Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 83039 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83039 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
To distract me from the ache under my ribs and to let Frank and Leon have a whole damn conversation with their eyes, I quickly clicked around on my phone.
“Here. I found the perfect thing. A honeymoon suite at a place near Seaside. Nice drive. Jacuzzi tub. Breakfast included and a complementary bottle of Oregon sparkling wine.”
“Honeymoon suite?” Leon pursed his lips.
“We’ll take it.” Frank surprised the hell out of me with his sharp nod. “My old bones can use a soak. And I’ll watch Leon enjoy that wine.”
“You’re an old fool.” Leon laughed with a decades-worn tenderness, soft like jeans laundered hundreds of times. “You’re going to listen to the doctor about not drinking? And eating right?”
“If the doctor says not to mix my meds and alcohol, I’ll do what she says. Gotta keep the ticker going to keep up with you. I plan to be here a good long while yet.”
“You damn well better.” Leon gave him a stern look that morphed into something so intimate I had to glance away.
“And, Leon, better check your email. Your reservation number is in there.”
“Knox…” Leon made a warning noise, then trailed off with a shake of his head.
“What?” I faked innocence. “You guys are relationship goals. Celebrate that.”
Later, after I’d organized the supplies for tomorrow’s painting, helped Frank program the route to the B&B into his phone GPS, and listened to more protests from Leon and reminders from them both, I locked up the empty house and headed back to downtown Safe Harbor.
Each street, each landmark seemed brand new, like I was looking at the world through a different lens. I paused at the intersection at the base of the hillside neighborhood. Right or left? Left or right? Did it even matter? All roads led back to the same place eventually. In so many ways, the outcome of this summer seemed inevitable.
Left. I turned left, swung by Dairy Mart, picked up a pint of the cookies and cream flavor Monroe pretended he only mildly liked and a gold-lidded pint of the flavor of the month, a local peach crisp ice cream. The sample had tasted like honeyed sunshine and the end of summer: bittersweet perfection.
When I entered Monroe’s house, the kitchen was empty. I paused at the doorway between the formal dining room and living room, drinking in the sight of Monroe working, notes on the Stapleton case spread out in front of him, earbuds in, reading glasses perched on his aristocratic nose, typing up a storm as he muttered to himself.
And then he looked up, concentration giving way to pleasure, bright and pure. Sure, he’d said those three little words in the middle of sex, but they were also engraved in his eyes, in the lift of his mouth, the arch of his eyebrows. I might be scared shitless, but I didn’t doubt the truth of his feelings.
He loved me.
And hell if I was anywhere closer to knowing where we went next.
“You’re back.” A little caution crept into his tone, dimming the sparkle of pleasure in his expression. “How did work go?”
“Great. The kitchen refresh is coming along. The homeowners went along with my pitch for lemon-yellow walls.” Not wanting to get overly sidetracked, I held up the paper sack with the Dairy Mart label. “I brought ice cream.”
“The good stuff.” He gave a tentative grin as he crossed the room. Rather than deal with whether to kiss him hello, I quickly led the way back to the kitchen and set the pints on the counter.
“Yep. Other towns can claim theirs is better, but this really is the best,” I said firmly, daring him to disagree.
Which he didn’t, merely nodding toward the bowls I placed on the counter. “Want backward dinner with ice cream now and ordering a pizza later? It’s Friday night. Might as well live dangerously.”
“Sure. Make it a feast of all our town favorites.” I sounded so mournful it was a wonder violin music didn’t start playing. Monroe opened his mouth like he might be about to ask what the hell was up with me, so I scooped fast and talked faster. “So I convinced Frank and Leon to take a spontaneous romantic weekend at a B&B.”
“Good for you. And good for them.” Monroe accepted his bowl of ice cream, leaning against the counter rather than heading to the nearby nook.
“Yeah. They were together for a lot of years when a same-sex couple couldn’t do that. Even being roommates of a certain age was undoubtedly scandalous.”
“Like Aunt Henri.” Monroe’s tone was thoughtful but guarded.
“Yeah. It’s easy to forget how much of queer history is hidden, lost to secrecy.” I took a bite of peach, let the sweet and tart mingle on my tongue. “And you lived part of that history. Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell left a scar on you.”