Arcanum (Tales from the Tarot)

7. Chris

Chapter seven

Chris

I was staring into my fridge, trying to decide if I wanted grilled chicken for dinner again or if I was going to say “Fuck it” and order a pizza, when my cell phone rang.

Since it was a blocked number, I almost didn’t answer, but seeing as I was on call for K9 duty, I figured I better not take that chance.

Please don’t be dispatch. Please don’t be dispatch.

“Hello?”

“Hi,” a soft male voice said, definitely not dispatch or any other cop I was familiar with. “Um, it’s Greyson. From next door? I’m sorry to bother you like this, but I am having some trouble with the garbage disposal in the kitchen. Your father said you had a tool or something I could use to see what the problem was. May I come over and borrow it?”

“What happened?” I asked, closing the fridge and immediately heading to the garage.

“I’m not sure, to be honest. I was making dinner and went to turn it on and it’s making this awful grinding sound.”

“Ok. I’ll be right there.”

“No, that’s ok. I can come there and get whatever I need.”

“It’s no problem. I’ll see you in a minute.” I disconnected and slipped my phone into my jeans pocket. Grabbing a bunch of different tools from the big toolbox for whatever scenario it could possibly be, I tossed them in a portable toolbox and headed next door.

It was strange Greyson called when he did. Right before I got sidetracked with my dinner debacle, I’d been thinking that I hadn’t seen him in a while. Instead of merely wondering what he’d been getting up to over the past couple of weeks, I supposed I was about to find out.

Just like before, Greyson met me at the front door before I could even knock. He gave me a fleeting smile as he pushed the door open, leaning out of the way. “Thank you for coming.”

“Not a problem.” I slid past him in the doorway, mindful not to touch him with the toolbox in case there was any residual dirt or oil on it. He was dressed in a black sweater, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and gray pants that would definitely show stains. Seriously. Did he not believe in t-shirts? Or jeans? I figured sweats were completely out of the equation.

By the time I made my way to the kitchen, I was practically salivating. Whatever he was cooking smelled amazing, like some kind of beef and caramelized onions. Way better than a pizza and leagues above bland ass chicken.

My steps slowed down once I crossed the threshold from the wooden floors to the tile, my gaze locked on the stove. A fat, black cauldron sat on top. A literal fucking iron cauldron with a flame going beneath the curved bottom. Clouds of steam billowed out of it from whatever was brewing inside.

In addition to that, there was a large, stained book open on the counter. It looked like it was older than the house itself, which was impressive. The recipe—or whatever the fuck it was—was handwritten, which also meant the writing was too hard to read at a glance.

Tiny vials and glass jars took up one whole section of the counter, while dried herbs and flowers hung in clusters around the room, like I’d stepped back in time to Macbeth or something.

CPD thought he murdered his family with CO poisoning but images of skulls and crossbones on old, yellowed labels flashed in my mind. What if he’d used real poison? Looked like he had plenty of shit to do just that.

Clearing my throat, I set my toolbox on the ground and leaned against the sink, peering down at the garbage disposal. I flipped the switch to see what he’d been talking about. A second later, a horrible grating noise rumbled out of the sink.

“There’s something in there,” I said, sounding like an absolute idiot for stating the obvious. Why else had he called me? Jesus, Brandt. It was dumb shit like that that was the reason why I’d never make detective. I was destined to be an OFL, as Tom said— Officer for Life.

Focusing on being helpful, I retrieved a flashlight and shined it into the hole, looking for whatever was causing the issue.

Greyson stayed out of my way, leaning against the counter with his arms folded, watching me as intently as ever.

Not seeing anything, I dropped to my knees and opened the cabinet doors. Unplugging the disposal from the power source under the sink, I grabbed the hex wrench from where Dad always left it in the cabinet and slid it into place before rocking it back and forth to dislodge whatever was stuck.

“Let’s see if that worked,” I said, getting to my feet. I clicked on the flashlight again and peered into the grinding chamber. Something glinted in the light. “Can you hold this?”

Once Greyson took the flashlight from me, I grabbed a pair of needle nose pliers from my toolbox and fished around for whatever it was I saw. When I didn’t get it the first time, I furrowed my brows at the damn thing. “Angle the light this way a little.”

