“Well, good luck then. I hope it works out for you.”
Me, too.
Briar goes to help a couple looking for books on what to expect when you’re expecting. I stall for a few more minutes, shelving some stray books patrons have left lying around, emptying the garbage at the coffee bar, refilling the sugar and artificial sweetener.
When I can’t find anything else to do—and Harrison spots me working and reminds me that I’m off the clock—I head for the employee restroom and do a quick check in the mirror to make sure my hair passes for neat and there’s nothing stuck between my teeth. Then I take a deep breath in a futile attempt to calm my rapidly rising nerves, push open the bathroom door, and make my way over to the vino part of Vino and Veritas.
It’s just starting to fill up. I don’t see Adam, but I’m not panicking. Yet. It’s not quite eight o’clock. He’s still got time.
Tanner, the bar manager, looks up from the glass of red he’s pouring for a lumbersexual guy in a Bruins beanie and a black-and-yellow plaid flannel shirt and gives me a brisk wave that’s almost a salute. I wave back but bypass the two vacant stools at the bar in front of him and snag a table along the back wall. Not because I’m afraid people will see us together if we’re in front near the window, in full view of everyone strolling down Church Street, but because I don’t want to put any unnecessary pressure on Adam.
Part of me hates that I’m putting his comfort over my own emotional needs. Specifically, my need not to be someone’s dirty little secret. Again. When I left Utah, I swore I would only date guys who had both feet out of the closet. Even if that meant being alone for a while.
But Adam isn’t Layton. Layton would never have kissed me in a place as public as a skating rink, even if it was virtually deserted at the time. We’d mostly drive to some remote parking lot or dirt road and hook up in his Chevy Spark. And he’d never have gone to an LGBTQ-friendly bar, no matter how hard I tried to convince him that simply stepping across the threshold didn’t out him.
If I had been smarter, more experienced, I would have seen the signs. Would have known Layton was never going to go through with our plan.
Maybe, subconsciously, that’s why I asked Adam to meet me here tonight. As a test. A way to make sure he’s not going to flake on me like Layton.
And I’m waiting to see if he passes.
I glance at my watch again. It’s three minutes later than the last time I looked, but now it’s just past eight. Which means Adam is late.
Or a no-show.
“Shipley cider?”
I look up and nod at Tanner, who’s looming over me with one beefy hand resting on the top of the booth above my head. He’s an okay guy, a man of few words, and he knows my usual. I’m not much of a wine drinker, but fortunately V and V carries this awesome hard cider from a farm in Colebury, about forty-five minutes away.
“Sure, thanks.”
My gaze darts to the door, which stays stubbornly closed.
One corner of Tanner’s mouth quirks upward into something that’s half smile, half grimace. “Expecting someone?”
“Yeah. I’m meeting a—friend.”
He looks like he’s about to say something but instead just nods and goes back behind the mahogany bar to get my cider.
For the next fifteen minutes, my heart vaults to the ceiling every time the dang door swings open. But it crashes to earth just as quickly when the person who enters the bar isn’t a certain blond, mocha-eyed, too-sexy-for-his-own-good hockey player.
Tanner’s dropping off my second Shipley cider—I promise myself I’ll square up and leave if Adam hasn’t shown up by the time I finish this one—when the door opens again and the guy I’m waiting not so patiently for walks through. He unzips his team jacket, revealing—what else?—a Moo U quarter zip, and scrapes a hand through his dirty blond curls as his eyes scan the bar, presumably for me.
Tanner sets my drink down, his gaze following mine to the door and the man standing in front of it. “That your—friend?”
“Yeah.” I start to stand to wave him over, but Tanner puts a hand on my shoulder, pushing me back down.
“I’ll get him. Give me a chance to feel him out. Make sure he’s worthy of one our best employees.”
Remember what I said about V and V being a family? That’s not only the bookstore. It extends to the wine bar, too. And if Harrison is the father figure, then Tanner is our surly, overprotective big brother with a heart of gold under his gruff exterior.
I wrap my hand around my fresh pint glass of cider. “Like I said, he’s a friend. Just a friend.”
“Riiight.” Tanner takes my empty glass. “Just friends. That’s why your eyes lit up like Christmas trees when you saw him.”
“Really,” I protest. “We’re—”
“Don’t worry,” he says, cutting me off. “I’m a vault. Your secret is safe with me.”
