The Christmas Keeper (Laurel Holidays #6)

2. Chapter Two

Chapter Two

H e held out a hand.

“My name is Kenan Gardet.”

I grasped his cold fingers. “Brann Argraves, owner of the famous Whiteham Alehouse in scenic Whiteham, Pennsylvania.”

“Sounds…scenic.”

He gently tugged his hand from mine. I mentally slapped myself. “It can be at certain times of the year. Winter is not one of them. Let’s get to my car, then I can take you to yours and you can follow me. Feel free to peel off at any exit if you reconsider.”

“Okay, thanks.” He pulled up his dancing scarf to cover his nose and mouth. I just ducked my head, snot frozen on my upper lip now, and forced my way through the barrage of wind, snow, and cold. Thankfully, my car wasn’t far. This wasn’t JFK after all. Kenan, which was a unique and pleasant name, stood by the passenger side until it was unlocked. He placed his guitar case into the back of my badly used Nissan Rogue, then folded himself into the front seat. Those long legs were tucked under his chin, so after a moment he pushed the sticky seat back as far as it would go, and we were settled. No, not settled. Neither of us was calm nor situated. We were both nervous and cold—so damn cold.

“Heat will take a minute, but we’re out of the wind,” I said as the engine coughed and then caught, blowing cold air on the windshield. The wipers were frozen. “I have to scrape.”

He nodded, deep brown eyes with thick wet lashes watching me above his damp scarf as I grabbed the ice scraper, took a breath, and exited back out into winter’s embrace. While I chipped at the ice built up on the windshield, I asked myself over and over why I had done something so ridiculously out of character. Was it merely because of my sister’s little barb? Nora had called me names before, some much nastier when we were in our teen years and fighting like feral cats over everything. Scrooge. What about that name was so hurtful? I’d not ripped off any of my workers. Granted, I only had one, Larry, and he was part-time on weekends and holidays, but I paid him well. I didn’t kick dogs or shake my walking stick at orphans or spit at nuns. My mother would have my balls if I even glanced at a nun sideways.

So why was I all caught up in that one dumb comment from a woman newlywed who had been hitting the bubbly all afternoon? Why was I now caught in this situation?

A chunk of ice broke free, and Kenan’s face stared at me through the hole. He smiled a funny sort of awkward smile that pulled a dorky grin from me.

Something warm, like a brazier on a lovely patio in Rome, flared to life in my belly. The ice scraper slid from my cold fingers to the snowy blacktop.

“Nope, nope, nopeity-nope,” I muttered to that long dead area of Brann that I’d buried after Paulie had ripped the nice, trusting, loving part of Brann out then served it to the man he’d cheated on me with as a side with fava beans and a nice chianti. “Nope, nope, nope.” Each nope was accompanied by a gouge at the snow/ice/sleet sheet on my windows. This was not a romantical situation, not at all. I was merely trying to break out of my bah-humbug during the holidays. Was it a crime to be nice? No. No, it was not. It was also not a crime to offer a man who was having a rough go of life a lift. Even if he only spent one night in my office then split for parts unknown, and hopefully warmer, I’d been a good Joe. I could then tell my sister that I’d performed a gracious act out of nothing other than human kindness and caring for my fellow humanoids.

Yes. That was it. And my fingers were so cold I couldn’t feel them, so I dove back into the car, which was now warming nicely. I glanced at Kenan.

My stomach performed a swoop that made our recent descent from forty-thousand feet feel like a sunny day landing. My dick, which had been disinclined to find any man worthy of a boner in over four years, suddenly decided it was going to wake up. Why the hell not?

So yeah, about the only reason we’re being Mr. Congeniality is out of basic human kindness? Better tell our nether regions about that.

“It’s cold out there,” I offered. Mr. Brilliant Dialog was in the house. Whoop-whoop.

“Sure is,” Kenan replied through his scarf.

I rubbed my hands together in front of the heater vent, praying my brain would engage soon. “So you sound southern…”

“I am, yes, sir. Born and raised in Louisville, Kentucky. My grandparents emigrated from Yemen to the United States in the ?60s. My grandmother wanted to live where the blue grass she read about in various books was, so they settled in Kentucky where, much to her sadness, the grass was green and not blue.”

I chuckled. He seemed to relax a bit, his long skilled fingers coming up to untie and lower his scarf from his face. He certainly was a pretty man.

“She must have liked it there anyway, even if the grass was plain old green,” I said and shifted us into reverse.

“Oh she did. They both found a nice shop to buy and filled it with my grandfather’s oils and her sculptures,” he boasted as we crept up to the self-service parking kiosk. I paid with my debit card, hurried to put up the window, and pulled out onto a small two-lane road. “My car is over there in the flea market parking area. They’re closed in the winter, so no one cares if you stay there for a few days, other than the cops.”

