I shot a side-eyed glance at the cowboy perched on the edge of my sofa with his fists clenched, willing the hockey players whizzing by on the ginormous flat-screen above my fireplace to put the fucking puck in the net.
“Take a deep breath, Hank. They’re up four to one,” I chided, taking a swig of my beer.
“Logically, I know this, but I can’t relax. He’s looking good, though, huh?” Hank commented, eyes glued to the screen.
Reg agreed. “He looks like a one-man wrecking ball.”
That was a bit of an understatement. Denny Mellon was arguably the best player in the NHL. He was known for his speed and agility, and he was currently the league’s top scorer. He was also an out bisexual man, married to Hank Cunningham, my boss and heir to a milling empire.
Hank’s father had founded Rocky Mountain Mills a few decades ago and, much to the board’s confusion, had expanded his reach by purchasing a family-owned and operated mill in Vermont. No one had thought Hank would last a year. Including me. And certainly not Reg.
Reg and his fellow officers had established a betting pool to predict the day Hank would hop on the first plane back to Denver, but that hadn’t happened. And while Reg hadn’t been happy to lose five hundred dollars to a rookie cop from Pinecrest, he’d begrudgingly become good friends with Hank.
As for Reg and me, we’d been best friends since sixth-grade when I’d moved to Wood Hollow. Being the new kid in town hadn’t been easy. I’d lost my dad, my friends, and my home in one fell swoop. It had been an awkward age to feel untethered, angry, and out of place, but all that had changed the second Reg La Rue had invited me into his circle of minor miscreants who smoked cigarettes in the woods and talked about boobs.
Later, Reg and I came out as bi to each other and added dick to our conversations. And eventually, we’d both married women, had kids, got divorced, and were now single.
Reg was a great guy and a decent looking one—tall, fit but with a little frosting around his middle, salt-and-pepper hair, and rugged features. Reg cared about his hometown and took his pledge to serve and protect seriously. That goodwill was amplified to the nth degree for close friends.
“Denny’s on fire.” I plucked at the paper on my beer bottle. “Anyone want another?”
“No, thanks. I—oh! Would you look at that! We won.” Hank held his hand up for a round of high fives and stood. “I gotta run. I have to check on the horses and let the dog out.”
“Same.” Reg hefted himself off the sofa and gathered the empty beer bottles. “I’ll put these in the recycle bin for you, Coop. Later, Hank.”
“See ya.” Hank headed for the door. “I’ll be in early tomorrow to go over our notes. I want to practice my speech before we meet with the investor.”
I furrowed my brow and followed him to the door. “We? You want me at the investor meeting?”
“Don’t look so surprised. Of course I do.” He picked up his leather jacket from the bench in the foyer and shoved his arms in the sleeves. “This is big-time, Coop. We have to wow them with our knowledge and expertise. They’ll need more than my pretty face to convince them to give us their money.”
“They need my ugly mug too,” I deadpanned.
Hank patted my cheek and winked. “At least you know how to chop wood.”
I swatted him away and opened the door. “Out.”
“See you tomorrow,” Hank called on his way to his truck.
Reg came up behind me just then and slugged my shoulder, his standard-issue hello or good-bye. “Thanks for the beer and the company. I’ll talk to you in—who’s that? Are you expecting someone, you sly dog?”
I squinted at the headlights slicing the night and illuminating my driveway. “Sarah.”
Bile rose in my throat and panic set in. We didn’t do unannounced visits. Ever.
“Huh. She’s smiling. It can’t be too bad,” Reg said, sensing the shift in my mood.
Sarah stepped out of the van and waved. My blood pressure normalized somewhat, but I was wary. Something had to be wrong.
“Hey, Reg. How you doin’?” she called in greeting.
“Not bad. How about you?”
I stood on the periphery while my best friend and my ex made small talk.
Sarah McMurry Daleo was a medium-sized woman—not short, not tall, not thin, not overweight—with shoulder-length blond hair, a heart-shaped face, and a small nose. She wasn’t beautiful, but she had a certain sparkle…a gift for connecting with people. If she inquired about your day, your family, your friends, you’d think she really wanted to know everything you were willing to share and then some.
I’d liked that about her. I still did, but I didn’t always trust her now.
