Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 64238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 321(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 214(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 321(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 214(@300wpm)
“Yo, Trunk. Over here. I want you to meet Will Perez. He’s the sports reporter at the Forest Tribune and a huge hockey fan.” Vinnie slapped the other man’s shoulder and pointed at me. “And you probably know who this beast is.”
“I do. It’s an honor to meet you, Mr. Thoreau.” Will pushed his glasses on his thin nose and licked his lips. “I’ve been following your career for a while, and I was sorry to hear about your recent concussion.”
“Thanks. I’m doing better,” I reported.
“There’s a rumor you’re heading to Seattle soon. I hate to corner you like this, but we don’t get breaking news in these parts and I feel like I have to ask…will you be announcing your retirement as expected or are you hoping to play?” he asked nervously.
“I’m hoping to play.”
Will beamed. “That’s great. I wish you all the best. And I hope your stay in Elmwood helped.”
“Thanks, it definitely did.”
“Cool.” Will clicked the cap off the Nikon around his neck. “Is it okay if I get a photo with Kimbo and you?”
Vinnie and I scooted to give him a view of the rink in the background, and again to make room for Nolan. It was an impromptu photoshoot, over within a few minutes.
I pretended not to hear my name in the melee as Jean-Claude and I escaped the rink.
Fifteen minutes later, I unlocked my front door, stomping snow off my boots. My nose was red, my cheeks hurt, my toes were frozen solid, and my—
Well, I forgot the rest when Jean-Claude pushed me against the foyer wall and slanted his cold mouth over mine.
I hummed into the connection. “What was that for?”
He closed his eyes briefly and rested his forehead on mine. “I don’t know. I just…we don’t talk about what is right there in front of us, do we? You know I’m going to miss you.”
Oh. Shit.
“Don’t do that,” I rasped in a husky tone. “I have a few days still. I don’t want to do good-byes. I don’t think we have to.”
“Okay, but—”
“I’m serious. Come to Seattle,” I practically shouted, clearing my throat while my heart tried to jump out of my chest ’cause what the fuck was I doing?
He cocked his chin in confusion. “Seattle.”
“Yeah, why not? You want to open a new restaurant, but does it have to be in Pinecrest?”
“No, but—”
“Why not Seattle? It’s a big city and it’s a foodie town. You’d do well there,” I assured him, though I didn’t know shit about the restaurant business. I was talking out of my ass, jumbling my words in a panic. I wasn’t ready to acknowledge an end date.
Not for us.
Not fucking yet.
“You’re suggesting I follow you home?”
I squinted as if mulling over the idea. I wasn’t. My brain was short-circuiting and the rest of me was sweating. So much for freezing my balls off.
“Yeah. Is that weird? I mean, the idea just came to me, and it’s not a bad one. It’s something to think about,” I said in a rush.
Silence.
The harsh and heavy kind that felt like a down jacket on a summer day.
He caressed my jaw, dragging his thumb across my bottom lip. “Seattle.”
“Yes,” I whispered.
“Hmm.” He dropped his hand and stepped aside to shrug off his coat. He turned to me, continuing in a cool, detached tone. “I’ve been to Seattle, but it was many years ago. Tell me about your city while we eat. I’m hungry.”
I stared after him for a moment, unable to shake the fear that I’d fucked something up. I didn’t get it. I didn’t know how to read him or whatever this heavy silence was, so I just…talked. And talked. I ran through a top-ten list of the best things about my adopted city as if I were a tour guide trying to drum up business in the off-season. I couldn’t tell if he was listening to my words or the sound of my voice. He was there but…not really.
Fuck, I hadn’t come here looking for this. I wasn’t supposed to stay so long or do anything stupid like have a bisexual awakening and fall for a man. Yet, here I was.
And nothing seemed simple anymore.
12
JEAN-CLAUDE
“The sauce should be à la minute. Allez, allez. Go, go, go.” I clapped, irritably gesturing for my sous chef to spring into action.
We had a packed house at the diner tonight, and the special was the number one requested item on the menu. It was rather ironic that the coq au vin was more popular than the classic meatloaf on any given night, but none of us had counted on the pot-au-feu selling out. That was poor planning and yes, I was to blame. As my American friends would say, my head wasn’t in the game.
I barked orders as if I were a cranky captain steering a ship through hurricane winds. I liked order in my kitchen—gleaming counters, sharp knives, the best meats and produce, and a well-trained staff who worked in harmony. This was near chaos.