“Seems the cops would have better things to do than roust someone just sleeping in his car,” I replied and got a grunt as we eased into the unplowed lot of what used to be a drive-in movie.

“They have laws against vagrancy in most of the books.” He shrugged. “I mean, I get it. They see me and think the worst.”

“Laws are stupid,” I grumbled. He chuckled softly. “Well, not all laws, obviously, but laws that give people a hard time over just trying to survive are stupid.”

“I don’t disagree. That’s my car, the old Chevy Sprint.” He pointed to a beater red car covered with snow. I pulled up beside it, and we both braved the elements to get the windows cleared. “I’ll follow you.”

I nodded, unsure of what to say. I climbed back into my Rogue, my head all over the place, and eased slowly out of the slippery parking area and back onto the road. Making the usually forty-five-minute trip home grew into over an hour and a half due to conditions. Which was fine. The more time I spent distanced from Kenan and those damn enchanting eyes of his, the more time Practical Brann had to regain control. I liked Practical Brann. He was safe. He kept himself out of harm’s way emotionally, happy with his little fortress of companionlessness, and never did outlandish things for pretty boys after the catastrophe that had been Paulie. Or hadn’t until about an hour ago. But now that I had time to breathe and distance between myself and he of the soulful eyes and magical voice, I could state with confidence that my actions had been purely humanitarian.

“It’s the season to give,” I told myself as we crept along the back roads that led to Whiteham, most having been recently plowed and cindered as school was still in session. And really, what was a few inches to rural folks in this neck of the woods? I’m just giving a man who needs a warm bed a place to lay his head. Santa would be proud. Maybe I’d get a new bike or one of the vibrating butt plugs that I’d been eyeballing for months.

My right hand left the wheel to fiddle with the radio, finding a country station with ease. Up here in the boonies country and western was big. Classic rock fans like me had one station to listen to, all the others were hillbilly tunes. Every few miles, I would check the rearview and smile to see Kenan still following at a sedate speed. Then I would scowl at myself in the mirror, rip my eyes from the Chevy behind me, and stare straight ahead with a vengeance.

An old Garth Brooks song started, the one about the rodeo, and I found myself wondering if Kenan sang about bulls and shiny spurs. Maybe he was less cowboy songs and more broken hearts songs, or maybe he was all about girls in jeans and pickup trucks. Maybe he didn’t care about girls at all. Maybe he liked men who came home smelling of stale beer and—

“Whoa, just whoa.” I jammed my finger into the scan button hard. And found more country. Then more country. And then even more country. “Where the hell is AC/DC when you need them?!” I shouted as I pawed around in the glove box for my CDs, nearly taking out a mailbox as I drifted off the road. Correcting quickly, I opened the cracked case, shoved that disc in, and cranked the volume up to ‘make my ears bleed’ levels. Only when my car was vibrating with screaming guitars and lead singers did I breathe properly. Obviously, my four-year stint of celibacy was wreaking havoc with my senses. That was logical. I was a young man, not even thirty yet, and I had needs. Generally, those needs were happy with Tonya Thumb and her four sisters but every now and again, it stood to reason, that a good-looking guy who spoke with velveteen inflections that sang of sweet tea, stately plantations, and waves of Spanish moss on aged oaks would bring up some yearnings.

“Yep, yearnings were common,” I assured myself, hands on the wheel, my sight darting up to check on Kenan as we neared the bustling metropolis of Whiteham, population ten thousand forty if you counted all the cows. “Everyone has yearnings. Even your mother.” Oh. Oh no. That was…yuck. I came back to reality hard just as we sailed through one of two red lights on Main Street. Yep, good. I just had to keep thinking of my mother and father getting frisky and all stirrings in the genital region withered like last fall’s pumpkins left on the vine.

The hamlet of Whiteham had been busy whilst I was in Canada. Every street light now held its customary tinsel tree decoration, and every store had blinking lights with festive displays in the windows. Even the hardware store, Al’s Hardware, on the corner had joined in and had a fat cardboard Santa waving a jigsaw in their front window. Then there was the alehouse, sitting there like an unwanted case of genital herpes between the waving Santa and some sort of new-age white birch tree with pink lights and fairies extravaganza. Spring Muse was a new shop, just opened in the spring, and was packed full of Stevie Nicks inspired clothing as well as scented oils, beaded things, and wispy fae hats with long frilly dangles. The owner was an older woman, Beatrice, who was into Wicca and brewing ‘potions’ that she claimed were healing. Given how old Bea was, I had wondered if she was making embalming fluid.

