“Nope. It still sits out along old Kramer Road. Abandoned.” He took a sip of his coffee.
“And no one has any use for the real estate it sits on?”
“Not out here. Shame really because rural communities like this one could use some industry. Unemployment is pretty high here. Teens move to the big cities when they graduate to get jobs unless they’re taking over the family farm and we all know the heartaches of farmers.”
Yes, that we did. Small family farms were rarer and rarer.
“Which is another reason so many of your neighbors are now part of the Fitzgerald & Sons Well Services family. They can use the royalties they get to keep the family farm alive.” His brows sunk into a deep V. “Just saying is all.”
“Can we not get into all of that right now?”
“Sorry, yes, we can not talk about that. I’m going to dash to the grange for hats. Can you get me another pretzel? Make it two. Oh, and get some more dips. Some of the cheddar this time. Oh! And honey mustard. Did they say they had peanut butter yogurt? I’d like some of that as well. Better buy a half dozen pretzels. And more drinks.”
“You keep eating like you are, you won’t be able to zip those skinny jeans of yours.” His sight darted to the incredibly tight black jeans I was wearing. I popped a hip. His smoky eyes grew toasty.
“I see you noticed my skinny jeans. Do you like?”
“I’m going to get you your pretzels.” I snickered softly as he padded off along a nicely shoveled path to the food trucks. He liked. I could see the bulge in his pants. It was impressive that he could spare the blood to get hard. My balls had climbed into my body and were taking up residence there. Dick had gotten a little randy but opted out of play to go reside with my nuts where it was warmer.
I took off at a jogging pace, following the path along the lake, nodding and smiling at the residents. Several waved as I passed. It was a nice little town. Shame about the pretzel plant. Someone should buy it and retrofit it. I bet quality designer pretzels would sell big in the larger cities. There could be pretzel boutiques. I paused at the road to allow a few cars to creep past, my gaze flickering to the food trucks parked along the lake. Minnie’s Pretzels was the standout of all of them. Those dipping sauces were to die for. And her pretzels were incredible. Soft inside and slightly crispy on the outside. Dang it. I should have told Acosta to get one of the ones with an apple slice and shredded cheese on top. Later. I’d get one of those later. Good thing I was walking to the grange building. My lover was right. A dozen soft pretzels would go right to my ass. It would be worth it, though.
After crossing the street and leaving the madness at the lake behind, I climbed up the steps to the grange building. There was a small historical plaque beside the old-fashioned white double doors, explaining that the grange movement had begun back in the late eighteen hundreds to promote agriculture and help advance the social and economic needs of US farmers. This one—Miller’s Lake Grange—was built in 1899. Pushing inside, I sighed at the warmth.
The interior was large and open, making it the perfect place for town meetings, voting, farmer’s markets in the summer, haunted houses in the fall, and Christmas festivals in the winter. Today, there were about two dozen crafters at tables selling their wares. I could smell coffee, eucalyptus, and lemon drop cookies. Actually, I couldn’t smell the cookies, but I could see them. I hurried to a table set up by the local 4-H kids and bought all the lemon drop cookies they had for sale. Nibbling as I meandered the wares, I ended up eating six cookies out of four dozen—do not judge me—while buying myself a scarf and matching purple mittens, two pretzel hats, a cookbook sold by the women of the grange group, which I had no clue what they did other than collect recipes, and an adorable, crocheted goat that I was going to give to Acosta as a late Christmas gift. Acosta. My lover. I liked how that sounded.
My phone buzzed in my back pocket. Assuming it was my lover—oh that word was making me giddy—I shuffled my packages to my left arm, pulled out my phone, and grinning like a goof I pushed the accept call button at the same time my eyes locked onto the name of the caller.
Shit.
My father’s booming voice exploded in my ear. “It’s about time you pick up. It’s incredibly unprofessional to let people go to voicemail all the time. Do you have that idiot’s signature on that damn contract?!”
My sight darted around the grange, looking for a private place to take this call. I scurried into the kitchen, hot on the heels of an old lady carrying an empty carafe of coffee back into the food prep area. She and several elderly women gasped at my intrusion.
“Sorry, my father is on the line, and I needed some privacy.”
“What?” a silver-haired gal shouted.
“Phone call,” I replied, holding up my phone as my father continued to bitch at me.
“Pay phone?” another white-haired lady stirring a pot on a big range asked.
“No, not a pay phone. I have a—never mind.” I turned around, found a corner, and went to stand in it like a naughty child. Which I guess I was. It didn’t feel any better to be scolded as an adult as it had when I’d been a child. “Dad, if you’d let me explain what is going on up here. Also, can I just pot and damn kettle for you crawling up my ass for not replying to texts and calls?!”
“You know full well that when I’m away from the office with clients that I amnotto be disturbed. The holidays are prime client seducing time.”
“Uh-huh. You’re seducing someone, but it’s not a client.” He blustered. “Whatever. I don’t even care anymore. This whole family is so hung-up on itself that no one cares what anyone else is doing. How sad is that?”
“For God’s sake, Decker, would you stop being so damn sensitive.” I rolled a lip. Sensitive meaning feminine meaning unmanly meaning less than. “We’ve had this routine for the holiday for years. No one else ever complains. Your brother and mother are happy as larks. I’m happy as a lark. There’s only you. The whiner. Now, can we please discuss business?”
“Sure. Yeah, business.” I let my brow thud against the cool plaster wall.
“Good. Christ. So, do you have Melios signed yet? If not, why the hell are you still in the miserable little town?”
“I’m working on getting him to sign, Dad. He’s not the typical prospective signee. I’m having to handle him in a more personal manner.”
My father went off on a tangent. I closed my eyes, willing to just ride it out as I always did when someone behind me cleared their throat. A male someone. A male someone whose attention getting cough I knew pretty well. I turned from the wall to see Acosta, hands filled with bags of pretzels and hot drinks in a cardboard carrier, staring at me in that cold, lifeless way I’d not seen in several days.
Well crumb cakes.
