1. Ethan

CHAPTER 1

ETHAN

Ethan brushed his fingers over the strings of his guitar. He wasn't playing any song in particular, but the sound of the instrument helped him feel a little less lonely these days. He tried not to slip too far into the image of the sad old man, but he wasn't getting any younger… or any happier. Sure, he was content enough. His boys had grown up and settled down, and it made Ethan think that maybe he might like to do the same.

The years after Sarah died had been a blur of misery. Of putting one foot in front of the other while being pulled in ten different directions. Raising three boys on his own had been a challenge, but added to that, the responsibility of running his own business had made having a social life a near impossibility.

Or maybe he was just bad at it, Ethan mused, quietly plucking the strings. It wasn't that he was antisocial—he couldn't be. He owned a diner. He knew half the town because he'd served them at one point or another. Hearing snippets of their lives was unavoidable, but that didn't make them friends. And it wasn't as though Ethan had invested a lot of time, or any, in trying to put himself out there in a romantic way. For years, he'd just been focused on his kids. Taking care of the boys and making sure they had everything they needed was more important than Ethan's love life.

Now, though, his kids were grown and had left the nest. Even Taylor, who'd held on the longest, had finally moved out. It wasn't that he was loud, but Ethan had liked knowing Taylor was downstairs. The house felt huge and empty now.

Ethan put his guitar aside and glanced at the clock. Somehow dinnertime had snuck up on him. The diner was closed that day, which was one of the first changes he made after losing his wife.

He'd quickly realized that he couldn't work seven days a week and raise three boys by himself. He cut it down to five, which had tightened his finances at first, but he managed to scrape by. He'd never be a rich man, but he'd managed to keep three kids dressed and fed and a diner running, so he must have done something right.

Ethan pushed himself to his feet and wandered into the kitchen. The fridge held the same food as it had an hour ago when he'd thought of making something to eat, but then had decided that nothing looked appetizing. The freezer wasn't interesting either. He thought about ordering takeout and having it delivered, but the very thought of sitting alone in front of the TV eating food from a cardboard box made his blood run cold.

The only thing left to do was either go to bed hungry or go out somewhere to eat. Clearly leaving the house won out and Ethan hopped in his truck. He had to let it warm up for a couple minutes to clear the windshield, but then he was off. As it usually happened when he wasn't in the mood to sit around at home, he ended up at The Anchor, a bar with a subtle nautical theme that was miles from any sort of open water.

It wasn't the busiest place on a Monday night, but that was also for the best because Ethan wasn't in the mood for a crowd. He frowned at the brightly lit building and tried to think back to the exact moment he'd become an impossible-to-please, cantankerous geezer and his only conclusion was that he must have been born this way.

Similar to how the diner that Ethan's uncle owned before passing it to him, the owner of the Anchor was one of the sons of the original owner. On a dead night like this, it wasn't a surprise to see him behind the bar.

Shane Taggart was the closest thing to a friend that Ethan had. He was a great guy, the oldest of his brothers, and though he was a good listener, he was never above telling his patrons the truth. Which was probably why Ethan had come here. If he really was turning into a sad old man, Shane would let him know about it.

At forty-nine, Ethan didn't feel ready to be old, but the awful truth was that his joints sounded like breakfast cereal when he got out of bed in the morning and he needed reading glasses to see the fine print on anything. He'd fallen asleep in his recliner in the living room more times than he could count, only waking hours later with a crick in his neck. Only old people hurt themselves sleeping.

Shane cracked open a bottle of beer and set it in front of Ethan when he sat down at the bar. "Try this," he told him.

"Is this another one of your brother's inventions?" Ethan eyed the familiar label. Shane's brother had gone into craft brewing a few years back and it turned out that he had a natural talent for it. "Should I be worried?" Not everything Shane's brother concocted turned out good–which was where Ethan and other brave patrons came in. Shane would give them a free sample in exchange for an honest opinion.

"He wants to create a line of seasonal, holiday brews. This is his first attempt at a winter pale ale."

"Winter pale ale? Not Christmas?"

"Not everyone celebrates that. Calling it a winter ale is more inclusive." Shane nudged the drink closer. "Did you want something to eat?"

"So long as you're not cooking it." Ethan grinned at him when he pulled a sour face.

"Don't worry. I learned my lesson. Sophie is in the kitchen tonight."

"Then I'll have a burger."

"All the fixings?"

"God, no. Just bacon and cheese. And extra pickle. Sophie knows how I like it."

Shane put his order into a fancy machine that was nothing like the old technology at the diner. Yet another reminder about his age, because the idea of putting a new system in place in his own business gave him hives.

Ethan looked at the label of the beer again. It was black, decorated with silver snowflakes and a rare type of cursive font that was easy to read. He lifted the bottle to his lips and took a tentative sip, aware that Shane was watching his face for micro expressions that would give away his feelings long before he offered up his opinion verbally.