“That’s not nice. It’s Christmas. Stop being a Scrooge,” I reminded myself as I pulled into a parking slot in front of the pub. Kenan eased in behind me. The street was empty for the most part. It was after five p.m., which was when the sidewalks were rolled up. I kid. Mostly. Things did get quiet here, though, in the evenings aside from Friday and Saturday nights. The weather didn’t help either. I loathed the idea of having to get out and face yet another wall of snow and wind, but get out I did, as did Kenan.

“Is this your bar?” he asked, his voice muffled by his scarf, his hands filled with a guitar case and two fat duffel bags.

“It is. Prepare to be impressed,” I jokingly replied as I unlocked the front door and threw it open. I waved in Kenan, hurried in behind him, and pushed the door shut. I breathed in deeply, the smell of old wood and hops filling me with ease. I did love this old gal even if she was a little on the crusty side. I turned on the lights and glanced to the left at my guest. It was beyond strange to see this stranger standing here inspecting my little bar, yet here he was. “Impressed yet?”

“It’s homey,” he answered stiffly.

Yeah, it was that. I liked to think of the small space as eclectic pub chic. The walls were dark wood with some funky metal ale signs from local flea markets, the floor tiled, and the tables few and far between, wedged in where I could fit them around the jukebox. The bar, now that was a thing of beauty. Rich dark wood, famous brewery taps on display, stools that had held a lot of asses, and a register that I’d found online from the ?50s. That was mostly for show. I had a new point-of-sale system register tucked behind a stuffed flounder that held my business cards in its tiny fishy mouth.

A chalkboard on the wall by the door announced the beer of the week, which would be discounted so customers would venture out of their beer comfort zones. Mugs and glasses lined the bar and the shelves behind it and stacks of bowls for nuts and pretzels sat tidily beside a metal sign stating that the best beer was the one in your hand.

Eclectic pub chic to the nth.

“You want a glass of something before we head up?” I asked, waving at the taps with domestic and imported ales. “I just got a new Belgium dark that’s strong but fruity.”

“No, no, thank you. I’m in NA and while booze isn’t my addiction of choice, it’s best if I avoid alcohol.” He said it calmly as if it were a simple fact of his life. I nearly fell over. “It’s okay, honestly.”

“No, no, it is not! Oh shit, I didn’t know…we can do something else,” I rambled, mortified, that I’d brought this man who was battling an addiction into a damn pub. What the fuck was wrong with me?! “We can—”

“Brann,” he interjected in the slow drawl of his. My mouth snapped shut. “It’s fine. I’m in good shape. You didn’t know. I’ve been in bars since I got out of rehab, several in fact, and not once have I slipped. Two years clean.” He beamed.

“That’s…that is awesome. Congrats, man, seriously.”

“I’d love a ginger ale, though. Oh wow, look at her,” he whispered as if Sophia Loren had just entered the room. Hey, I’m gay, not blind. Sophia was a knockout. He placed his guitar case on the floor and floated over to the jukebox, his smile growing wider the closer he got to it. “This is gorgeous.”

He placed a hand on the bowed glass and bent over to read the title cards, most filled out by me so nearly unreadable. “What a beauty.”

“Yeah, she’s my baby. I’ve spent more money on her than I did on my house, I think.” He chuckled as he perused the choices of songs. I perused his ass. It was small and tight. Ugh. Nope, nope, nope. I rushed behind the bar where I felt safe with all that wood separating me from temptation and filled two glasses with ice, then shot some ginger ale atop the cubes.

“Do you mind if I play something?” he called, and I shook my head as I fished around in the small fridge where I kept sliced lemons and limes. I found the lemon container, but they were kind of dried out. They had been sitting for a week, so I chucked them, sliced a fresh one, and then placed both glasses on coasters with the alehouse name on them.

“Your soda is ready,” I said and got a nod. Curls bounced. My dick twitched. I was tempted to dip my cock into the mug cooler, but the board of health might frown upon that, so I shoved at my crotch with the heel of my hand as Kenan fed quarters into the old gal. I loved that coins had to be used. I was not about to hook her up to the internet even if some people, most my age, bitched about having to use coins. Tough shit. Find some change or hum to yourself. Making her digital would ruin her. Some things were meant to be left the hell alone. New was not always better.

Hmm, maybe I was a little curmudgeonly after all. Mom always said I had the soul of a seventy-year-old locked into the body of a twenty-something. I could live with that.

I had a tin of quarters, painted with red nail polish, that I used to feed the jukebox when it sat silent too long. People seemed to only play it if someone had played it first, and at the end of the week, I’d collect the change. The red ones went back in the tin and the rest went into the register as profit. It wasn’t a lot of profit, trust me, but it made me feel as if the thousands I’d sunk into her would be paid off. Some decade.

“Crazy” by Patsy Cline floated out of the speakers hidden in the corners. Kenan made his way to the bar, climbed up onto a stool, and took a sip of his soda.

