Truckin’

RORY BENT over the old army surplus desk, filling in his paperwork, and purposefully stretched his legs to bump them into Val Royal's. Royal startled and pulled his legs back, sucking in his stomach and glancing left and right to see if anybody had noticed his reaction.

Heh heh…. Rory had noticed his reaction.

Mm… nice.

Rory had been Dean Royal's shooting instructor in the Federal Law Enforcement Training Centers academy and had appreciated the younger man's competence and efficiency—and his sneaky little moments of wit and humor. Dean had been a looker too, with rich brown hair and green eyes, much like his brother, as well as high cheekbones and a square jaw—but Rory didn't hit on students, or coworkers for that matter, particularly not back in his feeb days and particularly not when they were scarcely older than his son.

But Val was a different kettle of fish.

For one thing, he was a good ten or so years older than Dean, which made the age gap much less uncomfortable, and for another, as a private contractor, Rory and Val were on more equal footing. Either one of them could break the contract if they needed to. But Rory definitely didn't want to now .

But that was one thing. The other thing—signaled by Val's deeply etched scowl, the V in his forehead so pronounced Rory had to wonder if it was tanned as evenly as the rest of Val's face—was just so delightful! Rory had met a lot of just-the-facts-ma'am G-men in his time at the bureau, but he'd never met somebody so very serious about….

He had to check the paperwork twice.

"Bull jizz?" he asked, the chuckle bursting out of him before he could stop it.

"The cattle business is a multimillion-dollar industry," Val said with dignity, but Rory caught it. A tiny tick at the corner of a tightly compressed, lean mouth.

"I know it," Rory drawled. "The hat and boots aren't just for show. Grew up in Texas, so I know me some cows."

And now there were two tics—one at each corner.

"Although, you know, not as intimately as some of my compatriots," Rory continued, eyeballing some of the language on the shipping manifest. "Given that I don't rightly remember seeing a bull with a prick small enough to come in a straw."

And now Val's forehead was twitching, like that deeply etched V was struggling to un etch itself from Val Royal's forehead.

"The, uhm, material is collected and then separated into straws," Val said as though reciting something he'd had to learn for school. "The straws are either frozen or chilled, depending on when they're going to be used to inseminate the cows." He paused and swallowed. "I, uhm, have no idea if that's done in vitro or in utero, but, uhm, I have no desire to see a goat fuck, and I extend cows the same courtesy."

Rory almost choked on his own tongue. "You little shit," he said, laughing at his new working partner. "You had me thinking you had no sense of humor about this at all."

Val was holding his hand up to his mouth to hide his grin, but the subtle shake of his shoulders—not to mention the relaxation of the tension in his forehead and the crinkles at the corners of his green eyes—gave him away.

"Yeah, yeah," he said with a sigh, dropping his hand and relaxing against the back of his chair. "I get it. A shipment full of bull jizz has the makings of high comedy." He sobered, although his scowl hadn't returned. "But I wasn't kidding the first time. It's a multimillion—perhaps billion -dollar industry, and my friend Vinnie, the guy in Texas, is depending on this shipment. He's trying to diversify his herd. He's got your standard Texas Longhorns, and he wants to make a Longhorn/Limousin hybrid."

"Limousin?" Rory asked, intrigued. "That's a breed of cow?"

Val snorted. "It's got a—" He closed his eyes. "—a lower proportion of fat and bone, I guess? So, you know. One cow, more juicy meat. And longhorns are good, but mixing that up with a breed that does better free range, he can carve a niche in the boutique meat industry, I guess. You know, high-end restaurants, farm-to-table places. I mean, it's not Wagyu beef, but it's cheaper, and it's got the, you know, novelty thing going, and once people realize it tastes good…."

"He could increase his profit margin by a lot," Rory agreed.

