Quickly dressing in dark denim jeans and his favorite cotton T-shirt, he padded down the hallway into the kitchen. Halfway there, he detected the heady aroma of a fresh pot of coffee. If he remembered correctly from his late-night reading, the nutty undertones meant Frank had brewed a Colombian bean.
Entering the modest kitchen, Colt spotted Frank at the counter muttering under his breath as he tried to operate a hand crank grinder while leaning on his walker.Yeesh. Keeping Frank off his feet would be harder than he thought if the man kept waking up at the crack of dawn. Not to mention he seemed incapable of actuallyaskingfor help.
“Need a hand?” Noting the prepped French press, Colt realized the smell he’d attributed to brewed coffee actually emanated from the grounds.
“Why not? Make yourself useful.” Abandoning the grinder, Frank hobbled to the kitchen table, sinking into one of the mismatched chairs with a labored grunt. “I need two more tablespoons.”
“I’m on it.” Colt grabbed the antique grinder, curling his fingers around the cool, gold-plated metal etched with elaborate carvings. It reminded him of a fancy pepper mill; it had the same cylindrical shape, topped with a hand crank. Based on the aged patina, it had been in Frank’s family for generations. “Is this an heirloom?”
The old man tipped his head in a noncommittal nod.
“Let me guess…” Colt continued, turning the crank. The beans crunched inside the contraption, releasing the same intoxicating scent he’d smelled earlier. “It belonged to your mother?” Frank had mentioned she was Armenian, and the intricate pattern definitely had a Middle Eastern influence.
“If I wanted to be interviewed, I would have said yes to Kelly Ripa,” Frank grumbled. “She’s easier on the eyes.”
“Fair enough,” Colt chuckled, adding two scoops to the glass carafe before securing the stainless-steel lid and plunger.
Clearly, his ill-humored host would be a tough nut to crack.
Cassie had assured him Frank wasn’t usually this cranky, blaming his gruff demeanor on his poor health and limitations. Colt tried to be understanding, but Frank still seemed to give him a harder time than anyone else. Which struck him as odd. It seemed unlikely Frank harbored a grudge from Colt’s trespassing days in high school. So, where did the enormous chip on his shoulder come from?
“Have any plans for the day?” Colt asked. He already knew Cassie was coming by to work on the book they were writing together—a second edition ofThe Mariposa Method—but he’d hoped to make conversation while they waited for the coffee to steep. Otherwise, it would be the longest four minutes of his life.
“You mean besides climbing Mount Kilimanjaro?”
The sarcastic inflection wasn’t lost on Colt, and he gritted his teeth. Every pass he threw, Frank deflected. Just once, could they be on the same team? “I hope you’ll be back in time for shish kebab tonight. I plan on firing up the grill around six o’clock.”
Colt had prepared way more than they needed so they’d have extra for the coming weeks. Tonight’s skewers were prepped and waiting in the refrigerator along with a tray of hand-rolled grape leaves and a big bowl of tabbouleh—a special salad comprised primarily of fresh parsley harvested from his mother’s garden.
Confident he’d outdone himself, Colt couldn’t wait to see the look on Frank’s face when he arranged everything on the table. He’d even talked Eliza into baking some pita bread to pair with his homemade hummus. Top it all off with the buttery pilaf Frank requested, and not even the King of Crabbiness could maintain a foul mood when faced with such a feast. Especially when he saw the box of baklava Colt ordered from a specialty shop in San Francisco for dessert.
“I’ll be here,” Frank mumbled. Although he wasn’t exactly smiling, the hard lines around his eyes had softened.
While far from a touchdown, Colt had at least crossed the twenty-yard line.
He could only hope the same luck carried into his afternoon with Penny.
* * *
As Penny stood on the sidewalk waiting for Colt, she fidgeted with the nickel-plated belt buckle cinching her vintage Levi’s. Maybe she’d gone a bit overboard in preparation for the day’s activity. But she’d hoped the bright teal cowboy boots and soft chambray button-down tied at the waist would instill some confidence. If she couldn’t play the part, she could at leastlookit.
The rumble of Colt’s motorcycle in the distance matched the growl of her stomach. A jumble of nerves, she hadn’t been able to eat breakfast, settling for a cup of ginger tea with a teaspoon of orange blossom honey. While the day’s activity wasn’t the most outrageous item on Colt’s list, she still found the prospect daunting.
Colt eased into a parking spot in front of Thistle & Thorn and planted his feet on the ground to balance the heavy bike. Catching sight of her on the curb, he flipped up his visor, staring slack-jawed.
Apparently, he approved of her outfit choice.
Heat swept across her collarbone, climbing all the way up her neck. For some unknown reason, his appreciative gaze sent tingles shooting down her spine.Stop it, stop it, she chided her traitorous hormones.
Penny almost didn’t hear his throat clear over the hum of the engine. Or was it her thundering heartbeat?
“Ready?” He removed a spare helmet from the cargo net before offering it to her.
She took a step back. “You’ve lost your mind if you think I’m getting on that thing.”
“C’mon,” he coaxed with a teasing lilt. “It’s fun. You might enjoy it.”
“You know what Ireallyenjoy? Being alive.”