Greyson moved closer, almost touching my right side, but not quite. Still, I was keenly aware of the fact he was there, closer than he’d ever been. That so-called chasm I’d been worried about seemed to have vanished.

All of my senses went into overdrive the second he invaded my personal space—at my request, but it was an invasion nonetheless. The sudden warmth of his closeness, the soft, slightly woodsy smell of his cologne, even his breathing changed the closer he got. Was he nervous? Why would he be nervous? Was it because he was a murderer and I was a cop with my back stupidly presented to him, begging for him to sink a knife in? Was I two seconds away from pulling human teeth out of my grandma’s fucking garbage disposal or something equally morbid?

“Is everything… alright?” Greyson asked, his voice unusually quiet even though he was right next to my shoulder.

“Thinking,” I said quickly. Forcing myself to get a grip, I scanned the outer ring of the grinding chamber again. As soon as I saw the light spark against the mystery object, I angled the pliers toward it. The metal tips clenched around something absurdly hard and I withdrew my hand slowly, holding up the pliers for Greyson and I to both see the culprit.

“It’s a—” I cocked my head, looking at the clear lump at the end of the pliers. “Chunk of glass?”

“A crystal,” Greyson sighed, plucking it out of the pliers and frowning at it. “I’m terribly sorry. I set it on the windowsill to charge and I guess I knocked it in at some point.”

Ok then… A bit anticlimactic, but I kept my eye roll to myself and climbed under the sink. At least it wasn’t teeth.

Pushing the reset button before plugging the disposal back in, I stayed crouched where I was in case I needed to unplug it again. “Can you hit the switch?”

Greyson leaned over the counter, flicking the switch on. The disposal whirred to life, humming as it should before he turned it off.

Nodding at my handiwork in approval, I backed out of the cabinet and closed the doors, standing swiftly.

“Thank you,” Greyson said as I packed up my toolbox.

“Anytime. So, uh, big plans for tonight?” I asked as casually as I could, trying not to stare at the cauldron bubbling on the stovetop next to him.

He shook his head. “Not really. Just having a quiet night at home with Selene.”

“Is that your girlfriend?”

A small smile curved his lips. “No. Selene is my cat. I don’t have a girlfriend.”

As if on cue, a fluffy white cat slinked into the kitchen, her tail held aloft. She wove her way between Greyson’s legs, meowing in greeting.

“Oh.” I blinked, staring at the cat and trying to ignore the inexplicable twinge of relief. Must have been singleton solidarity, consolation at knowing even someone like him struggled with the dating pool. Someone should have warned him that by living in Mapleton it was about to shrink by another eighty percent, if he was lucky. Then again, maybe that’s why I hardly saw him. Maybe he was out on the town every night, living up the last part of his twenties and making “memories” with a slew of women whose names he didn’t know. I was an idiot to think he “struggled” with anything, let alone getting people to fall into bed with him.

I closed the lid on the toolbox but somehow it slammed a little too loudly in the quiet kitchen.

“Yeah, I don’t have one either,” I said quickly, trying to cover up the sound and be relatable instead of awkward as fuck. Except, the more I talked, the deeper I felt myself sink into the proverbial hole. “I did. A girlfriend, I mean. Not a cat. I’ve never had a cat. More of a dog person. Clearly. The K9, and all. I don’t have one now though—a girlfriend, I mean. We broke up. A while ago, so it’s not fresh or anything.”

“I’m… sorry to hear that.” His tone may have mirrored his sympathetic expression but I swear I caught a flash of amusement on his face.

“Oh, don’t be. She was” —I bit my tongue before I could say “Crazy as fuck” and opted for a different description— “Not the one. For me.”

“Then I suppose it’s a good thing you recognized that before it was too late.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

The cat meowed again and stretched up on her hind legs, pawing at Greyson’s thigh. He scooped her up and stroked the back of her head gently. “Would you like to join us for dinner?”

“I, um…” I glanced at the cauldron again. He wouldn’t be dumb enough to actually poison me. Would he? “Is that what you’re having?”

“That’s part of it.” He kissed Selene’s head and set her on a kitchen chair, brushing stray fur off his sweater before crossing to the stove. For some reason, the gesture made me smile. I knew the struggle of pet fur all too well and seeing him deal with it in his expensive black sweater made him seem real. Not so intimidatingly perfect, at any rate. I bet he had stock in lint rollers. Or he should, anyway.

