4. Hank

4

HANK

" Y ou have urgent calls on lines one, two, and three, sir. And an important message."

I glanced from the red lights beeping on my desk to my new assistant hovering in the doorway with a Post-it note in her hand. Christ, I was in over my head without a life preserver, and though I knew how to swim in these waters, it had been a few years since I'd had to.

And c'mon, why give me three calls and a message at the same time? If it didn't smack of paranoia, I'd swear there was a conspiracy going on where every vendor or contractor in the area had agreed to sync up and call me at once.

No…this was an internal situation. I had a bad feeling my dad's Wood Hollow employees had devised a secret sneaky plan to drive me insane.

From the outside, everything seemed to be going well. My secretary, Emily, a pretty brunet in her midtwenties with a cool ink sleeve on her right arm and a penchant for the color purple always greeted me warmly, asked how I was doing, and offered to bring me coffee. I'd thought that meant she liked me. But the coffee kind of sucked, and you didn't purposely try to overwhelm your boss with competing "urgent" calls and important messages on the hour if you liked him, did you?

"Uh…thanks, Emily." I took the yellow sticky note and fixed it to my monitor. "Which call is most important? One, two, or three?"

She smacked her gum, narrowing her eyes thoughtfully. "Gosh, that's hard to say. Three's my lucky number, so I'd go with that. Can I get you anything else before I go home?"

I peeked at my watch. "It's not five o'clock yet."

"Oh. That's like…fifteen minutes from now. Did you want me to stay till then?"

I nodded. "Yes, that's part of the deal. Eight to five and an hour for lunch."

Her smiled dimmed. "Okay. I'll be at my desk if you need me."

I gave her a thumbs-up as I adjusted my Airpods and tackled the blinking lights.

Report: the call on line one dropped, number two was a solicitor, and number three was the contractor in charge of the entire Wood Hollow building project. Long story short, I should have taken Emily's advice.

By the time I finally got to the Post-it note, she was gone for the night along with the rest of the staff. Apparently, no one at the mill worked past five p.m. We had a new shipment coming in at dawn tomorrow and if I wanted to be sure it didn't get unloaded in the parking lot, I had to be here at the ass crack of dawn.

Get this…I hadn't been able to bribe anyone to come earlier. I'd asked the manager to handle it, but he had a dentist appointment and wouldn't be in till ten. It was glaringly obvious that if I wanted anything done, I had to do it myself. There was no way I could continue at this rate and remain sane in this town.

And that was why I needed the hockey player. Denny was my ticket out of here.

My cell buzzed, pulling me back to reality.

"Hankster! How's it going in the land of maple syrup?"

I smiled for what felt like the first time in hours and sat back in my chair. "Hey, Cassy. I'm okay. How about you?"

"Great. I wanted to thank you referring the Crane kid. I hooked him up with Jazzy. Remember her? She's that Appaloosa I was telling you about. She's just as sweet as Bess, and Max took to her right away."

"That's good news," I replied.

Cassy agreed and launched into a report about the goings-on at the stable and a new client she'd taken on who'd recently been in an accident. She was an animated single mom in her forties who'd started out assisting me at the stable and had basically taken over. Temporarily. I couldn't decide if I was grateful or jealous.

Definitely jealous.

I hummed as cued, ignoring the pang of homesickness while I stared out the window at the forest. I thanked Cassy for the update, assuring her I'd visit on my trip to Denver next weekend. Then I grabbed my hat and keys, pushed away from my desk, and at the last second, snatched the dog-eared Post-it note stuck to my computer screen.

A green melon …and a phone number.

A green melon? Mellon maybe?

Denny?

No, he wouldn't call the mill directly. I checked my cell for a message from him, but there wasn't one. Emily had handed over the note first, so maybe this green melon message had been important too.

And now, I was looking for clues to interpret messages at work. Wow .

I locked up and headed out to the lone truck in the lot. I started the engine before inputting the number. A woman answered on the second ring. I explained that I was returning a call, apologizing for not knowing her name as I navigated toward the main road.

"Oh, the wood guy," she said around a cough.

"Well, yes. I guess I am. How can I help you, Ms.…"

"Mellon. Denny's grandma."

My eyebrows shot to my hairline. What the fuck? Denny's grandmother?

"Uh…"

Confusion caught my tongue, but she didn't notice. "I think I'm being uncool, but I don't give a rat's ass. I want to meet you to be sure you aren't a psycho looking for a cheap story. I don't drive anymore, and I'm not paying that cranky old Sal to take me on a joyride to Wood stinkin' Hollow. You'll have to come to me. I can offer you cookies or bread for your trouble. I work at the bakery in Elmwood on Tuesdays at ten a.m…or whenever I feel like coming in. Just ask for Annie. I have nothing else to say, so don't make this weird. Good-bye."

She hung up.

