully dubbed it a miboasa. “Because it’s a veritable boat of champagne!”
Seth had been forced into it, though—they went through so many wine glasses when they came in that the dishwasher wasn’t able to keep up.
Once he’d made Shannon a large mimosa in a pint glass and set it down in front of her, she fixed him with an intent look. “So what’s new with you?”
Immediately an image of Nate surfaced in Seth’s mind, but he shoved it back into his subconscious. “Nothing much.” He forced ease and friendliness into his voice. “You?” That was what she was really looking for—someone to listen. A little bartender therapy. He was here anyway, even if he wasn’t on shift. Might as well let her get whatever was eating her off her chest while he continued to figure out his grenadine.
She sighed, and then let him have it with both barrels. Seth surreptitiously eased his phone out of his apron pocket and surfed the internet on it behind the counter while playing shrink for her. Listening to how sick she was of writing stories about Wolf’s Landing, the cast of Wolf’s Landing, developments during the current Wolf’s Landing season. “For variety, I sometimes interview Hunter Easton. You know”—she flicked her fingers in the air and added unnecessarily—“the creator of Wolf’s Landing.”
Seth made about his fifteenth sympathetic noise in the past ten minutes, and began peeling the pomegranate at his prep station according to the directions he’d found, doing it just like they did in the pictures, minus the preliminary cuts, since he’d already halved the thing.
“I really, really need a story that has nothing to do with that—” she shifted her e
yes side to side, then leaned toward him and hissed “—fucking show.”
He held up his purple-stained palm to stop her. “There’s no call for that kind of language, missy.”
She smirked and took a gulp of her drink. “Anyway, you got anything for me?”
“Huh?” Scooping up the seeds, or arils as the websites insisted on calling them, he put them in a bowl to take them to the blender. Shannon could probably talk over the noise.
He was right. “You’re a bartender,” she half yelled over the whirring of the blades. “People tell you stuff all the time. What’s the gossip?”
He pushed the Off button. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but that would violate the bartender code of confidentiality.”
“How come I was ‘missy’ before but now I’m ‘ma’am’?” she whined.
He really had no answer for that. As he turned to look for a strainer to get rid of the seed chunks, he saw a man coming toward the bar, intent in his step. Damn it. “I need to get out of here.”
“What? The place just officially opened, people are coming in.” Shannon pushed her glass closer to him. “And I need another.”
“I’m not working right now. It’s not my shift.”
She sputtered a laugh. “Um, I think you are. I don’t see anyone else back there, and you’ve already served me. Twice, hopefully.”
Dave appeared right then, flicking a look at Seth and then asking the new customer how he could help. Trying to keep a low profile, Seth poured his pomegranate pulp into the strainer and let it drain while he made Shannon another drink, quickly. He could finish his grenadine in back.
“Hey, he came to visit you the last time I was here.” Shannon was looking toward the door as he set down her double mimosa.
“Careful,” he warned, pulling her bill out of his apron pocket to present to her. “You’re starting to sound like a bar fly.”
“No, I’m serious.” She waved her index finger in front of his face and then pointed toward a guy who’d almost reached the bar.