Oblivious to me and my weird admiration, Greyson picked up a ladle and stirred the brown liquid inside the cauldron, scooping some up before letting it pour back into the pot. Little translucent chunks splatted on the surface before sinking back into the concoction. Glancing at me, he laughed softly and wafted some of the smell in my direction. “Don’t look so concerned. It’s French onion soup, before the bread and cheese. I was going to make paninis to go with it but I can do a salad if you prefer.”

My eyebrows relaxed but heat flared in my cheeks. “Sorry. The whole cauldron thing threw me.”

“It tends to have that effect. But I promise this one is only used for cooking. I have a separate one for spellwork.”

He said it with such seriousness that I nodded, like having two cauldrons was a wise thing to do. Then his words actually processed in my brain and I did a double-take, earning me another laugh. Even if it was at my expense, I liked his laugh. It was soft but genuine and good-natured, not mean or degrading.

“Ok, but seriously,” I said, unable to hold it in anymore with the witch pot bubbling away on the stove next to us. “What’s with the cauldron?”

Greyson shrugged, considering the unusual container as if it was the first time he was seeing it too. “Would you like the historical argument for cauldron use or the simple answer?”

I squinted, trying to decide. “Both?”

“I like it,” he replied with a smile, his eyes shifting back to me, slightly crinkled at the corners. “Simple as that. But also, cauldrons are literally designed for slow-cooking methods. The curved bottom is more conducive to heating the food evenly. Not to mention cooking with cast iron is becoming something of a lost art I feel like I’m singlehandedly trying to preserve.”

“Doesn’t a regular pot work just as well?”

“Call me a traditionalist.”

I glanced around the kitchen again. An old-fashioned broom was propped in the corner, looking every bit like a witch’s broom. Red and black strands blended through the golden bristles and the handle was an actual branch. A marble mortar and pestle sat on the counter next to a cutting board with a thick white candle and a ball of twine. “Traditionalist isn’t the word I was thinking of.”

“You can say it.” He leaned forward slightly, his gray eyes fixated on me with an intensity I wasn’t used to. Most people avoided making eye contact with a cop, even off-duty. Greyson, on the other hand, wasn’t intimidated by me or my badge.

Witch. It was right there on the tip of my tongue but I couldn’t say it. One, because it sounded insane in the twenty-first century. And two, because guys weren’t witches. Right? Wasn’t that something only chicks were into? Love potions and voodoo dolls? Someone who was clearly educated and seemed to be grounded in reality wouldn’t believe in something as juvenile as magic. Right…?

“Eccentric,” I said instead, hoping that was somehow less offensive than the puritanical “Witch!” accusation.

His smile quirked a little more and for a moment I wondered if he knew the truth of what I’d wanted to say, or if it had been a test of some sort. “I’ve been called worse,” he said lightly, shrugging one shoulder as he leaned against the counter behind him.

“Yeah, me too.”

“I imagine it’s not easy being a police officer.”

“It has its moments. I’d say it’s easier here than in bigger cities. I mean, most of my calls are accidents or domestics, kids partying, that sort of thing. Which isn’t to say those aren’t dangerous. A cop over in Ridgewood was responding to a domestic last year and when he got to the front door, the husband shot him. Then he killed the wife and killed himself.” And why the fuck did I tell him that?! I was hungry, no doubt, but I wasn’t starved to the point of delirium.

“I’m so sorry for your loss.” Greyson’s expression turned to one of sadness, true sadness, not that socially contrived mask people put on when they were trying to be polite. It reminded me of our second encounter, with that stupid letter and the tarot cards. I hated how he’d gone from chatty to miserable in the blink of an eye. I definitely didn’t want to ruin his day a second time.

“Thanks, but I didn’t really know him,” I said quickly, trying to keep my tone light as I shrugged off the flashbacks that inevitably came up whenever some dumbass mentioned domestics or Ridgewood—even if that dumbass was me.

“Still, it must have been difficult to see a fellow officer like that.”

I swallowed thickly, preparing to lie again and say I wasn’t there, but the words stuck in my throat.

Of course I’d been there that night. Thanks to being a K9, I was always fucking there. Even if I didn’t have the dog, I would have been there with the Special Operations Team, which I was a part of before Nitro.