I stopped at the corner of Pecker and Belvedere to stare at the screen on my dashboard. This was a new one. I'd never been summoned to meet an acquaintance's grandmother. And that was all Denny and I were…acquaintances. Nothing sexy had happened and he hadn't agreed to help me out, so we weren't even business associates. Or friends.

We were just…

Okay. Fuck it. I didn't know what was going on, so I scrolled for the number I'd inputted a few nights ago and texted Denny.

Your grandmother wants to meet me.

I continued along the winding road to Elmwood, passing Lake Norman and the giant copse of elms near Carlton Creek. The moon shone like a spotlight on bare trees, church steeples, and quaint homes dotting the wintery horizon. I missed Denver, but I had to admit this place was charming and idyllic, like a picture straight out of a Vermont travel brochure.

I stopped by my father's new house and checked in with the contractor finishing up the kitchen and bathroom remodel. It was very…nice.

The house itself was unassuming—a two-story white colonial with green shutters and a narrow porch. The hardwood flooring was in decent shape and the rooms were spacious with large windows overlooking a grassy field and the forest beyond. The kitchen and bathrooms had been stuck somewhere in the eighties and desperately needed updating, but it had good bones.

Dad hadn't been willing to go from a sprawling ranch in the mountains of Colorado to a tired, hundred-year-old Wood Hollow house. He'd wanted the comforts of home, including a tricked-out, modern kitchen, space for his horses, and privacy. This was a humble version of Red Robin Ranch, but he would have approved.

It was mine for six whole months now, and nope, I wasn't happy about that.

My situation was looking bleak as hell at the moment. The mill was plodding along at the same rate it had for decades, which wasn't anywhere near what was needed to meet the demands of new construction. And after two years of hanging out with horses and therapy patients, I was out of practice in dealing with corporate assholes and angry workers.

I walked through the kitchen with Steve the contractor, oohed and aahed at the restaurant-grade appliances Dad had ordered, and admired the giant quartz island and the breakfast nook that supposedly had a nice view of the forest. It was too dark to appreciate the scenery at this hour, but I believed him.

"Thank you. It looks amazing, Steve. How much longer will you need?" I asked.

Steve smoothed the edges of his full mustache as he peered around the kitchen and great room area. He was a big man in his fifties with rosy cheeks and a beer belly. "One week to paint and clean. I don't know if you need movers, but my son and his friends would be happy to help."

"That's nice of you, but I don't have anything to move. Just a suitcase. I'll have to order furniture online. Unless you have any stores here."

"Not in Elmwood. You'll have to go to Pinecrest. It'll be pricey, but you'll want nice things for this house." He swept his arm wide and continued conversationally. "This is turning into a fancy section of town. I don't know if you follow hockey, but Vinnie Kiminski is your neighbor. Your property abuts his on the other end of the creek. Vinnie and his husband, Nolan have two kids now. Gee, they must be seven and four or five. I saw them sledding down that little hill from your window a couple of weeks ago. Technically on your property, but I'm assuming you like kids, and I sure as heck hope you don't have a problem with a family with two dads."

"Well, I?—"

"I know not every place is like Elmwood, but I'll tell ya something…we pride ourselves on diversity and?—"

"I'm gay, Steve. Of course, I'm cool with it," I intercepted.

I'd commuted regularly between Vermont and Colorado over the past month, initially splitting the week with three days in Denver and four here. Every freaking time I stepped foot in Elmwood or Wood Hollow, you'd think I was brand-new to the area. Which meant I heard the same spiels about inclusivity and equality over and over again.

The "Don't be a dick or we'll run your ass out of town" speech had become a mantra of sorts. I'd heard a few variations since I first arrived, usually delivered in the same congenial tone of my contractor.

Look, I appreciated their commitment to protecting their neighbors, but I wasn't the enemy. Sure, I was the guy whose family was cutting down trees in their forest, but we were doing it the right way.

Seemingly, my queerness gave me the hall pass our commitment to sustainable forestry lacked.

The ironic thing was that I'd had zero plans to come out to the good folks in the Four Forest area. I had a strong belief that who I fucked was my business and no one else's. Elmwood was different, and if shared sexuality put me in the same cool category as some of the town's elite hockey citizens, I might as well lead with that info.

Hey, it worked on Steve.

The older man didn't bother hiding his surprise. "Oh. Good for you."

"I'm also a hockey fan. I followed Vinnie's career religiously in my teens. And Riley Thoreau's."

He beamed and clapped my shoulder. "I knew I liked you. Did you know Jake Milligan is from here too? He plays for Boston. And Denny Mellon is Colorado's new rookie who?—"

"I met Denny last weekend."

"Great guy," Steve gushed. "I went to high school with Denny's dad and his uncle, Daryl. They were wild and crazy…always taking dares. Denny must take after his mom's side of the family. God rest her soul. Poor kid has lost both parents now. All he's got left is Annie. No, no. I think he has a brother too. Never met him, but—I need to shut my gob and get home or I'll be late for dinner. Have a good night, Mr. Cunningham."