"He could. But…." Val shook his head. "It should have been an easy thing, you know? Vinnie's smart. He proposed this business plan, he got backers, he insured the first shipment. And then somebody stole the shipment, detached the trailer from the rig while the driver was catching his mandatory shut-eye and left it out in the desert to rot. Vinnie got the insurance money, arranged for another shipment, and this one was sabotaged—again while the driver was asleep in the cab at a truck stop—and by the time the rig got to Texas…." He grimaced.

"Ew," Rory said succinctly.

"I mean, spoiled bull jizz. Yeah. That's gotta be a truly special cologne, you think?"

"You'd have to burn what you were wearing," Rory agreed emphatically. He touched the brim of his hat, sitting upside down on the desk next to him, for comfort. Hopefully it would never come to that, but, well, yuck.

"So," Val continued, "Vinnie calls me last week and offers me the contract. He's scraped together the last of his backers' money and insurance money, and he can't get this insured through the livestock investors after the last two tries. He had to take out a bond through me and…." Val shook his head, and Rory suddenly got it.

He'd seen the modest yard—ten trailers? He probably had four or five dedicated drivers with their own rigs. This was a tightly run operation.

"This could break you," he said softly.

"Or make me," Val agreed, just as serious. "We've secured loads for years, but nothing this expensive or with this sort of… jinx on it, you know? So yeah, this could bankrupt my company, or it could absolutely cement my reputation for small loads that absolutely positively must get to where they're going. But first…." He indicated Rory with two open palms, face up.

"I've got to come through," Rory said, understanding. "So, yeah, bull jizz is funny, but this job is no laughing matter."

Val nodded soberly, but then the corners of his mouth turned up. "Mr. McCauley—"

"Rory," Rory said, and had the thrill of watching Val swallow almost like a high school kid.

"Rory," Val repeated, that V in his forehead trying to make an appearance again. "If you met my brother Dean, you'll know my family has got a puckish sense of humor. My mother never could resist a dirty joke or an awful pun, and if nobody would laugh at it, she'd giggle at it herself. I know how to laugh at a truck full of bull semen, trust me. And if this job gets done, I will be telling that story at bars for free drinks—how bull come made me the man I am today."

Rory manfully blocked a snicker, and Val nodded appreciatively.

"But first, my best friend from high school is trying to save his family's business, and it sure does look like somebody's got it out for him. I promised. You just signed all the right paperwork to earn a hefty commission for this job. Please tell me you can help my friend make his fuckless cow dreams come true."

Rory did snicker then, but he'd stopped by the time he met Val's eyes and extended his hand over the desk. "I promise, Val. I won't let you down."

Val shook his hand firmly, and Rory, mindful that he could be asking for a broken jaw, didn't let go of that broad-palmed, blunt-fingered hand right away. Val tugged gently at his hand and swallowed again. "I appreciate it," he mumbled, and Rory kept hold.

"You want to appreciate it over a beer with me?" he asked, and Val grimaced, finally reclaiming his hand while looking gratifyingly regretful.

"I'm afraid not," he said. "Vinnie's herd needs to be fertilized in the next two weeks so he can make his production schedule. I've got tomorrow to get my shit together here at the yard so Stacy, my office manager, can take over for me while I'm gone, and odds are good we move out at six in the morning, the day after tomorrow. That means you and me leave here at four in the rig to go pick up their trailer, do the inspection, and take off. Son, I'm booked , and beer is not on my schedule."

Well, that was disappointing, but Rory was not easily dissuaded. "How about a burger, then," he said and crinkled his eyes at Val in a way that he'd used to charm both men and women his whole life—although usually it was the men who had followed him to bed. "Everybody needs to eat. C'mon, Val. What's that short for, anyway? Valerie? Valerian? Valiant?"

Val grunted. "Oh God. No. No. I'll have a burger with you, but I am not explaining the name thing."

Rory's eyebrows went up. "Now I'll take that as a challenge. Where we eating?"

Val seemed chagrined for a moment and then gave him directions from the main road in front of the business lot to—in his words—"the best burger joint in central California that nobody ever heard of" and promised to meet him there in half an hour.