“This is good,” he said. “What do I owe you?”

“Nothing.”

He frowned, then dug out a couple of crumpled ones that he slapped on the bar. “I’d like to say that I don’t take charity, but obviously I do, but I can afford to pay for my soda.”

“Okay, I didn’t mean to offend.” Some of the tension left his jaw. “So, did you know this song is the most popular jukebox song?” He shook his head, causing some curls to fall into his dark eyes. My cock was now at half-mast. “It is.”

“That’s cool. I love classic country.”

“Me too,” I lied. Well, it wasn’t a total lie. I did like the older stuff like this song. Johnny Cash, Willie Nelson, and Waylon Jennings. The rebels. I just didn’t tend to listen to the genre when I wasn’t at work. My customers sure liked it though, which was why there were so many of the golden oldies on the Rock-Ola. Silence fell then as Patsy finished and Kenny Rogers began to tell a tale about a gambler. “I like classic rock too.”

“Mm, same. Early Eagles are golden.”

“Yeah, for sure.”

Ugh, this was uncomfortable. I tossed down my soda. My head and body were not playing well right now. I needed to get him upstairs and me home before I did something stupid.

“Let me show you to the office. It’s not fancy, but there’s a couch and it’s warm. There is a sink and toilet up there and you can find some snacks on the shelves.”

“That’s fine, thank you for your kindness. I’ll be out of here in the morning.”

I stalled, my foot missing a step, at the thought of him rolling out of town without a goodbye, which was asinine. The man could go where he wished. I really needed some distance and time to summon my inner grumpy old man. Lewis Black was my spirit animal. I needed to remember that, especially now.

“No rush.”

That was all I could say that wouldn’t sound weird. Once we reached the second floor, I showed him my office. It was small, with a desk, a light, an old Dell desktop, and a sofa to rest on at the end of the day. I’d slept on it many a night when I’d been too tired to drive home. One of Nonna’s crocheted blankets hung over the back of the couch and an ugly pillow with a matching green and yellow cover, also from Nonna, rested against the arm.

He gave me a look that was hard to read. I knew how hard it was for a man, or woman for that matter, with pride to accept help. God knows when I’d fallen to bits after Paulie, I’d been reluctant to ask for any aide, and so I hadn’t until my sister had arrived from college to sort my shit out as only Nora could have done. But crying on your sister’s shoulder was a far cry from accepting a handout from a total stranger.

“There’s a phone downstairs if you need to call out,” I said to break the heavy, awkward silence of the moment.

“Thanks. I have a cell phone, but no plan.” He sat on the sofa, back rigid as a fence post, his worn wet sneakers side-by-side on the old tile floor.

“Oh, well feel free to use the Wi-Fi if you want. Password is alehouseba96.”

“That is such a hackable password. Your business, your initials, and the year you were born,” he tossed out, peeking up at me through lashes too thick for a mortal man.

“Dude, listen, if you get into my banking app, you’ll be bitterly disappointed.” He graced me with a smile that went right to my balls. “I’m robbing Peter to pay Paul as my dad likes to say.”

“Same,” he softly replied. “I’ll leave things as I found them. You won’t even know I was here.”

That was highly doubtful.

I made a manly sort of huffing sound, gave him a nod, and backed out of my office, releasing a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding once the door clicked shut.

***

Fred and Wilma were quite glad to see me. They were tucked into their little coop, fresh hay and water, the food dish empty. Since it was dark now, I’d not feed them as it would only put food into the mouths of the mice that scurried around my little shed/coop, scaring the living shit out of me. There was no petting of goose heads. My two weren’t the type to sit on your lap. Though they were the kind that would come when called. Wilma would take lettuce from my hand, Fred would not. Fred didn’t quite trust me since that time I had to give him liquid antibiotics a few years ago when he had cut his foot on a broken beer bottle someone had chucked down into the creek where they played. I was furious, obviously. Stupid people truly grind my gears.

After that ten-day course of unhappiness for all, Fred now stayed just out of reach, which was fair. If some dude had sat on my back and forced my mouth open I’d…well, I’d probably not object if what he was putting into my mouth was his cock, which would be impossible as he was on my back but the point stood. I made a mental note to buy Mr. Blum—and no, he was not a bloom like a flower he liked to joke—an extra bag of corn on top of the bag I owed him for tending to my geese. Mr. Blum fed the crows every morning so the extra shell corn would be appreciated.

My house was chilly, so I built a fire in the woodstove to save on burning gas, threw my dirty clothes into the hamper, and changed into fleece pants and a sweatshirt bearing the logo of my new brother-in-law’s team. I made a cup of coffee, flopped on the couch, and checked my phone. Nora had sent me a short message asking if I’d made it home safely because I was late checking in. Honestly, she and my mother were clones. Right under my sister’s text was one from Mom saying if she didn’t hear from me soon, she would send the state police out to look for me. Hey, go for it. A man in uniform did things for me.

