to say something, but he didn’t. When he rushed off to deal with another table, I sighed and smeared jam over a piece of toast.
As I went to take my first bite, my eyes caught on the bottom of the article and the journalist’s name. Josiah Nipissing. My teeth clacked closed again, and I set my toast down untouched.
I smoothed a finger over the name, racking my brain for where I’d heard it before. Josiah Nipissing. Blazer guy. The one who couldn’t make a sentence to save his life.
A burst of laughter erupted from my chest. “The guy writes for the newspaper?” I scanned the article again, more amused than the first time. At least he was able to finish his sentences in print.
This town never ceased to amaze me. I needed to get home. I’d had enough of the quirky characters and secret whispering that happened every time a person turned their back. So what if Easton said no. Who cared what Dad thought? Christian was right. He’d get over it, and life would carry on.
It was after four before I made it to the brewery. A hundred lengths in the pool weren’t enough to rid me of the stress of returning home to Dad with bad news, so I’d found a small backwoods outlet store in town, purchased a pair of relaxed fit chinos and hiking boots, then taken to the trails. A few hours later, I was exhausted, overdosing on fresh air and sunshine, and in dire need of a shower and a meal. Instead of eating at the restaurant in the lodge again, I decided to take my chances at the brewery since I wanted to grab Christian a gift before heading home.
It was typical bar food and nothing spectacular. The menu made me cringe. Few things appealed to me, but when the same waitress I’d had before recommended the house burger, I decided to try it.
The burger was thick and juicy and loaded with enough extras to make it difficult to eat, but it wasn’t fine dining, and the sheer amount of grease that poured down my fingers was gag-worthy. There was a napkin dispenser on the table—a napkin dispenser—and I had to send my cutlery back twice due to watermarks and questionable smears.
I got through it. Barely. I gave up a quarter of the way through my meal and lied to the waitress, telling her I was too full.
I purchased a variety pack of beers for Christian along with an extra six Pils and Peaks since I knew it was a brew he’d enjoy. It was five when I wandered back into the street. I’d parked down the road in a vacant spot and wandered in that direction while watching the sun tease the top of the mountain in the west. The drive home would be nice.
I used my fob to unlock the trunk and placed Christian’s beers in the back. Just as I slammed it closed again, an argument down the road caught my attention.
A rush of heat wrapped all around me when I recognized the man in the worn cowboy hat and faded denim. My reaction rattled me for a second, but I shook it off. Of course Easton warmed my blood. Of course I had a visceral reaction to the man. He was good looking and feisty. Standing in the street as he snarled words I couldn’t hear at some other man, he was also fiery and angry. His cheeks were flushed, and his hands were balled at his sides, knuckles white.
Memories of his lips and tongue and taste surfaced, but I pushed them away.
Peeling my eyes from Easton, I tried to make out the guy who was taking the brunt of his verbal abuse. That man seemed familiar too, but his back was to me. He wore fitted designer jeans—ones that hugged a nice ass—hiking boots, and a navy blazer. His hair was… I stared at his ass again, tipping my head to the side. That ass. The blazer. The boots. The hair. The…
“That’s the reporter.”
Assessing the situation, I strained to hear what all was being said. Easton’s arguments were strung together and jumbled too much to make out, and the journalist, Josiah, if I remembered correctly, hadn’t responded.
There was a third guy. Another somewhat familiar face, but I couldn’t place him. He was a lot shorter than Easton, stocky, with broad-shoulders, reddish-brown hair, and a trim beard. He stood back a step with thumbs hooked in the front pockets