"If I'm leaving the office," Val told him, "I need to lock up."

"I'll help," Rory said smoothly. Val had his cell number after all that paperwork, and Rory could sense an impending blow-off—or so he thought.

"It won't take a minute," Val said, rolling his eyes. "You got me, McCauley—"

"Rory."

"Rory. I'm on for dinner. I'm looking forward to it, even, just like I'm looking forward to my little house and a swim before bed and these really soft bamboo cotton sheets that my sister got everybody for Christmas. You have no idea. They get softer with every wash. If you want, order for me. I like their third-of-a-pound mushroom swiss burger, midrare, and a pitcher of root beer. You heard that right, don't give me shit. I promise I'll be there before it lands on the table."

Rory eyed him evenly. "I don't like broken promises," he said.

"Maybe order the fried pickles as an app, then," Val said. "That'll give me an extra five minutes."

Rory chuckled, relenting. "Fine. But if you don't show up, I'll be here at six in the morning tomorrow with your food for breakfast, and I'm making you eat every bite."

Val quirked one eyebrow with an uncomfortable sort of perception. "Don't worry, Rory—you're not the only one who can keep his word. Now shoo and let me get busy."

Rory did, heading back to his truck just as the wind swept the bare plain of Bakersfield, making Rory shiver a little. The April breeze was probably the last bit of cool left in the old dust bowl. Bakersfield from May through September was almost unrelentingly hot and dry, so Rory savored it and glanced around the trucking yard as he approached his vehicle. The place was clean and spare, surrounded with razor wire and designed to throw as much heat up as possible, like a lot of such places, but the gravel was clean and unlittered, and there were no oil spots or industrial spills to mar the tarmac. Rory caught the pale glint of sand near the repair bay, and realized that if there were mechanical spills, Val Royal took care of them before they were an eyesore.

It wasn't pretty—but then transportation and shipping often wasn't. Still it was the kind of place that showed pride and neatness and a certain sense of order.

Val Royal was probably a good boss. An exacting one, but a generous one. Once he'd let his scowl drop, Rory had enjoyed the man behind the stony front very much.

And he had really enjoyed watching Val shift in his seat as the air charged between them. Rory knew Dean was gay, and Dean had mentioned once that the gene had "thrown true" for most of his sibling pool. Hitting on Val Royal had been a risk, but a calculated one; the odds had been in Rory's favor, and even if he'd crapped out, he was pretty sure he wouldn't have gotten into too much trouble. He sure had called that puckish sense of humor right.

As Rory made his way toward a low-slung building on the outskirts of town, he got a whiff of brisket, and there was a trail of smoke coming over the top of the stained boards and flat roof that could only be a slow-cooker barbecue setup in the back.

There were places like this in Texas—often out in the middle of rolling fields. A slow cooker, a small kitchen, a generator for lights, some picnic tables, some pop-up tents in case of cloudbursts—or to fend off the merciless sun. Rory maintained some of the best food in the world was served under the diamond-studded skies of rural Texas, and this place… well, this place looked like a slice of home.

A part of him settled. This could be worth it even without the company, he thought happily, and went inside to stake out a table and place his order.

A draft, a root beer, and a basket of fried pickles had just arrived when Val walked in, wearing a worn denim jacket over his dark blue work polo. The waitress who had served Rory gave him a grin and a wink, and he nodded his chin to where Rory sat.

She nodded back, and he slid his fit body across from Rory's, giving a particularly decadent sigh as he took his first sip of root beer.

"You know," Rory said, taking a sip of his draft, "I thought that maybe the root beer thing was, like, your consolation prize. I had no idea you were really excited to drink that."

Val's smile was appreciative—and, Rory noticed, a little bit weary. "I could drink root beer twenty-four seven if it wasn't, you know, pure sugar and bad for my kidneys. So I drink water at work, but afterward?"

"A man likes to relax," Rory said, liking him more with every exchange.