As did a soft-spoken singer, it seemed.

While I sent off texts to the worrywarts, I pondered why I was so drawn to Kenan. He was not my typical type. Paulie had been my type. Big, buff, and athletic. Not a creative bone in his large body. Paulie, and in all honesty, anyone over the age of ten who insists on being called Paulie instead of Paul should be avoided so bad on me, was a pipeline worker for a fracking company. Tanned from working outside, muscular, and unable to keep his dick in his pants as I had found out.

So yeah, Kenan was the anti-Paulie. Oh. Oh, there it was. I smiled at how clever I was. That was the draw. Now it all made sense. I found the man sleeping in my office so hot because he was the exact opposite of the guy who had kicked me out of our place on Christmas Eve after I’d come home to find him being fucked by the crew’s driller. à propos, eh? Drilled by the driller. You can’t make up this kind of shit. Nor would anyone want to.

Given what had taken place with Paulie and Newt—yes, his name was Newt—was it any wonder why I’d be attracted to Kenan? No, it was to be expected. And once he moved on, my dick would simmer down, my head would clear, and my secure little life would resume. All I had to do was see him off in the morning, conscious clear to doing a good deed during the holidays, and on the world would turn. Easy. No sweat.

Damn, I was clever.

I went to bed sure that I’d sleep like an angel resting its sweet head on God’s shoulder.

Nope. Not even close.

Every time I closed my eyes, Kenan was there, smiling or singing or flicking his curls. That last one was a lie. He had not flicked a curl once that I’d seen, but man, if he ever did I’d lose a few cogs. After two hours of tossing, turning, and cussing passed, I did the only thing a man could do to ensure he would fall asleep. I jerked off. Didn’t take long. A handful of spit, a mental image of a country crooner with eyes like dark chocolate, and a few tugs.

Once I caught my breath, I wiped off with an old tee, tossed the dirty shirt to the floor, and crashed. I dozed off instantly, sated for the moment, and dreamed of being a musician for Kenan at the Whiteham County Fair. I was in a sequined dress, a big blonde wig, and playing a steel guitar. A pen of pigs next to the stage watched us. The lady pigs were screaming and fainting ala the hens in that old Porky Pig cartoon with the swooning hens. I knew they were lady pigs because they had pink bows. My dreams were clearly locked into gender norms. I’d have to work on that in some dream analysis or something.

When my phone alarm sounded, I sat up, blinked at the winter sun well over the tops of the pines, and swore I would never drink chocolate mint coffee before bed again. Although, I did look damn fine in drag.

My morning routine was always the same. Roll out, piss, ride a few miles on my stationary bike in the laundry room, head out to tend to Fred and Wilma, come back inside, eat, shower, and head to town. It never deviated. When it did on occasion, like the time I came out to find a black bear had torn the door off my feed shed and had hauled off my metal trash can of waterfowl pellets, that made me cranky. Routine was good.

This morning looked to be headed for the crapper because when my eyelids popped open, I saw I was late and thought about Kenan. That was not routine. As I moved through my other morning rituals, he kept appearing out of nowhere like a damn pop-up ad. Pedaling past a fjord in Norway, POP, there he was. Filling up the heated waterer while Wilma nibbled at my chore boots, POP, there was Kenan. Buttering my bagel, POP, Kenan.

It got so disturbing that I thought about calling the alehouse just to check on him.

“Nope, nope, and even bigger nope,” I scolded myself. The man was probably on his way to some warmer clime, I hoped, where he could busk in the warmth. Perhaps he was on a bus back home to Kentucky, where the horses were all walking horses…no, that was Tennessee, right? Kentucky had thoroughbreds. And grass that immigrants imagined was blue but was green. Thinking of that little anecdote over my bagel and coffee made me smile. Actually, every time I thought of Kenan, I smiled, which was downright stupid. The man was a drifter, a recovering drug addict. He had probably flown out the front door of my pub like his ass was on fire as soon as his eyes had opened, and who could have blamed him. Talk about temptation.

So, imagine my surprise when I got to work an hour later and way past my usual time so I could open the doors at noon and be ready to find Kenan mopping the floor.

I stalled in the doorway, the bright sunshine falling on the wet floor, and gaped as my grip on a box of a dozen doughnuts from the corner mart tightened. An old Hank Williams Jr. song was playing on the jukebox. Kenan swung around, wet mop dripping, and hit me with a smile that impacted me like a two-by-four to the jaw.

“Morning,” he called over Mr. Williams Jr. telling the world about how he was about to get hell bound and whiskey bent. “I hope you don’t mind that I jumped in to do some cleaning before you showed up?”

