I blinked and returned to the present, automatically wiping down the bar in front of me.
A year and a half ago, I’d come down to visit my mom and dad for Christmas, and Mr. Paige had suggested I ask Joel how things were going with his new business. I’d assumed the Watering Hole had been doing well, when in fact, Joel had been struggling to manage the bar’s finances. The minute he’d shown me his books, I’d known I could help him out.
I’d taken a bartending course as soon as I’d flown back to Chicago, and I’d sent Joel a business proposal a month later. He was great with the big ideas, I was good with the cash, and I’d known we’d be a match made in heaven.
I’d been right. I quit my job, moved down here, and bought into the business. Since then, our friendship had deepened and the bar had started making money. Life was awesome most days… with a few exceptions.
“Seriously, dude. What is going on? You get laid?”
I snorted. “Haven’t been laid in far too long.”
A fact I’d become keenly aware of last night as I watched Walker change out a tire.
It was probably not cool of me to snap a picture of his hotness when his mom turned her back, but the smear of grease along his rippling abs, the sharp blue of his eyes contrasting with his tan skin… fuck. Couldn’t be helped.
Joel cleared his throat, silently demanding more of an explanation.
Fine.
“Ever see someone in a new light?”
“Who are we talking about?” Joel asked, his eyes shrewd as he rubbed his dark blond beard.
“Let me just say that sweat and muscles are a dead sexy combination.”
“Truth,” Tristan piped up.
Tristan was Joel’s trim, gorgeous fiancé, and he’d spent the last year dragging the Seguin Chamber of Commerce into the twenty-first century while helping Joel and me to expand our social media presence.
Tristan also took shifts at the Seguin Bean next door and often showed up with espressos and leftover baked goods to get us through the afternoon slump. I’d grown to love him as much as I loved Joel, and that was saying something.
I held out my fist, which he bumped. “Thank you,” I said. “Anyway, the mind boggles.”
Knowing Joel would not be satisfied with my answer, I turned back to the bar, wiping down the pristine surface yet again. Sure enough, Joel nudged me with his shoulder thirty seconds later. I opened my mouth to tell him to mind his own business, but instead of giving me shit, he jutted his chin toward the door.
I did a double take. Eustace Cavanaugh—my grandfather—was walking into the bar.
I’d known since I was five that he wasn’t thrilled to have a biracial grandson. I’d overheard him talking about my appearance and learned that the guy who could pass for Santa Claus in the offseason wasn’t a fan of my natural hair or my darker skin.
All these years later, the sting of his rejection was still sharp enough to draw blood. My mother, however, would never let me live down disrespecting an elder, so I plastered on a smile. “Grandfather, how nice to see you. What brings you in today?”
“Do you have any American beers, or do you just serve that imported swill?”
Starting off on the right foot.
I gestured to the taps sporting obviously American names. “We carry lots of domestic beers. Also, Joel makes a homemade brew that you would probably enjoy.”
Grandfather made a face. “Everyone thinks they can be a brewmaster these days. Just give me a Coors Light. In a can.”
Stifling a laugh, I reached into the refrigerator and pulled out one of this month’s Pride cans, setting it on a napkin in front of him with a flourish. Before I could fully enjoy my grandfather’s judgmental scowl, the door opened again and Cornelius Walker—Walker’s grandfather—made his way in.
Given that these two men had been buddies since their fraternity days in college, and neither had entered this establishment until today, I doubted this was a coincidence.
“Mr. Walker, what can I get you?”
“Something American. And—” He paused, noting my grandfather’s beer. “—not fruity.”
When I produced a Bud Light, Joel dropped his chin to his chest, nearly losing it.