"And still wake up in the morning," Val agreed. He took another reverent sip of root beer from the iced mug. The waitress had poured it out of a bottle—it appeared to be local brew, and Rory had to laugh at himself. He'd been thinking Val was kidding, had even anticipated him drinking with a sort of martyred sigh. But this was a treat for the man, and he'd let Rory be part of it, and Rory was impressed.

"So," he said, after one more sip, "what'd you order?"

"Brisket burger," Rory told him. "I hope the meat is as good as advertised—"

"Oh it is," Val said. "Sylvie, the waitress? She's married to a man who learned barbecue from his parents in Oklahoma. Some of the best I've ever had."

Rory grunted. "I am offended that it's not Texas," he said, and Val laughed at him.

"I know it. But you know us Hollywood types—we don't know good barbecue from vegan meatballs. You can always tell your Texas friends how sad it is out here."

Rory laughed, feeling a shaft of homesickness. "Yeah, I probably would if I ever planned on going back for more than a visit."

"I thought you liked Texas," Val said, looking surprised. "You certainly like to cowboy it up."

Rory shrugged. "There's a lot of stuff I like about Texas," he said after a moment. "But my business is here. My son is here. A lot of my old FBI contacts are in California."

"Like my brother?" Val asked.

"Yeah. God, he's a gifted little shit. One of the best marksmen with a pistol I've ever trained."

"Mm," Val said. "See, he doesn't tell the family that. Likes to pretend he got into the FBI for the paperwork. It's cute, really, because Mom still tells all her friends about her son the federal agent. She's so proud."

"She's not proud of all of you?" Rory asked, curious.

Val snorted. "Of course she is. My mom is like… like the best . We go to visit her and Dad on the weekends, right? As many of us as possible. And she's hoarded leftovers for the whole week, knowing we'll raid the fridge. She plans dinner Sunday knowing there will be at least two kids at her table, possibly more. And Dad is just as bad—saves stuff for us that we don't need. Television sets he finds in the neighborhood, furniture from friends giving it away. Laure took a collection for a rental space a couple years ago. We all put our junk from Dad in it, and then Laure had her two teenaged sons truck it all to the nearest swap meet and make their gas and car money for the following year. They've been doing that for three years. The youngest, who's graduating from high school, is buying himself a used SUV for college. It's amazing ."

Rory was laughing by the time he was through. "Does your dad know?" he asked.

"Mom does," Val confessed. "She said it was a good system, and she was proud of Laure's boys and told us to carry on."

Rory laughed some more. "Dean used to tell family stories too. I swear it makes me want to meet them."

Val shrugged and dipped a pickle fry in some ranch before taking a bite. "Our folks are good people," he said after chewing. "Not perfect. I'm sure every one of us has an ‘Oh my God, Mom ! or Dad !' story. I think Dad actually chewed Prock out for bringing home a girlfriend and not telling him. He was like, ‘I don't know why gay is the normal for my sons, but it is, and I just would have liked a little warning is all.'"

Rory burst out laughing, and Val nodded, munching another fry.

"You see what I'm saying? We've been trying to figure out for years whether that was appropriate or not. Vote's still out, but since this is the man who bought my brother Sal guyliner for his prom on the way home from his factory job, we're going to give him a pass."

"I love the man already," Rory said mildly, wiping out the last of the pickle fries with some help from the ranch dressing on the side. "My mom… I hope she would have been accommodating."

Val raised his eyebrows. "Of what?" he asked, except the waitress showed up at that moment with a plate for each of them with two of the biggest burgers Rory had ever seen.

Rory, who'd had coffee for breakfast and skipped lunch so he could drive from his last gig in LA to this one in Bakersfield, suddenly lost the thread of the conversation as he tumbled headfirst into the siren song of brisket and cheese and mushrooms and….

He came up for air—with half the burger still in his hands and a sort of blissful haze of food saturation filling his bones—when Val ordered another root beer for himself and a to-go box.