"Hank," I corrected. "Just Hank."

He paused at the kitchen door and inclined his chin. "All right. See you tomorrow, Hank."

I cast an appraising glance around the shiny new kitchen as I pulled my cell from my pocket and called home.

"Hello, Cunningham residence. May I ask who's calling?"

Side note: A, someone had been answering the phone in my childhood home with that exact greeting for the past forty years or more. B, my father would never ever get rid of his landline. He was a sporadic texter at best, and if he had a lot to say, he called…or emailed.

"Hi, Margaret. It's Hank. How's he doing?"

"Okay," his nurse replied hesitantly. "Your father fell today. He was trying to lift himself from his chair. It was a bit traumatic, but he's fine."

I swallowed hard in an attempt to dislodge the ball of panic wedged in my throat. "Did you call Dr. Hellman?"

"Yes. He left an hour ago. He prescribed a blood thinner and rest. Your dad will downplay it, but I thought you should know."

"Thanks."

"Would you like to speak to him?" Margaret asked.

"Yes, please."

A couple of minutes later, my dad's familiar Texas twang rattled the line. "Well, is it a shit show over there or what?"

The answer was yes. One thousand times, yes.

"It's not too bad," I hedged, scratching my temple. "It's going to take a bit of work, but?—"

"You got him!" Dad intercepted. "You got the hockey star."

"Not exactly, but we talked and I'm going to see him when I'm in Denver this weekend." I hoped.

"Then you got him. I knew you were the one for the job. I knew it."

"Nothing is done, Dad. I just met him. This may take a while," I reminded him.

" Hmm , I don't have a while," he countered. "Sell him on the idea, Hank. Offer him something no one else can. Something titillating and unique."

"Titillating and unique?" I repeated

"Make it sexy." Uh… "I believe in you, son. Will I see you this weekend?"

Okay, my mind was still stuck on the titillating comment, but I rallied.

"Of course. How are you feeling?" Yeah, I knew the answer, but I had to ask.

"Right as rain and fit as a fiddle."

"I heard you fell."

"Oh, please. That was nothing. I got right back in the saddle. Don't you worry about me," he huffed.

I nodded impotently. Margaret was right. Dad would downplay personal danger all day long. Poking for more info would only piss him off.

We talked for a few minutes, trading our standard bullshit lines. I was fine, he was fine, everything was fine. "Fine" had become a high bar. How sad was that? It scared me to think this was as good as it got.

The father of my youth had been larger than life: tall, barrel-chested, twinkly-eyed, charismatic, energetic—and an all-around good guy. He wasn't a saint by any means. Dad had a wily, cutting side, and by his own admission, he was occasionally ambitious to a fault.

Now he was fussy, cantankerous, and only sporadically engaging. But I was the only one of his kids who gave a damn about the family business. Trust me, I didn't want to care. In fact, I tried very hard not to care, but I did. And here I was. Stuck in Elmwood.

"Glad you're feeling better. I'll see you in a few days, Dad."

My cell beeped with a new notification just as I ended the call.

A missed text from Denny Mellon.

Who is this?

Hank , I responded. Your new best friend. You stole my bed the other night. Ring any bells?

Thumbs-up emoji. What's up?

You tell me. Your grandma called me.

Face-palm emoji. Do not talk to her.

The hint of playfulness made me smile and damn, I really needed something to smile about. Are you kidding? I've been summoned. If you won't help me, maybe she will.

Three dancing dots, pause. More dancing dots. Good luck with that.

See you Friday night.

Eye-roll emoji. I have a game.

And we had a deal. This is part two of the proposition. Nothing. No eye-roll emojis, no thumbs-up. I waited a minute and added, Meet me at the Oak Tavern on Olivera Street. It's close to the arena. I'll be there at ten.

No response.

I stared at the screen, waiting for those damn dots.

Fuck it. If he showed, he showed. If not, I'd have to go all bounty hunter on him again. Or let it go and figure something else out.

I opened the sliding glass door to the deck. A dusting of snow covered the wide planks and the steps leading to the sprawling lawn. No porch lights, no street lamps, just a sliver of moon in the otherwise pitch-dark sky. I wished Bess were here. I missed my old life. The one I'd had two years ago. Christ, I even missed my ex. I was in exile in a strange land where no one but the bartender remembered my name.

This was hell. It was a pretty version, but…it still sucked.

I pulled my cell out and hallelujah, there was a message from Denny.

Okay.

I breathed out a sigh of relief. Thank you, baby Jesus.

Remember when I claimed to be charming? Not impressed so far? Fair. I needed another shot. I was going to charm the hell out of Denny Mellon if that was what it took to win the PR game and turn this mill around. Dad was right. I had to make this offer so appealing, he couldn't say no.

And yes…I was going to wear my fucking cowboy hat.