Beau bit into the chocolate bar in his hand and shook his head.
“Ge yer own,” he said around a mouthful. Beau swallowed and added, “In the mill. Dex is there.”
“Again.”
It was a statement. Not a question.
“Yeah, so what? They’re donuts. And he didn’t bring anyweird ones, either. No jalapeño, sour cream, essence of rose bullshit.” Beau snorted. “Better hurry.”
I refused to hurry.
I had a stalker, and it made no sense. Fourteen days in a row…everywhere I went, I ran into the donut man. The market, the coffee shop, the raw lumber section of Mill Depot. Wood Hollow was a small town and statistically, it wasn’t odd to bump into the same people over and over. But it was odd for me.
I went out of my way to avoid small talk and situations that involved false chumminess. I went to the market once a week on Sunday mornings before the crowds and on days I didn’t feel like making my own coffee, I made sure I arrived at Rise and Grind at the crack of dawn. And if Davey happened to be behind the counter, I skipped a latte and settled for coffee at the mill.
Nothing against Davey. He was a nice person, but relentlessly cheerful personalities alarmed me. The same way aggressively charming men with perfect teeth and dimples made me sweat.
From my first glance at Dexter the donut guy, I’d known he was someone to avoid. I’d only set foot in his store once out of sheer curiosity and a chronic sweet tooth…and because I hadn’t spotted him at the register when I’d peeked through the window. I hadn’t been able to resist the smell of fresh donuts.
I loved donuts. Who didn’t? Wacky people, that was who.
The store had black-and-white checkerboard flooring, marble countertops, and a meticulously organized selection of traditional and gourmet flavors behind a glass display case. Everything had looked and smelled delicious, like sugar and spice and the faint aroma of strong coffee. I’d ordered a maple bar, a bacon glazed, some concoction involving Lucky Charms marshmallows, and three apple fritters.
Don’t judge. I loved apple fritters…and anything deep fried and slathered in icing. I loved carbs, period. The young woman who rang up my order told me that someday Dex hoped to add scones, croissants, biscuits, and cookies to the menu, and maybe even bread. She’d said she loved sourdough and olive bread, and ifI’d been better at peopling, I’d have assured her that it was the best news I’d heard that week.
Instead, I’d grunted in acknowledgment, anxiety building as the bell above the door announced a flood of new customers. Time to escape. But just as I’d grabbed the pink box and stepped aside for the next customer in line, the sexiest man on the planet had walked into the room.
That was not an exaggeration. Maybe three inches shorter than my six foot six, Dexter the donut man had dark wavy hair, hazel eyes, and the body of a fitness model…or a god. He was probably about my age—somewhere in his mid-to-late thirties, but unlike me, Dexter didn’t look as if he’d ever eaten a bear claw or a cruller in his life.
Let’s get this over with and state some plain facts. If Dexter was a mythical god, I was a giant or maybe a troll…a really large one. I was Dexter’s exact opposite—blondish red hair, a thick beard, boring blue eyes, and I was big everywhere. Yes, muscular too, but also…I liked donuts. A lot.
Dexter had smiled and nodded hello, and just that polite curl of his perfect lips had the same effect as the sun making an appearance after a week of rain. My pulse had gone into overdrive.
One smile from him had done that to me. Just one.
Embarrassing. I’d panicked, of course, and had raced for the door. And I hadn’t been back since. I’d gone on a self-imposed boycott of Dexter’s Donut Shop.
And for the past three years, I’d done a damn good job of avoiding Dexter. I hadn’t so much as walked by his shop, and if I saw him coming, I crossed the street, head down. I did that often enough with other folks, so it wasn’t special treatment for the donut guy. I was just more aware of Dexter because he was so handsome, it was hard to look at him.
Then six months ago, something happened.
A wicked storm had ripped through Wood Hollow, pulled a tree from its roots, and dropped it onto my elderly neighbor’sroof. Mrs. Abrams was ninety. She couldn’t remove it herself and public services had been backed up with emergency calls, so I’d knocked on her door, pointed at her roof, and said, “I’ll fix it.”
I’d climbed on the roof with a power saw and had been about to cut a limb off when I’d noticed two men embracing in the adjoining yard, diagonally behind Mrs. Abrams’s property. Police Chief LaRue’s house. And for the record, it had been more than an embrace. They’d been sucking face, making out, canoodling…with tongues.
Dexter and the police chief.
I’d been flabbergasted, flustered, astonished.
Sure, I’d known there were other queer folks in the area. My boss, Cooper was married to Silas, a former football star. And the owner of the mill, Hank was married to Denny, a well-known and quite famous hockey player. Davey was gay and didn’t care who knew, Nicole from the diner had tattooed her girlfriend’s birthdate on her wrist—I didn’t ask, she told me. And though we’d rarely discussed it, I knew my friend Beau was bisexual.
Me too. Very few people knew, and I liked it that way.
But folks loved to gossip in small towns, and Wood Hollow was no exception. If there was a new couple, it would certainly make the rounds. It never had. I didn’t think anyone knew that Dexter and the police chief were lovers.
No one had ever mentioned them in the same sentence as being anything other than friends. It was curious. And while I wished I could scrub my eyes, I couldn’t forget what I’d seen. Hands, tongues, a sensual sway of bodies.
Of course, I never told a soul, and in the months afterward, I’d redoubled my efforts to steer clear of him. And I’d done a fine job of it.
