Back outside, Danny folded himself into one of the lawn chairs, knees drawn up slightly like he was trying to take up less space. The evening had gone golden, that perfect hour before sunset when everything looked softer. Crickets had started up somewhere in the tree line. Lightning bugs drifted lazy paths across the yard, their glow flickering against the darkening sky.
“So what do you do?” Danny asked, picking at the beer label again. Another piece came free. “When you’re not inviting strangers over for Harry Potter marathons, I mean?”
“I own the Frothy Pine, actually. That tavern on Main Street.”
Danny’s eyebrows went up. “Really? I’ve walked past there a hundred times.”
“Never been in?”
“Not really my scene.” Danny caught himself. “I mean, not that taverns aren’t… I just don’t go out much.”
Ash wanted to reach over and still those restless fingers, tell his mate he had nothing to be nervous about, that he didn’t have to perform or pretend. Instead, Ash said, “Worst customer you’ve ever had. Go.”
Danny took another sip of his beer, thinking. “Last month, this guy came in at eleven p.m.—we close at midnight—and demanded we special order him a specific brand of anchovy paste. From Italy. For his cat.”
“For his cat.”
“For his cat. And when I told him we couldn’t do that, he asked to speak to the CEO of the entire grocery chain. Not the manager. The CEO.”
Ash laughed, the sound rumbling up from somewhere deep. “Did you give him the number?”
“I gave him the customer service line and watched him stand in the parking lot screaming at an automated menu for twenty minutes.”
“That’s beautiful. That’s art.” Ash checked the steaks again, satisfied with the char. He plated them with baked potatoes and grilled asparagus, setting everything on the small table between two lawn chairs.
Cutting into his steak, Danny made a sound that went straight to Ash’s gut. Low and pleased and completely unconscious.
“Oh my god.” His mate covered his mouth, still chewing. “This is incredible. What did you do to it?”
“Family secret.” Ash tried not to look too pleased, but Danny’s expression—eyes closed, savoring—made it impossible not to smile. “My dad would disown me if I told anyone about the dry rub.”
“Your turn.” Danny pointed his fork at him. “Worst bar customer.”
“You want to hear about the time someone tried to pay their tab in chickens?”
“In what?”
“Chickens. Live ones. Three of them.” Ash leaned back in his chair, watching Danny’s eyes go wide. “Guy walks in, orders a burger and four beers, then pulls out this crate from under his coat like it’s totally normal.”
“What did you do?” Danny leaned in closer, eyes wide.
“Took the chickens. They were good chickens.” Ash shrugged. “Named them Luke, Leia, and Han Solo. They live with my neighbor now.”
Danny was laughing. Full-on laughing, shoulders shaking, one hand pressed over his mouth like he was trying to hold it in.
There you are.
The sound hit Ash somewhere soft, somewhere he hadn’t let anyone near in a long time.
“Weirdest thing that’s happened at the grocery store.” Ash speared a piece of asparagus, his gaze lingering on his mate’s gorgeous smile.
“There was the lady who insisted the bananas were talking to her. Wanted them removed from the store immediately because they were, and I quote, ‘plotting something.’”
Barking out a laugh, Ash nearly dropped the piece of potato he’d scooped up with his fork.
“Got another one.” Danny’s whole posture changed, shoulders dropping as he leaned back in the chair. “Last month this guy comes in first thing in the morning. He’s buying nothing but cottage cheese. Like, forty containers of cottage cheese.”
“That’s serial killer behavior.”
