6. Smitty

There was a decent chance Bryson was going to deck me right here, right now. His eyes turned a stormy shade of blue as his fists clenched at his sides. He was in shape for sure, so I bet his left hook would sting. Nah, he didn't seem the type to resort to violence. He was more likely to talk a subject to death till you called uncle and promised to do whatever the fuck he wanted.

Thing was…I wasn't going anywhere. Not yet. So, he was just going to have to deal with it.

Here's what happened:

I'd checked into the Black Horse Inn late last night and made a plan to meet with Riley at Elmwood Rink at noon. He'd given me a tour of the impressive facility and ushered me to his car, intending to extend the tour to the high school. That was where I'd stopped him and explained that I wasn't in a position to accept a year-long contract.

I'd apologized for giving mixed signals, and spent a good ten minutes or so gushing over how cool the town was and that I was bummed it wouldn't work out.

Yeah, I'd babbled like a moron. Hey, it was better than admitting my ten-hour drive to Elmwood was fueled by a fierce desire to outrun bad memories. Who knew? If my cousin Tony from California had called before Riley, I might have been halfway across the US on my way to Santa Monica right now.

Logic had played no part in my arrival in Elmwood. None whatsoever. I'd been freewheelin', making decisions on the fly, and you know, it had felt pretty damn good. Even the part when I'd opened up my big fat mouth and agreed to stay for a couple of months.

A few hours later, it still seemed like a solid plan. It would have been better if Bryson hadn't greeted me like I was a plague-carrying rodent, but hey, you couldn't win 'em all.

He raised his brow and gave a humorless half laugh. "A short-term rental?"

"Do you have such a thing in Elmwood? Something close to the high school would be great. A house, though. Not an apartment. I don't want to share a wall with noisy neighbors." I pointed at the TV wall and grunted. "That guy snored like a fuckin' sailor last night. I need to buy earplugs, ASAP. Otherwise, I'm easy."

Bryson stuck his tongue against the inside of his cheek, shaking his head in disbelief. I thought for sure he was about to tell me to fuck off, but instead he said, "Inventory is low, but I'll see what I can find. There might be something in Wood Hollow or Fallbrook."

"Are those street names?"

"No, they're neighboring towns. Fallbrook is closer, and Pinecrest is only fifteen minutes away. Wood Hollow is a good cost-effective option. But if a logging truck is picking up a delivery or?—"

"No, no. It has to be here," I insisted.

"Right." He shot an inscrutable look my way and opened the door. "Someone from my office will be in touch."

"What about you? Are you free tomorrow?" I stepped outside, calling his name when he reached the stairs. I waited for him to turn before adding, "I'll text you. Maybe we can meet for coffee."

Bryson didn't reply or react. He lowered his sunglasses like a boss and hurried down the stairs. I watched him stride across the parking lot to a silver Mercedes, slide into the driver's seat, buckle his seat belt, and then…bang his head against the steering wheel.

My lips curled on one side. Hey, I wasn't here to make him miserable, but the fact that I was under his skin, even just a little, was oddly gratifying.

Not to worry, folks. I could be a good boy.

Elmwood was a tiny town.Super small. Like "itty-bitty, jog the circumference in less than forty-five minutes, so little you'd miss it if you blinked" small. But it was charming, too. It had an old-world feel reminiscent of a bygone era with its antique lamplights, picturesque fountains, a town hall, and majestic tree-lined streets.

Main Street was definitely the hub. The bulk of businesses were located along that one road with the exception of the rink, the sports facility, and the Black Horse Inn.

I hiked the mile into the town center early the next morning, admiring the roadside wildflowers and the brilliant blue sky. It was a freaking gorgeous day—a perfect seventy-five degrees, not a cloud in the sky. And the air smelled fresh and almost…soul cleansing. Weird thought, but true. I stood at the corner of Blossom and Main, feeling as if I'd stepped into a postcard.

I glanced over at the log fa?ade of the Elmwood Diner and thought about stopping for breakfast, but I wasn't sure I had enough time, so I went to the coffee shop to wait for Bryson…assuming he'd show up. I'd sent him a text an hour ago and kept it short and to the point.

Coffee at 9 on me. I googled rentals online last night and found one on Spruce that looked okay. Not sure if they'd go for a short lease. Thoughts?

Crickets.

To be fair, I'd sent the text an hour ago and it was still early. Maybe he was at the gym or in the shower or already at his desk on a call. I wondered where his office was. I supposed I could just show up there.

Obnoxious much? Just a smidge.

But I needed somewhere to live, and Riley had made it sound as if The Milligan Company was the only real estate game in town. So, I'd do a little exploring while I waited.