SOT had been called out immediately. Since I was already on duty, I got to sit on the perimeter while the rest of the team assembled. Dakota’s body lay there for what felt like hours as the team got on scene and the commanders assessed the situation, drawing up their plans. His brains and blood spilled down the porch steps a few yards away from where Nitro and I had taken up our position. I remembered how shiny it looked in the moonlight. How dark. Dakota was so young. So new. So determined to help. He’d only been on the job for two years and now he was dead.

When the commanders made the call, Nitro and I approached with the first team. Hunkered down to keep our heads from being blown off, my K9 and I were third in line behind the guy with the shield and the guy holding the massive, metal ram. All of us tried to give Dakota’s body a wide berth, but the stairs were only so big, which meant we all had to step over him to get to the bad guy—not even to avenge his senseless murder. Oh no. We were there to take the asshole into custody and pray the courts gave Dakota’s family justice after making them wait for years on end.

Once the door was breached and multiple commands were given, I unleashed my partner and sent him off to his potential death, waiting to hear a snarl, a shotgun blast, a yipe. Anything.

There was nothing. No sound of any kind until the faint click of Nitro’s nails as he trotted back to the front door, leaving a trail of bloody paw prints on the ground behind him.

A sudden warmth on my bicep jolted me out of my memory and back to Grandma’s kitchen— Greyson’s kitchen. He was squeezing my arm gently, a look of concern on his face. He didn’t retract his hand even after I glanced at it curiously, trying to figure out how much time had passed while I was skipping down Memory Lane.

“Why don’t you sit down?” He tipped his chin toward the kitchen table, less of a question and more of a benevolent command. “I’ll bring you something.”

I nodded, mutely, and did as he suggested, taking the chair closest to the wall so my back was pressed against it. It was irrational. I knew that. I was perfectly safe in Grandma’s— Greyson’s —kitchen. And it had been over a year, for Christ’s sake. Dakota’s death should have been a distant memory by now, tucked away with all of the other calls for service.

Fuck! I needed to get a grip. Especially around Greyson , my innocent-looking neighbor who could have very possibly offed his whole family. And now he was serving me food? That probably wasn’t a good idea given what he could have done to it, especially while I was zoned out for God only knew how long. Not the gross shit that I knew happened whenever I ate out in public in uniform. No, he had the perfect opportunity to poison my ass for real and I would be none the wiser. Guess it served me right.

I glanced around the kitchen again, looking for anything I could identify as hazardous. The bundles of herbs hanging on swooping strands of twine? The rows of bottles on the counter? And fucking crystals sitting on the windowsill? Jesus. He and Monica would get along great with all of their woo-woo homeopathic shit. He’d probably already signed up for that salt lamp yoga place downtown that she’d dragged me to. What a miserable experience that had been.

Greyson appeared at the table bearing a glass-domed platter in one hand and a small plate in the other. The handle of a large knife was trapped between two of his long fingers.

I blinked at the knife as it moved in front of my face, a little too close for comfort given where my thoughts had been a second before. Forcing my attention to the giant chocolate cake gracing the top of the platter, I lifted my eyebrows at him. “I thought you said you were making paninis? Now you’re having cake for dinner?”

“Everything in moderation, as they say,” he replied with a half-smile, slicing into the cake. “Even moderation.” Plopping a rather large slice of “moderation” on the plate, he slid it over to me with a smile before lifting his hand to his mouth, sucking the chocolate frosting off his thumb. “You’re not allergic to anything, are you?”

Tearing my gaze away from his mouth and up to his eyes, I blinked again like an idiot. “Huh?”

A slow smile crept over his lips. “Food allergies? There’s almond extract in the cake. I wouldn’t want to inadvertently poison you or anything.” I didn’t know what kind of face I made but he laughed softly, way more amused than I was, and turned away, heading for the fridge. “Milk?”

I swallowed the lump in my throat and grabbed the bottom of my faded purple hoodie, fanning it a bit to try and get some air moving underneath. It was hot as hell all of a sudden. Maybe that was my problem. Hunger + heat was making my brain malfunction. “Yeah— yes , please. As long as it’s from a cow.”

“I had a feeling you weren’t a plant-milk kind of guy.” He reappeared with a glass of bright white, creamy-looking normal milk. “Whole milk,” he added. “I’m sorry I don’t have anything with less fat.”

