I slowly sink back into my chair.
“I thought for a while I was just making shit up. Wishful thinking of a kid, you know.” He rubs the back of his neck, and his gaze touches on my stack of mail. “Then Lane said he used to bounce us each on a knee like we were racing on horses side by side, and we’d laugh so hard we almost fell off. He, uh, wrote me about that story after Lane told him we rode our first horses at the Baileys’.”
“Did your memories become clearer after you read that?”
His nod is jerky. “I remembered more too. Like when he would take me and Lane to get a burger and fries. We felt like fucking kings.” He runs his hands along his thighs. “Mostly because Dad would call us out of school to do it.”
It’s a sweet memory, and unlike mine with my ex, it was likely genuinely a dad who wanted to spend time with his kids while he was in a decent place mentally. No con. No scam. Cruz and Lane’s dad wasn’t using them. “I imagine you thought you were a big deal.”
“So fucking big.” His smile fades. “When he didn’t stand us up. But, yeah. There were some good times, and I think that fucked with me more than anything. I know he can dangle a solid father-and-son relationship in front of me and yank it away at amoment’s notice. I don’t have anything to do with him, but I’m forever tied to him, as much as I don’t want to be.”
I get up and cross to sit on his lap. We end up like this a lot. I set my glasses on the table and wrap my arms around his neck. “Thank you for telling me.”
“And thank you for telling me,” he says solemnly.
My dinner threatens to heave right back up. “You’re welcome.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Cruz
The first day of the street fair is hot enough to melt frosting. Elodie’s freezer must be pumping away. A Friday evening fair still puts us in the sun, but the most brutal strike of the rays is over and some shade from the buildings creeps over us.
Elodie’s booth is set up right outside of the bakery, and our booth is a half a block down in front of the insurance agency. All the agents from inside came out to get samples after closing time.
Haven’s working next to me, selling three bottles of juneberry vodka and two liters of Golden Nugget whiskey that are going to be future Christmas gifts.
I line up two small plastic cups for a couple. Only the wife is drinking. I splash some lavender gin in one and huckleberry vodka in the other. I run through the script of each spirit, how we make it, and what notes they’ll taste. I can recite the details in my sleep.
She wrinkles her nose with the whiskey, but smiles after the vodka. “Much more my speed. I’ll take a bottle of that.”
“Absolutely.”
“But it’s Foster House.”
I pause while reaching for the bottle. “Excuse me.”
“You said ‘absolutely.’ Absolut Vodka? The brand? Bad joke.”
Chuckling, I shake my head. “It can’t be bad. I plan to use it myself someday.”
I package her purchase, and just as I hand it off, a guy gets in line behind her. He’s wearing aviator shades and an arrogant smile. When he sees me notice him, he smiles, a slow, sly spread of his punchable lips.
Fucking Dean. “What do you want?”
Haven’s busy with the girls from the tasting room the other night. They’re sampling everything we have, but they mostly want a taste of Haven. I saw Allison, the girl who’s maybe stalking him, walk by a few minutes ago, and the women scared her off. Good.
Dean’s smile gets even bigger and more smashable. The sun gleams off all the product in his hair. “A taste. What do you recommend?”
He takes off his sunglasses and tucks them into the pocket of his polo. He’s wearing khaki shorts again and resembles the insurance agents more than the tourists.
I grab one plastic tasting cup and barely cover the bottom with a splash of gin. I should be nice and ooze the charm Elodie used to hold against me, but there’s something about this guy, and it’s only gotten worse since I first saw him looming over Elodie. “Here.”
He throws back the sample, and his brows draw together. Shaking the cup, he tries to get the two drops I poured out. When he does, he smacks his lips. “Gin was never my thing.” He narrows his eyes. “How ’bout some whiskey?”
I give the same amount of the cheapest whiskey I brought, which is still a damn good product.
He rolls the tiny amount on his tongue. “Mm. I have to concede. You know what you’re doing.”