"You're leaving me?" Rory blurted after he'd swallowed his current mouthful and wiped his mouth.

Val snorted. "No, I'm taking this home for breakfast. My God, you can eat." His laughter subsided, and his eyes crinkled warmly in the corners. Rory was really starting to like that. "Been a while?" he asked kindly.

Rory nodded, a little embarrassed. As much as this wasn't supposed to be a date, he'd been hoping to charm the man across from him, and it was hard to do that when you were shoving half a cow down your maw.

"Finished a job down in Burbank this morning," he said. "Got your sister's call and drove out before lunch."

Val nodded. "Well, I appreciate it." He looked vaguely uncomfortable. "You cannot read a damned thing into my next question. Do you have a place to stay?"

Rory nodded. "Oh yeah. My place is outside of McFarland. It's less than an hour away, and the gun club my son and I run is about fifteen minutes from there, in traffic. I'll get home just fine, don't you worry."

"Glad to hear it," Val said.

And now that Rory was down to eating like a human and indulging in some conversation, he said, "So, uhm, what was your alternative if I wasn't close?"

"A guest room," Val said. "I've got a three-bedroom house in a little residential neighborhood nearby. Frankly, Laure found it for me and made me get a house with a spare bedroom and a den. She seemed to think I'd have siblings galore staying in fucking Bakersfield to be with me."

Rory chuckled again; it seemed as if Val's company was like fungus, because it grew and grew and grew on him. "Do you?" he asked.

"Yeah," Val muttered. "I have no idea why. I mean… why ? Not that we don't all live in California, but why? Why would they choose to stop through Bakersfield?"

Rory took a guess. "Because they have a big brother who isn't as grumpy as he pretends to be?"

"I blame the pool," Val said with disgust. "Now that it's raining again, the thing is full, and I can't seem to shake my relatives."

"You have a pool ?" Rory said, batting his eyelashes like the ingenue he never had been. "Oh, then I take it back. I'm going home with you , cowboy, and you'll have to haul me out of the pool with a backhoe ."

Val cackled. "See? I told you it wasn't my winning personality!"

At that moment the waitress brought Val the check, which he took care of so smoothly Rory was caught by surprise. He was starting to realize that Val's grumpy persona was just that—a way to keep people from seeing the protective gentleman underneath.

"Nicely done," Rory said with approval after she'd left to run Val's card and collect his to-go order. "Do I get a chance to return the favor?"

Val regarded him with an expression that was surprisingly serious.

"This was for driving straight up when my family asked you," he said with a nod of his chin that indicated dinner. "Like I said, it's appreciated. If Dean and Laure vouch for you, your security services are much needed."

"And my shameless attempts to hit on you?"

Val's eyes narrowed. "Well, that depends," he said. "On how serious you are with those."

"I wouldn't have done it if I didn't think you were mighty tasty," Rory said, feeling a little stung.

Val shrugged. "Yeah, but maybe I'm searching for courtship, not a hookup."

"Who says I'm not?" Rory asked, now feeling a lot stung.

But Val didn't take offense. "Nobody," he said mildly. "I'm just thinking that if you really were looking for a real thing, this whole conversation wouldn't have been about me, or my family, or even my pool. I got some stories to tell—and I got no problem with that. But I don't sleep with strangers, Rory McCauley, no matter how good a game they talk."

Rory was still gaping at him when the waitress came back by with Val's boxed leftovers, including a small box of what appeared to be dessert in the bag.

"Thank you, darlin'. Make sure you get my friend his own slice of peach crumble, y'hear?"

"'Course, Val," she said with a flirty wink. The woman was in her late forties, with bleached hair and lots of black makeup around the eyes and, Rory noticed, wide hips and a chest that would make a straight man look twice. When Val winked back, Rory got the distinct impression it was because they were friends and not because she was hitting on him, and Rory was suddenly jealous.