“I…uhm…no, it’s fine, of course. Very courteous,” I babbled, pulling the door shut. The lunch break at the mill would start in five minutes, and I hadn’t even dumped the change into the register yet. Being late made me grumbly.

“It looked like it needed a mopping.”

“Probably did,” I replied, taking care of where I stepped as I made my way to the bar. “I tend to forget.” I placed the bank bag on a spotless, shiny bar. “Did you polish the bar?”

He nodded, curls bouncing.

If I were a praying man, I’d have been on my knees. Oh. Kneeling in front of Kenan would be—nope, nope, major nope.

“I made some coffee too. I wanted to help in whatever way I could to pay you back for your kindness.”

“I…thank you.” I fumbled about with the register, forgetting the password momentarily as I gazed at his perfectly formed face. “Shit.” One sign-in attempt of being locked out, I finally got the damn drawer to open. Kenan returned to his mopping. The door opened. I looked up to see my regulars filing in, mill workers coated with sawdust. “Shit,” I said again as Kenan backed up, bucket in tow, to allow the customers to come in.

“Finally hired some help, huh?” Lyle, one of only three supervisors at the sawmill outside of town, asked as he dropped his ass into his favorite stool. “About damn time. You got the fryer going?”

“Not yet. I slept in. Jet lag,” I said as the bar and tables were claimed in short order.

“Jet lag? Canada is like five hours away,” Linc, a young guy with an eye for pretty girls and motocross, said.

“Not all of Canada is five hours away,” Lyle pointed out as he reached behind the bar for a coffee mug and the creamer. They made themselves at home here. “Only Toronto is that close. Use the phone for something other than porn and find a damn map of the world. What do they teach you kids in school nowadays?”

“Not cursive,” someone shouted, which got a laugh from everyone but Linc who rose to the bait far too easily.

I would have liked to get into the teasing, but I had beers to serve, orders to take, and food to cook. My menu was simple bar food, burgers and fries, onion rings, and some cold sandwiches, stuff that went well with beer. Kenan eased up beside me behind the bar, his arm brushing mine. I looked to the side while pulling a pitcher of dark ale for the foursome from the sanitation department.

“I’m not much of a short-order cook but I can serve beer,” he offered as the shouts of customers who were hungry, thirsty, and short on time rolled over me.

I nodded. “Thanks, that would be so helpful.” I paused, my hand on a tap. “If you’re sure that you can handle it?”

“I’m positive. Maybe my next NA sponsor will give me a sticker for working in a pub and only drinking ginger ale,” he kidded and gently nudged me aside. Okay, so he was a tiny bit bossy. That was not a turnoff by any means.

“Put on an apron,” I barked as I stepped back.

“Where are they?” Kenan asked while pulling a nice, foamy pilsner.

“Oh, right.” I shuffled to the left as Lyle gave me an odd sort of assessment. “Did I grow another nose while I was gone?”

“Nope, just watching.” Lyle leaned back on his stool, sipped from his cup of coffee, and smirked as if he knew something, which he didn’t. The man knew nothing.

“Well, watch the damn TV,” I snapped, found the remote and snapped on the wall-mounted television, and then stalked into the cramped kitchen to fire up the grill and deep-fryer. While they heated, I pulled two clean aprons, deep red with my alehouse logo on the front, and snuck back into the pub. Kenan was doing a good job filling orders. I handed him an apron, grabbed a book of guest checks and a pencil, and started circulating the few tables to take orders.

Not going to lie, having a hand at the taps made the lunch rush much easier. Kenan knew his way around a bar and seemed to have a subtle charm that the rednecks enjoyed. There was something about the man, a strength that lingered under the surface of his Kentucky appeal.

When the worst of the chaos was over, I cooked two burgers with a side of fries and toted them out to the bar. Kenan was washing glasses when I placed the food down. Lyle and the others had left to return to work, thank God, so there was only one table left. Travelers through our little burg on their way south, like geese only with less attitude. Nice people who had enjoyed the food and ale and were now discussing which route to take into the Virginias.

“Oh that looks great, thank you.” Kenan wiped his hands on his damp apron after placing the glasses on a towel to dry.

“It’s the least I could do,” I honestly replied, heaving a leg over a stool.

“Soda?” he asked. I bobbed my head. He filled two glasses with ice and sprayed some lemon-lime soda into them. “I think the Bud Light keg needs to be tapped.”

“Yeah, that goes fast here. I’ll grab that after we eat.” The basement was a dank, dark place, perfect for keeping kegs cool and out of the way. “Sit down. Eat.”

“Yes, sir,” he replied with a crooked grin and I did my best not to let affect me. “Is it always that busy in here?”