The beer was smooth and light and there was some kind of wintery spice to it that made Ethan feel warm inside like someone had plugged in his block heater. He took another, bigger, sip before offering Shane a smile. "Your brother is a genius, and this beer is dangerously good. I think even Damon might be convinced to like it."

Jonah's best friend, now one of Taylor's boyfriends, had a long-standing hatred of beer.

"I'll send a bottle or two with you. If you can manage to get him to try it, I know my brother would appreciate knowing if it's good enough to convert even the most staunch non-believer."

When another couple of people trickled in, Shane excused himself to go deal with them just as Sophie popped out of the kitchen with Ethan's food. She had one of those faces that might trick someone into thinking she was still sixteen, but the ink that covered both arms and hugged her throat proved otherwise. Her hair was cut into one of those short, chin-length styles and she had her signature black lipstick on. She was pretty enough, but Ethan wasn't sure she was his type.

He'd been out of circulation for so long he sometimes wondered if he still had a type. Well, no, that wasn't the whole truth. Ethan knew he liked brunettes, curvy ones. Ones with softness around the middle and thick thighs. He also liked men with soulful eyes, big arms, and a bit of scruff on their face. Not enough to call a beard, but definitely enough to feel.

Not that he'd felt one in a while. There had been a brief moment in time before he met his late wife and then another even more brief moment after she'd died when he'd been with another man. The first time had been curiosity. Awkward teenage fumbling in the dark with boys who would quickly shoot and then proclaim how horribly straight they were and promise to be violent if Ethan ever told. The second brief time was when Jonah was off in college and Colby and Taylor were old enough to do their own thing for the most part.

They were both too old and cool to hang out with their dad, so Ethan had used the opportunity to drive to the next town over and find a dark corner and an eager mouth. A set of willing hands. The body of a consenting person who didn't know shit about him and didn't want to. The orgasms had been out of this world at first. It was like when he was young and eager, but better with a bit of experience under his belt. After a while, the cold feeling it left on him had been devastating. He didn't want random hookups with strange men in shadowy corners. He wanted something that he'd already had, but lost.

He used to remember what she smelled like in the morning and what her laughter felt like against his mouth. Now he could only recall the place she'd been like a bruise he couldn't stop pressing—once he remembered it was there. It wasn't that he'd forgotten her, but life had a weird way of moving on without you.

"Penny for your thoughts." Shane leaned on the bar, showcasing his thick, ink-covered arms. Ethan had toyed with the idea of getting a tattoo years ago, but he never got around to it. And then he had three kids to raise.

"Don't those things hurt?" Ethan motioned to the colorful artwork that disappeared under Shane's rolled-up sleeves.

"Is water wet?" Shane laughed. "They weren't too bad. And tattoo pain is a different kind of pain," Shane said in a way that made Ethan believe he knew a bit of what Ethan felt sometimes. Or if he didn't know, he'd guessed. It probably wasn't hard. Ethan was a predictable person and he usually only came to The Anchor when he couldn't stand sitting at home staring at the same four walls anymore.

"Were you thinking of getting one?"

Ethan shrugged. "I'd wanted one when I was growing up. They seemed cool, right? But I couldn't think of what to get and then I was too broke to get anything. And now I'm back in the boat of not knowing what I'd get. So probably not. What do yours mean?"

Shane grinned at him. "They mean that I had money to spend and thought they were cool."

Ethan frowned. "Aren't tattoos supposed to mean shit, though? Like, this one is for my dog, and that one is for my mom, and this one is for that one-night stand that I pretend to regret."

"To some people, sure. But mine are usually the product of boredom and money burning a hole in my pocket."

Ethan wasn't sure he understood the appeal of spending his free time in a tattoo chair just for the hell of it, but to each their own.

He stretched and slid off the stool. "Well, I have a diner to open in the morning, so I'm out of here. But tell your brother that I'll be around for a case of that winter beer."

Ethan counted out a few bills and handed them to Shane. "Keep the change."

"I'll do that. Don't be a stranger," Shane said as Ethan headed for the door.

A tiny bit of guilt nibbled at Ethan's conscience. Shane was a stand-up guy and he should be Ethan's type. All the right elements for attraction were there. The solid build, the scruffy face. Even the eyes so deep Ethan could drown in them.

He would've made a pass a long time ago except for the fact that though he found Shane attractive—he'd have to be blind not to—he wasn't attracted to him. There was a distinct lack of chemistry between them. There was also the small complication of never having come out to his kids. It wasn't that he was keeping it from them. They'd accept him no matter what, even if they weren't all various shades of rainbow themselves. There had just never been a reason to divulge his bisexuality so he hadn't. And he was starting to think there would never be a need to come out at all.