For a born-and-bred city boy, Elmwood was like another planet. I'd only lived in places where traffic, pollution, graffiti, and sirens were part of the scenery. Don't get me wrong, there were beautiful parts in every city I'd called home, but this was like a fucking fairy-tale land. For real.

Strangers greeted me with a wave and a friendly "good morning" on their way to the dry cleaner, the bank, or the hardware store. I smiled at the gaggle of kids skipping around the fountain and a couple walking their dog, my mood brightening with every step I took. I wasn't nearly as sore as usual, which was an extra bonus.

Now, I just needed a large cup of coffee and for Bryson to show up.

I inhaled the scent of bread and donuts wafting from Henderson's Bakery before pushing open the door to Rise and Grind. I took my place at the end of a line that curved at a bistro table near the front bay window. Usually, this would be where I'd pull out my cell and pass the wait by checking messages and catching up with emails. Like everyone else. Except most everyone here was chatting with each other.

I shamelessly eavesdropped on conversations about the weather, the mosquito problem at Carlton Creek, Vinnie and Nolan's summer barbecue, Crabby Annie's arthritis, teenagers with pre-back-to-school blues…oh yes, and the new hockey coach.

"Riley hired an AHL pro. Not sure who, but Micah's excited," the middle-aged woman in front of me in line said.

"I don't think it's official. They'll announce it at the council meeting," her companion replied. "If you ask me, Riley looked stressed out."

"Poor guy. He's taken on so much and…"

I listened with half an ear as I studied the mouthwatering baked goods in a glass display case and the menu board behind the marble counter, humming softly to the Beach Boys song piped through the overhead speakers.

"Since you are new, I will recommend the croissants or the bear claw. Both are très bon."

I turned to the large man with reddish hair, a tidy beard, and a melodic Quebecois accent, and nodded. "Uh, okay. Thanks."

"And definitely treat yourself to a latte," he continued. "But don't pay attention to the art. It's terrible. Better than it once was, but still…not good."

I chuckled. "Good to know. You work here?"

"No, no. I'm the chef at the diner across the street and at C'est Bon in Pinecrest." He thrust his hand toward me. "Jean-Claude Bouchard or JC. I'm also Riley's husband."

"Oh!" I shook his hand. "Nice to meet you. Smitty Paluchek."

It might have been my imagination, but I could have sworn a small murmur swept through the shop. Before I had a moment to digest that people here might know my name, my new friend motioned to the counter.

"Your turn, and I'm buying. Please, don't refuse. Riley will insist."

"Uh, okay. Thank you."

"Good morning! And how may I help you on this fine and fabulous day?" A chipper man with dark hair, a sunny smile, and a rainbow pin on his green apron leaned on the counter.

"Since it is fine and fabulous, Smitty here must try the croissants, a chocolate and a plain. The usual for me and Riley, and three lattes."

"Actually, make that four, please," I intercepted. "I'm hoping to meet Bryson. Do you know him?"

"Of course. He likes lattes too," Jean-Claude replied with a nod.

"Four lattes," the barista said.

"Oui, and hold the penis art, s'il te pla?t."

The younger man rolled his eyes. "Hi, Smitty. I'm Ivan and if no one else has warned you, let me do the honors…JC is the worst."

"And yet, we are the best of friends," Jean-Claude singsonged.

Ivan snorted. "Yeah, uh-huh. Nice to meet you, and welcome to Elmwood. Court told me you were coaching at the high school this fall. And let me just say, you're a brave soul. You couldn't pay me enough money to willingly go back to high school or?—"

"Let's not scare the new guy away, eh?"

"Oops! My bad. You'll love it!" Ivan ran JC's card and smiled as he peeked over my shoulder. "Oh, and don't freak out about the gossips. We love hockey in Elmwood, and we're excited to have you. I'll get that order started."

O-kay…people were definitely whispering and shooting clandestine glances at me as I followed JC outside. Interesting.

"Hey, man. Thanks for the latte and croissants. I?—"

"You're still here!" Riley Thoreau barreled forward, plucking a cup from his husband's hand. He grinned and raised it in greeting. "I was hoping to run into you. We spent so much time at the rink yesterday that I didn't get a chance to show you around campus. If you're free, we can do that now."

"Oh, um…I want to do that for sure, but I think I'm meeting Bryson this morning." I set one of the lattes and the bag of croissants on a nearby bistro table. "Are you free this afternoon?"

"I can be," Riley said. "Just let me know when."

"That would be cool."