Apparently he'd failed the first test to cross the bridge into Val Royal's inner circle, and he wasn't sure whether to be mad at himself for not seeing the openings Val had given or dismissive of Val's apparent acid test for a lover. Rory was a first-rate bedmate, if he said so himself, and as a friend and colleague he had been known as a stand-up guy. How important were his innermost thoughts anyway?

"See you next time, Sylvie," Val said before turning back to Rory. "I'll see you at the lot, four o'clock sharp, morning after tomorrow. I'll have plain coffee in a giant thermos, but I do not object to something with caramel, ice, and a whole lot of sugar if you're driving by one of those places. I'll leave it up to you."

"I'll see you there," Rory said, thinking he'd have a case of the biggest coffee frappes the world had ever seen.

Val's lips were doing that quirking thing in the corners again that indicated amusement, and he took a step to turn away.

"Val," Rory added, suddenly irritated at himself for giving up so quickly.

"Yeah?"

"I wouldn't have spent all the time in the pool," he said, his own smile playing with the corners of his mouth.

"Think a lot of yourself, do you?" Val asked and then laughed in response to his own question before turning away and heading for the door.

Rory resisted the urge to bang his head softly against the table before turning determinedly to his last few bites of burger. As he chewed steadily and swallowed, he was aware of the persistent throbbing in his groin and the way his cock had swelled up against the inseam of his jeans.

Well, shit.

He had two days there, two days' rest, and two days back to convince Val that even a one-night stand with Rory McCauley was worth the effort.

Either that or be convinced that a many-night stand with Val Royal was worth risking his own damned heart.

"Here you go, hon," said Sylvie, breaking him out of his moody thoughts.

He looked up, took the bag holding the boxed cobbler from her, and smiled. "Why thank you, Miss Sylvie. This was kind."

Her eyebrows went up. "Oh no, hon. This wasn't kind. This was the same brush-off I've seen Val Royal give a dozen times before." She shrugged. "For some reason he seems to think the dessert will make it go down sweeter."

Rory felt his eyes narrow and his gaze go flat and calculating. "Oh does he?" he asked.

"Mm-hmm," she said. "But you know, I think that's because none of those other guys were smart enough to know the secret to his heart."

"You gonna tell me, darlin'?" he asked, thinking it couldn't be that easy.

"Well, since I've got my own man, I don't know everything," she said, "but I do know it involves not being so taken with food that you forget your end of the conversation."

Rory all but groaned, because she had him there.

"I'll remember that," he said earnestly.

"You do that," she replied. "You might also remember he comes from a big, tight-knit family that believes in happy ever after. You don't get that by being an island, hon." She cracked her gum and winked. "And don't worry about a tip. Tonight that's my job."

And with that she swung around and va-va-voomed off, leaving Rory with a full stomach, dessert to go, and the feeling that he'd somehow irrevocably blown off a good thing.

Oh, he had not counted on this in the least .

"SO," ANTHONY said the next morning as he flipped Rory's veggie omelet. "You had a brisket burger without me?"

"It was some of the best barbecue I've had outside of Texas," Rory praised, knowing it would make his son jealous—and maybe it would make him stop at the place, now that he knew it existed. Anthony looked a lot like Rory—almost as tall, longish brown hair, hazel eyes developing their own crinkles, and a small, almost pretty, nose. But he was uniquely Californian about food. He wanted to try everything.

"So you didn't bring me any is what I'm saying," Anthony needled before plating Rory's food and setting it on the table in front of him with ketchup and sriracha because some things just were.

"Sorry, son," Rory told him, diving into the gruyere, chive, and mushroom omelet with glee. "Someone else picked up the tab. It didn't feel gentlemanly to ask for another burger." But he had brought his son the peach cobbler, which was why Anthony had been on for breakfast.

"Ooh, did you get lucky?" Anthony asked, getting to work on his own breakfast. His had ham and tomatoes in it.

Rory grunted. "Sadly, no."

"You got shot down?" Anthony asked, and although he sounded gratifyingly surprised, the next bite of omelet went down hard. Rory hadn't realized that even his son thought he was a player.