“Mm, lunch and dinner can be, but that was insane. Probably because the place was closed for a week and everyone was tired of bologna sandwiches from home.”

“And you do this by yourself?” He slid into a seat beside me, his thigh resting tight to mine. I watched as he plucked a fry from the mound on his plate and poked it into the mayo running out from under the top bun.

“Like mayo on your fries?”

“Yeah, I’m a little different.”

“To each their own,” I said, then coated my fries with a mix of mustard and ketchup. We ate in peace for a moment, his leg cozy as it rested beside mine. “I’d like to pay you for your time.”

“Okay. Yeah, thanks.” He was a slow eater in comparison to me, who sucked grub down like a Hoover according to my mother. “I put the tips into that metal cup so we could split them.”

“Nope, those are yours. I got mine off the tables.”

“Cool, thank you. The people here seem nice. No one commented on my nose or my accent.”

“Why would they say anything about either? Your accent is pleasant and your nose is pretty.” His eyes flared. I choked on a crunchy bit of French fry. “I mean…your nose is fine on your face. Sits fine on your face. It’s lined up between your eyes in a way that is normally pretty on any human being.”

Mortification dropped on me like an anvil on a cartoon coyote. “Thanks,” he murmured, his gaze unreadable. “I’m always glad my nose wasn’t on my forehead.”

“Yeah, that would…” There was no way out of this without looking more idiotic. “I’m going to go change that keg.” Up I shot, leaving my fries and half my burger. Kenan’s hand landed on my forearm. I paused in my flight to the basement to look at his fingers resting on me.

“Your nose sits prettily on your face too,” he said and removed his hand.

Words failed me, so I smiled way too hard and made my escape to the basement via the kitchen. Each step into the cellar, the temp dropped so that by the time I was wedged into the narrow space filled with beer kegs and lines leading to the bar, all the heat that Kenan’s touch and compliment left my overheated skin. It never froze down here, but the temperature was such that a coat or sweater would have felt good. In my half- mad state to flee, I’d not grabbed the old, tattered coat that hung by the basement door.

“A little cooling off will do you good,” I told myself as I moved automatically, unhooking the handle and then twisting it off. Space was limited down here, so I had to move the empty keg, roll in a new one, and tap the new one. I blatantly ignored the boxes of holiday decorations moldering in the corner. God knows I should chuck them in the dumpster. They’d not come out of that cold box once since Paulie had fucked over Christmas forever. If I threw them out, I’d have more room for beer, which would make me money, but here they poked at my memory every time I had to tap a keg.

Right. Fuck those boxes. I had other things to do besides get lost in the dismal past. Once the new keg was ready, I took a moment, or ten, to suck in chilly air to cool my motherfucking jets. This day was not at all routine. I wiped my wet fingers on my apron over and over, a calming method of sorts, until I felt that I was once again Brann the beer man aka my old self. Sure, Kenan had said something nice. Yes, I liked it. I was only human. He’d simply been returning a compliment. My nose was an okay nose. Nothing spectacular like his. His nose was regal and added something to his face. It spoke of his lineage. Mine was just a dull old nose that sucked in air. Still, it was nice of him to say it was pretty, even if he knew it was blasé.

Hefting the empty keg into my arms, I slowly climbed the stairs. The empties went outside into the back alley so the beer trucks could pick them up. The drivers had dollies to handle the filled kegs, but all I had was my back. Kenan stood at the top of the stairs, watching me waddle upward, his curls lying on his brow.

“I’ll get the door,” he said and disappeared. I grunted a thanks as I moved past him into the alley, icicles as tall as he was hung from the back of the shops, a few dropping to the ground as the sun tried to warm the county. “Look about the whole nose thing…”

“Nope, no need to explain,” I huffed as I placed the empty atop another spent keg. I turned to look at him, which was a huge mistake because every time I saw his face, I did something stupid and un-Brann-like. “I know you were just being polite.”

“Well, actually—”

I waved him off. “It’s all good. People are nice to each other that way. Like when someone shows me a picture of a new baby and I say the kid is cute, even though it’s not really all that cute. I mean, newborns look like something Rosemary gave birth to.” He chuckled. It was a soft laugh, but it made me feel ten feet tall because he got the reference. “So reciprocating a kindness with a kindness needs no explanation. We both have nice functional noses.”

“Okay, yeah, we do. They work well.” He tapped his nose once, just like Santa laying a finger aside his nose. “I love that movie.”

“Yeah? Most people don’t even know about the old classic horror flicks, but I love them. Nora likes to say that I was born in the wrong decade.”

“Nora is your wife?”

“God no, I’m gay.”

“Oh, nice to know. Me too.”

Ah. Well, that was nice to know. “Small world,” I said, my witty verbiage on full display.

“Sure is, so Nora is?”