“Whole milk works. Thanks.” He took the seat next to me but he didn’t have any cake, which made my hackles rise again. “You’re not eating?”

“Hmm?” He blinked at me, like he’d been in a daydream, and looked at the massive chocolate cake. “Oh, no. I’m holding out for the soup. It’s been cooking all day and I’ve had to restrain myself thus far.”

“I don’t want to eat without you. It’s rude.” And potentially poisoned.

Another one of his lazy smiles stretched across his lips, like I was the most entertaining person on the planet. Or the dumbest. “It’s ok, I promise. I like feeding people.”

There was no way I could avoid eating the damn thing now. I’d run out of excuses. Self-conscious of every single one of my movements, I cut off a piece of cake with the fork and ate it, praying it would at least be a quick death. Cacao and almond flooded my tastebuds, rich and indulgent and quite possibly the best chocolate cake I’d ever had, poisoned or not.

Greyson’s brows raised, waiting.

“That’s really good,” I said after I swallowed. “Like, really good.”

“Thank you.” He smiled politely but didn’t seem altogether surprised by my stamp of approval.

“Are you a baker or something?”

“No, not officially. It’s something that I do for fun.”

“So what do you do for work?”

“Have you seen the new bookstore?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re looking at the owner.”

“Oh. Wow.” Since I was paid to drive around town all night, I’d obviously gone by the mysterious new store called Arcanum, but I hadn’t been inside. In my defense, it seemed to have sprung up overnight. One minute it was a vacant storefront and the next? Open for business. Besides, books weren’t really my thing. I had to do enough reading for work as it was, I didn’t want to spend my free time doing it too. “Is that what you did in Chicago?”

“I never told you I was from Chicago.” His gray eyes lit up, catching me red-handed.

Shit…

“Look, it’s nothing personal, I—”

“You don’t have to apologize for doing your job, officer,” Greyson said, his voice smooth and non-accusatory. “And no, I was a teacher. But I’m sure you knew that, too.”

Averting my gaze, I sheepishly picked at the slice of cake with my fork, ignoring his knowing smirk. “I don’t know what kind.”

“English.” His tone had a slight lilt, like he was suppressing another laugh. I didn’t know what other hobbies he had but watching me squirm like a worm on a hook seemed to be at the top of the list. “Owning a bookstore was always a dream I had, though. There is something so magical about opening a book for the first time. When I was younger, I used to go with my mother on her work trips and while she provided free medical services, I taught the local children how to read or helped them with their English. As best I could, anyway.”

“Why not stick with teaching?”

“It’s complicated.” The amusement vanished. I had the distinct impression that I struck a nerve. “I needed a change. This seemed like the perfect opportunity.”

“I get it. My parents were teachers,” I said, hoping to smooth any feathers I might have ruffled.

“And yet you went into law enforcement?”

I nodded. “I always wanted to catch the bad guys. One of these days I’m hoping to get in as one of the school resource officers. Show kids they don’t have to be afraid of the police, that we’re here to help—as much as we’re allowed to anyway. But that won’t be until Nitro retires and he’s got at least three or four years left in him.”

“How noble of you.”

Despite the soft smile on his face, I couldn’t tell if he was making fun of me or not. “Not noble. Just trying to do right by the community. I was born and raised here. If I ever have kids, I want to know I left Mapleton better than I found it. You know?”

“You’re an idealist beneath that badge. Hence, noble.”

I shook my head. “No one’s ever accused me of being that.”

“It’s not something to be ashamed of.”

“Well, it’s not practical.”

“Practicality doesn’t change the world. Idealism does.”

“I’m not changing the world, though. I’m a small-town cop in the middle of nowhere.”

“That depends on your definition of a world. If you’re talking about the country, or even the state? Perhaps not. But if you help one person, you change their world. Isn’t that what you’re striving for? To make the citizens here feel safe, so they can be idealistic about the larger world while you deal with the ugliness society prefers not to think about?”

“I guess.” I sat back, studying him. He wasn’t looking at me, though. His gaze had fallen to the center of my chest, only flicking up on occasion as he spoke before darting away again.

“That is its own kind of idealism. There are worlds within worlds, officer, and no one can ever truly know how change ripples across them. Don’t discount yourself because you think you’re only a ‘small-town cop in the middle of nowhere.’ You’re so much more than a badge, or the face of authority, and the people you help know it. But you’re also a man underneath it all. A good man. That in itself is something to be proud of.”

