AllAsherwantedwasto eat his homemade pork taco leftovers in peace.
One peek through the break room window, though, and he saw Mr. Richardson chatting with Timothy, one of the doctors. Asher had never liked Timothy—he couldn’t speak without sounding condescending—and luckily their paths didn’t cross often. Dealing with one of them was bad enough, but both?
Plus he didn’t want to spend his entire lunch break dodging questions about when he was going to get his grandpa’s bungalow cleaned up.
Never, Mr. Richardson.The thought of going through all those boxes was too overwhelming, but he couldn’t give them all away either. They were all Asher had left.
Mr. Richardson approached the door, so Asher hurriedly turned the corner. But not hurriedly enough because Mr. Richardson spotted him.
A plump, wrinkled arm slid through his, and he was surprised to look down and find himself suddenly walking arm-in with Winnie. “Have lunch with me,” she said.
“Asher, a word please?” Mr. Richardson called out.
Winnie picked up her pace. “We’re in the middle of adelicateconversation, Glen. Whatever you need will have to wait.”
Mr. Richardson stopped suddenly, his face red.
Relief flooded Asher. Thank goodness for Winnie and her impeccable timing.
Winnie leaned close as if continuing a confidential conversation. “Bruno has thick potato soup with slices of fresh-baked sourdough on the menu, and it’s going fast.”
Asher, still feeling Mr. Richardson’s eyes on them, gave her a solemn look he reserved for patients telling him difficult health news, and nodded seriously. “That does sound delicious. Did he make lemonade today?”
“No, but he’s doing Italian sodas with fresh cream. He says it complements the soup better than lemonade. Horace loves it.”
“Doesn’t Horace have high cholesterol?” he said, a little louder when he realized Mr. Richardson was still listening. He huffed then, and finally went down another hallway to his office. Was it lying to lead him to believe they were having a private medical conversation? Lie of omission. Maybe, but Winnie had started it, and he didn’t regret going with it.
“Yes, so he only drinks a little bit. The soup is made with two options: a sad dairy-free option that Bruno somehow manages to make taste good, and a full-dairy, full-cream, fully-transported-to-heaven-with-one-bite option.”
“I’ll take the heaven option, please.”
They got a table and placed their order. “Is Horace joining us as well?” he asked. Horace had always been particularly close to his grandpa, and had been the first person to come check on Asher after his grandpa had passed.
“He’s busy today.” Was it his imagination, or did she look a little deflated? “He and Smitty are taking a helicopter ride to some amazing golf island south of here. He’ll be gone until Monday.”
Asher whistled lightly. “That’s a full week.”
The waitress brought by their Italian sodas—raspberry for him, peach for Winnie. She sipped hers while he drank half of his in one long draw.
He didn’t just stress cook—he liked to stress eat and stress-work-out. Did he have any hobbies that weren’t stress induced? Not since Grandpa died. All the things they’d done together didn’t seem as appealing anymore. Like golfing, garage-sale-ing, and whittling. Asher couldn’t remember the last time he’d picked up his whittling knife.
“They were on a six-month waiting list for a tee time. As it is, they have to share a room to go this early.”
That explained why she stayed home.
“They’ve been spending a lot of time together, lately,” she said almost absently as she swirled her straw around in her cup.
He never knew quite what to say when someone looked sad and vulnerable. “Sounds lonely,” he said too gruffly.
Winnie didn’t seem to notice or mind. “It is. Horace is gone all the time, everyone is planning Julia’s wedding or working or making content videos, and I’m kind of forgotten.” A beat passed while Asher figured out the right thing to say, but his mind was blank. Winnie shook her head with a self-deprecating laugh. “Listen to me, going on, feeling sorry for myself, when I’m having lunch with a handsome man.”
Asher’s cheeks warmed. “Handsome may be overstating things.” Maybe once, he could have been called that, but he was several months skipped-shaving past that descriptor now.
“You, my dear, are the kind of handsome that the young people would call foxy.”
Asher was positive young people never called anything foxy.
“Like a tougher version of Captain America.”