"Have fun and welcome, Smitty. I'm off to work. Je t'aime." JC set a hand on his husband's hip and kissed him on the lips before striding up the street toward the diner.

Okay, whoa.

A gay couple just kissed on Main Street, right in front of me. So casually. So…matter-of-factly. I mean… Wow. That was a new one for me.

I'd never seen same-sex partners up close and personal in public, and not someone like Riley Thoreau. So what if he was retired? The guy was still a bona fide NHL star. He'd hustled for seventeen years in the league, yet the last two were the ones that made headlines. And those headlines included his gutsy coming-out story at a fucking press conference after his near career-ending concussion. That was a whole other level of brave.

I'd never thought about coming out. No one asked about my sexuality, and I never volunteered. That night at that hotel in Syracuse with Bryson was the first time I'd come face-to-face with the low-grade tinge of fear associated with desire.

Maybe it was time to fix that. Who cared if I was bi?

Okay, no, it wouldn't be easy to deal with the inevitable prying questions. But I think I wanted to come out…eventually. Some day. In the future.

"Talk to you later, Smitty," Riley called out.

I nodded and took a seat, reaching for the bag of pastries as I settled in to do some people-watching. That wasn't how it went down. In a twist, I was a people magnet.

Within five minutes, I'd met the fourth-grade teacher, the postman, Penny Henderson, who owned the bakery next to Rise and Grind, and her son, Court, who happened to co-own the coffee shop with his fiancé, Ivan, who I'd met earlier. Court also happened to be a former pro hockey player and was now one of the club coaches as well as the assistant athletic director at the high school.

"We're really happy to have you here—even if it's for a couple of months," Court enthused. "Elmwood might be on the map, but we need talent to stay relevant."

I decided to be gracious and not mention my perpetually achy joints. "Thanks, man. Happy to be here."

Court introduced me to a cantankerous tiny old woman named Annie with a cloud of white hair and birdlike features.

"My grandson, Denny, is playing on that team. Don't fuck it up," she snarled, winking playfully before shuffling off. So that was Crabby Annie with the bad arthritis. I liked her. I chuckled at Court's befuddled expression as he waved good-bye.

Buzz buzz

I flipped my cell over and read the new message.

Just checking in. You okay?

Poor Jimmy. I pressed Call, unthinking, a stupid smile stuck on my face. "I'm fine. Stop worrying about me."

"Fuck off. What did you expect? This is what you get for changing your plan at the last second. Friends who worry. How's Elmwood? Are you bored yet?"

"Not at all. This place is so freaking cute, you'd love it," I gushed.

"Cute? Since when do you like cute?"

"Well, never, but so far so good." I tilted my chin to the sky, soaking up the small-town charm in its summer splendor, ripe with good vibes. I liked this.

"Smitty, level with me. Is this detour some kind of reaction to Rachel?"

"No…maybe. I dunno," I answered truthfully.

Jimmy sighed. "Hey, I'm sorry you ran into her. I had no idea she was coming over that night. I feel bad and Christina?—"

"Don't be an idiot. It's fine and I'm fine." I wasn't, but that was on me. Not Jimmy. "I haven't done anything impetuous, so don't worry. It's just a detour."

Silence.

Poor guy was probably squeezing the fuck out of one of those stress balls he kept on his desk.

"All right." He sighed after a long moment. "If you need anything, call me."

"Thanks, Jimmy. Give Christina and the kids a big ol' smooch for me."

"You got it."

I pushed my cell away and continued people-watching. I had no idea how long I sat there, but I finished my latte, decimated the croissants, and was eyeing the drink I'd planned to give Bryson, when a shadow fell across the table.

I tilted my chin and almost swallowed my tongue.

No one looked sexy in khakis and a polo. It was the most boring, uninspired wardrobe choice on the planet. Safe for work, safe for family gatherings, safe for dates…just safe. But Bryson did something to that shirt that transformed it into a thirst trap. The light-blue fabric made his eyes pop and accentuated his toned arms and chest, tapering neatly at his trim waist.

I wiped the corner of my mouth with my thumb and grinned.

"You're here," Bryson stated matter-of-factly.

"You're late," I teased.

"No, I was on a previously scheduled conference call. Nine o'clock was never going to be a good time for me."

"Oh, well…you could have messaged me." I sighed with mock censure. "Take a seat."

"I believe my secretary did text you. One of my associates will contact you to set an appointment to view a couple of properties. I was…just going to grab a coffee." He hiked his thumb at the door to Rise and Grind and twitched his lips in a weak attempt at a smile. "Have a good?—"

"No need. This is for you." I pushed the to-go cup toward him and kicked the empty chair in invitation. "Sit."

