“Good morning, fellas,” she said.
“Morning,” Brian said. “Dave on his way?”
“He called five minutes ago.” Sharon scowled. “Sick.”
Damn. Dave was one of the good ones. Working dispatch for the Seacroft Fire Department wasn’t a glamorous job. Mediocre pay, long shifts, and no chance of ever moving up into another position—because they didn’t exist—meant SFD’s dispatch roster was small and absenteeism was rampant, but Dave was pretty dedicated to the job.
“Could be legit,” Nick said. “I heard there’s something going around the school, and Dave has kids.”
Sharon didn’t appear convinced. “His social media feed had a lot of rowdy-looking pictures this weekend. Do you think hangovers are considered a communicable illness?”
“It does seem to hit groups of people at once,” Nick said.
Sharon grinned and gave them both a mock salute. “Have a good day. Sleep well.”
* * *
Fifteen minutes later, Nick was changed and heading across the street to the municipal lot where he’d parked the night before. When the new fire station was built, some genius on the planning committee decided to merge the staff lot with the town hall lot. It seemed like a reasonable idea in theory—the department was small, and the town hall only needed parking during business hours—but in reality, Nick spent a lot of time fighting for spots with people trying to pay their property tax bill.
This morning, despite the early hour, the lot was already busy with colorful tents and canopies lining the front row. Was it that time of year already? The farmer’s market in Seacroft was always popular with local residents and the summer tourists, shrinking the parking lot even further. Most of the vendors were still setting up, but Nick would have to hurry if he wanted to get out of there before shoppers started circling.
As he walked down the row of stalls toward his car, he mulled over Brian’s offer. His love life had been nonexistent for more than a little while. Sometimes he missed having someone to come home to, talk to, and—yes—have sex with on at least a semi-regular basis. But dating was a lot of work. He hated the small talk, the pressure to come off as interesting and appealing when he was divorced, a failed firefighter with not much to offer but a tiny paycheck, an erratic work schedule, and a mid-century—but not in a trendy way—bungalow in an older part of town. He’d tried a hookup app once, but he’d deleted it the first time someone sent a dick pic without so much as ahi, how are you?If he wanted to see a complete stranger’s penis, he’d watch porn like everyone else.
Still, something about Brian’s offer niggled at the back of Nick’s mind. Was there any harm in one date?
As he came to the end of the row of market vendors, Nick spotted a tall guy who was turned away from him. The man’s broad shoulders pulled his blue T-shirt tight across his back. His hair was dark blond, piled into a messy bun. Nick ran a hand over his own buzz cut. He liked a man with long hair. It gave a guy something to hold onto.
Maybe it was Brian’s mention of a date. Maybe it was time. Either way, Nick let himself have a minute to imagine the feeling of Bun-Guy’s hair coming loose in Nick’s fingers. He tugged it back, tilting the man’s head to one side so Nick could kiss him the way he liked. The man groaned as he settled onto his knees, and—
The man glanced over his shoulder, almost as if he could hear the direction Nick’s thoughts had taken. Sweet Jesus, his face was more distracting than his back. Even from this distance, his eyes were bright blue, and the V-neck of his T-shirt framed his throat and showed off the definition of his chest.
The man waved at someone.
Specifically, he waved at the tow truck driver who was about to pull Nick’s car away.
“Hey!” As tired as he was, getting the word out took a minute, and by then he was already running. “Hey! Stop! That’s my car!”
“That’s your car?” Bun-Guy stepped in front of him.
“Yes! Stop!” Nick tried to move past him, but the other man followed, preventing him from chasing after the truck. It pulled onto the street and drove away, taking Nick’s rusting sedan with it. The vanity plate, PRTYGRL, taunted him as the truck and his car rolled away.
“That was your car?” Bun-Guy said.
“Yes. Fuck!” Nick ground his teeth. He did not have time to deal with this. “They never tow. I parked here all winter, and they never towed it.”
“But you can’t park here on market mornings.”
“What?” Nick’s gaze swung back to the other man. Jesus, up close he was even better looking. His eyes were the same color as his shirt, and his beard had about nineteen shades of brown and blond in it.
That Nick was able to count them was one of the perks of living with a hairdresser—again—he supposed.
“You can’t park here on market mornings.” The guy pointed to a post over his shoulder where a municipal parking sign hung.
Seacroft Historic Farmers Market
Vendor parking only, first three rows
Saturday midnight to noon