“Sounds like you’re still trying to tell me I need more work-life balance,” I said with a scoff.

“We all need balance, some more than others.” He smirked and gave me a pointed look, his pale eyes crinkled with levity.

I chuckled. “I seem to remember your card said balance too.”

“It’s a work in progress.”

“Well, so am I.”

“Would you like me to get the cards? I can see if there are any new insights for you.” He half-turned in his seat, preparing to stand, and threw his thumb toward the living room.

“No, I’m gonna eat my cake, thank you.” I deliberately cut off a bigger chunk and ate it so I wouldn’t have to talk about tarot bullshit anymore, even though I was the one who brought it up in the first place.

His smile brightened. “I’ll get to work on the paninis, then. Steak, if that’s alright?” He hardly waited for my enthusiastic nod before he rose from his chair and cut across the kitchen to the counter to start on the next course.

Under normal circumstances, I would have offered to help, but I was too enthralled with the way he moved around the kitchen. I knew I’d only get in his way and I didn’t want to disrupt the graceful dance in front of me as he floated from stove to counter to fridge and everywhere in between.

At last, he carved into a ribeye with the precision of a surgeon and I could have wept with joy at the sight of a juicy red center, ringed with pink. A perfect medium-rare sear, the way steak was meant to be enjoyed, not turned into a brownish-gray strip of shoe leather by overcooking. I might have made a noise or something because the look he slid over his shoulder all but confirmed I was about to have an orgasmic culinary experience.

Now I knew how Nitro felt every time I grilled.

Like my dog, I was practically drooling as I watched Greyson slather some green mystery sauce on the bread before assembling a pile of steak and cheese and sautéed vegetables. He smashed it all together with a cast-iron press and the sizzling was like music to my ears.

When it was finally ready, he served the sandwich on a long platter, balanced with a miniature crock of French onion soup, completely decked out with a slice of bread and melty white cheese dripping down the side of the crock. There was even a pickle spear.

“I don’t know where to start,” I said, staring at the food in front of me. Generally, food was food. I wasn’t a picky eater by any stretch. But this masterpiece? It needed to be savored.

“I like to scooch the cheese out of the way so the soup can cool,” he said, picking up a spoon and pushing the bread and melted cheese to one side of the mini crock. Once he’d cleared an area, he picked up half of his panini and dipped the corner into the broth before taking a bite.

I immediately followed suit and tried to mentally prepare myself for that first bite. At the very least, I could not make any noises.

Just chew and swallow, Brandt. Si-lent-ly.

So I did. And somehow, by the grace of God, I managed to not moan or melt into a puddle at Greyson’s feet. All things considered, I felt the full-body sigh and adoring gaze (at my plate, not him) were pretty tame.

I mean, his chocolate cake had been amazing but there were a few times I almost fell to my knees in worship over that damn panini. I couldn’t remember the last time I was so in love with a sandwich. And the soup? Yeah, I couldn’t remember the last time I was jazzed about a soup either, but that one was fantastic. Maybe the cauldron did have something to do with it.

Thankfully, Greyson let me wolf down one half of the sandwich in peace before he returned to conversation like a civilized human being eating in the company of others. We talked as we ate the rest, mostly about nothing. It was the standard superficial topics you relied on when you were trying to be on your best behavior. At least, it was for me. Greyson seemed like he was always on his best behavior. Given his wealthier, globe-trotting upbringing, it made sense. He wasn’t a good ol’ boy from corn country, like yours truly. Although, Mapleton was downright cosmopolitan compared to the rest of Belmont County.

Even though the conversation wasn’t particularly deep, Greyson seemed to hang on every word. I didn’t know what could have been so interesting about my life, especially when compared to his, but he seemed to want to know it all—what it was like growing up in Mapleton, my parents, my dog, my love of football. Although, that last one led to some disappointment, at least on my end.

“You lived in Chicago your whole life and you never went to a Bears game? Or even the Packers?” I gaped at him. Not that I was a Packer fan but some traitors in the city were. “Please tell me you at least went to see the Cubs?”

“I’m not a very good Chicagoan, am I?” He cringed and cleared the dinner plates quickly, retreating to the sink.

I grabbed the empty soup crocks and brought them over to him, shaking my head. “We’re going to have to fix that.”