He narrowed his eyes but obeyed. "You bought me a latte?"

"Technically the French-Canadian guy did and it's probably stone cold by now, but that's on you. Oh, and I ate the croissant I was gonna share. It was good and I was bored."

"Thanks, um…that was nice of you."

"I'm a nice guy." I beamed. "And that's a damn good latte."

Bryson gave a reluctant smile. "It is. So, you saw the listing on Spruce."

"Yeah, do you know it?"

"Sure. It's run-down, and it's probably not what you're looking for. The owners are representing themselves, and though the Rinaldis are good people, they're not overly concerned with appearances."

"That's okay by me. I don't need anything fancy. The price is right and it's month to month, so…it could be a winner."

"If you say so. I'll have Duncan show it to you this afternoon," he said in a professional, detached tone.

Huh, he seriously didn't want anything to do with me.

If I were the nice guy I claimed to be, I would have backed off and respected the invisible wall Bryson was in the process of building between us. But fuck that. We didn't have to be best friends, but I wasn't going to pretend I didn't know him at all. That was weird.

I crumpled the pastry bag and leaned forward. "Where's Spruce Street?"

"One block over."

I hopped up and tossed my garbage into the bin. "Excellent. Let's go now."

Bryson stood slowly, nodding to a passerby before giving me one of those patient looks reserved for wayward children. "We can't go now."

"Why not? Does it have one of those lockboxes that realtors can get into?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Then let's do it. One block, one quick peek. We can be in and out in ten minutes."

"That's what he said," he mumbled almost under his breath.

I burst into laughter. "That's the Bryson I sort of know and am vaguely fond of."

He twisted his lips in amusement for a split second and released a beleaguered sigh. "It happens to be one street away from my office, so…all right. Ten minutes."

We walked in silence down Main Street, made a right on Spruce, and passed a handful of pretty bungalows with neatly trimmed hedges. A few of the houses had kitschy summer flags with dragonflies and beach themes hanging from their porches and mailboxes hand-painted with daisies and butterflies. Not really my style, but I could live with cutesy shit for a couple of months…no problem.

"Nice street," I commented idly, stuffing my hands into my pockets as I admired a white house with green shutters and a picket fence.

"Yes," Bryson agreed. "There's the rental."

"I like it. I don't even need to see the interior. I'll take it." I nudged his elbow. "See how easy that was?"

"Not that house. Over there." He pointed at the brown box with a weed-ridden front yard and overgrown hedges on the opposite side of the street.

"Oh." I wrinkled my nose and followed him. "Is it my imagination or is it leaning to the left?"

"It is." He cocked his head to the left and nodded. "Still want to take a peek?"

"Sure. Why not?"

I cleared a massive spider web out of the way while Bryson dealt with the lockbox. He pushed the front door open and cautiously stepped inside.

"This is not safe," he pronounced a moment later. "I need to talk to the Rinaldis. They shouldn't be allowed to rent this place. My God. Look at the hole in the floorboard."

It was more of an excessively worn plank or two in the foyer rather than an actual hole, but it was definitely a hazard.

"When was the last time someone lived here? It's musty and dusty." I ventured toward the fireplace, noting the thick layer of grime on the mantel.

"Mina Rinaldi passed away eight years ago or so. Her sons inherited the property, but neither of them lives in town anymore. I know they finally agreed to sell it, but I couldn't believe when it showed up on a rental listing." He examined a crack in the ceiling and grunted. "You can't live here."

I agreed. My standards weren't particularly high, but this was nasty.

"Hmm. Back to the drawing board." I pulled up the rental app and tapped the screen on my cell. "There's another one on Myrtle."

Bryson locked the door and met me on the sidewalk. "My colleague will be happy to show it to you. His name is Duncan Fahley."

"You're really gonna pawn me off on someone else?"

"I am." He smiled pleasantly and moved around me. "Now if you'll excuse me, I need to get to the office. Have a good day."

Hey, I was a big boy. I could take a hint. Bryson's stiff-arm game was strong, and there was no conceivable reason for me to push him for anything…even friendship. But there was something about him that made it impossible for me to walk away.

Maybe that was my ego talking.

Generally speaking, I was a likable guy and I knew Bryson liked me, so why act as if that were a bad thing? I sniffed my pits to be sure my hygiene was on point. Yep. All good. I didn't stink, I'd been on my best behavior, and appearance-wise, I wasn't a troll. If he didn't want to get naked again, fine, but I was good friend material.

And I wanted to be his friend.

No, I wanted more than that. This was another case of wishing for something I couldn't have.

I had to let it go.