"Not completely," Rory defended. "He's a busy guy with a lot to do before the haul to Austin is all." Sure it sounded good, but Rory was still a little stung by the thought that Val took guys to the burger place all the time to let them down easy.

Anthony regarded him steadily as he savored his breakfast. "There is…." He frowned, and Rory got a shiver of embarrassment. Rory's son had always held the empathy gene—it had surprised Rory, because his mother had been, like, able to see into his heart even when he was at his absolute worst as an adolescent. Anthony's mother, Connie, was a nice woman—the best—but this extra little sense of what a person was feeling? That was all Rory's mama.

"There's what?" Rory asked, trying not to be defensive.

"This is the guy you're working for, right?"

Rory felt a blush coming on. "Yeah, he's the one with the contract. Val."

"Mm. You like this guy," Anthony said, cocking his head. "You said that. Said he'd be easy to work for, smart, fair, even a little fun. And you're put off because he didn't invite you home?"

Rory shrugged. "He's just looking for something long-term is all," he said.

Anthony blinked. "And that's… bad?"

Oh, how embarrassing. "Tony—"

"Don't ‘Tony' me like I'm twelve, Dad. You're the one who seems to think one-and-done is the be-all and end-all of your existence."

"I'm not the settling down type!" Rory protested. "You know that!"

"You mean besides the settling down you've done my entire life? Your house being half a mile from Mom's until I hit college? That wasn't settling down? You coming to dinner once a week when you weren't on assignment—that wasn't settling down? Jesus, Dad. You and Mom have worked for twenty-five years to make my life ‘settled' and happy. You can't take a little of that for yourself?"

Rory scowled at him. "You are ruining my omelet ," he complained. "Do you know how hard it is to find this cheese in the damned supermarket nearby?"

Anthony scowled back. "It's like living with a fifth-grader," he announced. "Go ahead, enjoy your omelet. But if this guy gives you another chance—this smart, fair, funny guy—I think maybe you should take it." Anthony took another bite and chewed in the silence. "Unless he's a troll," he said thoughtfully. "I mean, I don't want a stepdad who's a troll."

"That's not very enlightened of you," Rory retorted, pouting because his grown son might very well be more mature than he was.

Anthony raised his eyebrows in challenge, and Rory had to concede the point.

"He's not a troll," he mumbled, taking another bite and savoring.

Anthony kept up his quiet regard.

"He's about forty, and he's really frickin' cute," Rory admitted through a full mouth. He swallowed. "I mean…." Rory sighed. "Yeah. He's a snack, as you young people say."

"Well, if he's looking for settling down, he's apparently the full meal," Anthony said mildly. "Got any plans to redeem yourself?"

"June's place still open at gawdawful a.m.?"

Anthony had dated June's son for a while, and then he'd moved on to a young woman who'd been on summer break from a school down south. Unlike Rory, his son liked women and men equally—and didn't mind looking for a long-term thing. But Anthony was picky, and he had a quiet string of happy exes, cheering him on to true love.

"For coffee and breakfast sandwiches? Yeah," Anthony said.

"You got the app for the place? I think Val's got a weakness," Rory admitted, already thinking ahead.

"That's the stuff, Dad." Anthony pulled out his phone. "Let's git 'er done."

Rory regarded him with narrowed eyes even as his phone buzzed. "Are you trying to get rid of me?" he asked suspiciously.

Anthony rolled his eyes. "Look, one of the best features about this guy is he's less than half an hour away. I could both have the house to myself and see my beloved father figure on a regular basis."

Rory laughed—he had to. "So yes, but with love."

"Lots of love," Anthony reassured him. "Now finish up. We both have lessons to give today."

Rory did as ordered, because Anthony was right. Rory reserved two days a week to give shooting lessons to their best clients. His word was a cornerstone of their business.

But he did make a little bit of time to order a coffee-drink breakfast of champions from McFarland's best coffee shop. Val Royal was looking more and more worth it.