“You’re going to take me to a Bears game?” He raised his eyebrows at me, rinsing off the plates as the sink slowly filled with sudsy water.

“On my salary?” I laughed and made a face. “No. But I will take you to Stanley’s, the tavern downtown, the next time I’m off and the Bears are on TV. Their wings are incredible. And Mapleton loves football, even at the high school level, so… we have to get you prepared for Homecoming next week.”

“Is there anything this town doesn’t celebrate? The lady at town hall gave me a calendar of events when I filled out my business permits and it’s mind-boggling. Pumpkins? Pancakes?!”

“Welcome to small-town America. We don’t have anything else to do. It’s a shame you missed the corn boil last month. There was a big turnout.”

“Oh yeah? You get excited by combines and steam engines and other antique farm implements? Or is there something special about the corn?”

“I don’t know if ‘excited’ is the right word…” I chuckled, scratching the back of my neck. “I am partial to funnel cakes, though. As long as I’m not in uniform.”

“Is there anything else you’re partial to when you’re not in uniform?” His gaze dipped, sweeping over my torso as if he was picturing me naked under my old (read: not sexy) Western hoodie. When his eyes lifted to mine again, an eyebrow arched, waiting for an answer.

His words might have reflected the conversation but the way he said them sent my insides thrumming, especially with that look on top of it all. Until that moment, I hadn’t really considered which team he batted for. I mean, I thought we were on the same one and, according to the league rules, there was only one bat allowed in the dugout.

Did that mean I’d been wrong? Was he actually flirting with me? No. Yeah…? No. He was speaking in general terms. He had to be. No one would use farm machinery as a segue into a conversation about sex. That’s not true. Luke probably would. He’d use anything as a segue into sex.

For fuck’s sake, Brandt! Stop thinking about sex!

“I should go,” I blurted out, a beat too long after Greyson’s possible innuendo to pretend that I hadn’t heard him. He’d know my brain just short-circuited. If he wasn’t gay, hopefully he wouldn’t know why. And if he was into dudes, hopefully he’d chalk it up to me being an idiot. God knows I’d given him plenty of proof to draw that conclusion.

The look he sent me while scrubbing one of the platters was both dubious and all-knowing—because he was either calling me out on my lack of answer or because he knew why I’d gotten weird all of a sudden, which meant he was flirting.

“I have a… thing,” I said, taking a step backward in the hopes I might be able to draw in a full breath that my brain was in desperate need of. “I just remembered. Sorry. But thanks for dinner. It was” — fucking amazing; out of this world; the best food I’ve ever eaten and never will again because I’m a goddamn moron — “good.”

Greyson turned to face me slowly, drying his hands on a towel and nodding ever so slightly, like he didn’t buy an ounce of my bullshit, including my piss-poor review of his cooking. “Of course, officer. Thank you for the company.”

“Yep.” I scooped up my toolbox and darted out of the kitchen as fast as I could. I probably should have said a proper goodbye but my head was fuzzy with the overwhelming heat in the kitchen and I didn’t trust myself to speak without making even more of an ass out of myself.

The shock of cold night air hit me as soon as I barreled through his front door. Relief didn’t even begin to describe the feeling as I sucked in the crisp, autumn oxygen, free from all of the tantalizing smells in Greyson’s kitchen.

Slowly, step by step, from his yard to mine, my senses were restored. It had been the heat messing with me, I was sure of it. And low blood sugar, or something. And the mixture of chocolate and garlic and onions— was that basil he’d put on the sandwich?

Sadly, I’d never know. Any chance of getting another invite went right out the window because who in their right mind wants to socialize with someone after they’ve been a giant weirdo all night and topped it off by insulting your cooking and then bolting?

“Good?!” I scoffed at myself as I shouldered open the door to the garage and slammed my toolbox on the workbench. While I was on a roll, why didn’t I just go back in time and tell Michelangelo that the Sistine Chapel was “good”? Or that da Vinci’s ideas were “good”? That meal was a fucking masterpiece. I knew it. Greyson knew it. And Greyson knew I knew it, but all I could muster up in terms of an adjective was “good”?!

Maybe Luke would be kind enough to use some of his family’s non-sexy farm equipment and dig a giant hole for me to bury myself in. I’m pretty sure my metaphorical shovel wasn’t up to the task anymore.