“Oh, my sister. She just got married. I was coming home from her wedding yesterday.” Had I mentioned that to him yesterday? Shit, I couldn’t remember. I was so dumb around this man I could have confessed to any number of things and not recalled. “To a hockey player. Up in Canada.”

“Shocking.”

“What? That she got married?”

“No, that she found a hockey player in Canada.” That made me snort. Not a very pleasant sound, but it seemed to amuse him. “I like the old things, old songs, old movies, and old souls.”

Our gazes locked. He wet his lips. My entire being sang in joy.

“Oh hey, Brann, glad I caught up with you.” The smell of cigarette smoke arrived a moment before Al Prescott, of Al’s Hardware, stepped around the pyramid of empties. His wife Glory had banished him and his smokes outdoors ten years ago. Al was one reason I did my best not to tarry around in the alley. “I heard you hired some help. About time.”

“Well, Kenan isn’t exactly hired, he was just helping out,” I explained as Al gave Kenan a long look that wasn’t at all welcoming.

“Ah, well, that’s nice. ?Tis the season and all. Listen, Brann, I know we’ve been through this a few times over the past few years.” Al sidled in closer, cigarette in hand, to wedge his portly self behind the kegs that acted as a windbreak of sorts. The sun shone nicely off his bald scalp. “But as the head of the Main Street Business Association, I’d like to invite you to think about putting up some decorations in your windows. The alehouse is the only store on either side of the street barren of any seasonal joy.”

“I think I hear the phone ringing,” Kenan said, easing back inside. I wanted to kick Al in his pork belly—and yes, he ate a lot of pork, so I felt justified in calling his girthy middle that—for breaking up what could have been…

Well, maybe it was a good thing Al and his Marlboro Lights had shown up.

“Al, we’ve been over this. I don’t do Christmas.” I folded my arms over my chest as a small sparrow flitted to the ground to pick at the crumbs under the dumpster. He found a frozen fry to peck at while we talked.

Al shifted, his smoke blowing into my face. I waved the cloud away. He seemed not to notice or care. Probably the latter.

“Well, yes, and I understand that you have your reasons, but surely you could find a little tree or a candle to place in the windows? We’re not asking anyone to go against their beliefs.” He drew in a lungful, exhaled, and carried on. “Speaking of beliefs, did you vet that young man before you brought him in to help at the bar?” My hackles, which were always raised around Al, rose even higher. “Now don’t look at me like you do when you come in to vote.”

“I look at you that way when I vote because you always make a comment about my rainbow vote.”

He did have the decency to blanch. “That was meant as a kindness. You know Glory and I have nothing against the gays.” Right. And I was Tina Turner. “I’m only concerned about your safety when you bring a certain type of person into our community.”

“Certain type? The type with curly hair?”

He scowled, then dropped his butt to the snowy ground. It sizzled. “You’re always so quick to take offense, Brann. I never did understand that. I’m only looking out for our community.”

“Yep, me too. People with curly hair are a known menace to our fair village.” With that, I stalked inside and slammed the door in his face. Fuck him and his ignorance. I stormed through the kitchen into the pub to find Kenan chatting with a couple of customers. They had tall glasses of dark lager and a dish of nuts. All seemed in order. “I’m going to go do paperwork. Can you hang out for another hour or so?”

“Sure.” He looked as if he wanted to say more but didn’t.

I climbed up to my office, opened the door, and was hit in the face with the aroma of Kenan. It was a warm scent, slightly woodsy, and it lingered not only by the sofa but also in the small bathroom. I washed my hands of old beer, then dried my hands on a small towel that smelled of Kenan. Had he washed his body here in this dinky sink? Was that why my hand towel carried his fragrance?

“You are losing it,” I told myself, yanking the towel from my face and stomping to my desk. I sat down with a huff, opened my desktop, and stared at all the bills that needed to be paid as my mind stewed about Al. Fucking Al. Such a jerk. How he weaseled his way to be the head of anything was a mystery for the ages. If Al and a rabid zombie rabbit were running for head of the small business association of Whiteham, I would not only vote for the rabid zombie rabbit, I’d put signs in my yard saying VOTE FOR THE RABID ZOMBIE RABBIT just to twist Al’s checkered knickers. Sure, I had decorations in the basement. Those were from the Paulie era before a certain dickhead had ruined the holidays for me. Now they sat there unopened and unused, full of spiders and mice droppings. And that was where they were going to stay. No one could force me to decorate.

A soft rap on the office door jarred me from Al, Christmas, and the box of ho-ho-ho stashed in a dark, cold corner next to a keg of Miller High Life.

Kenan stuck his head in, curls galore. I sat up straighter. “Hey, are we allowed to serve food after the lunch rush? A couple of gas workers looking for a bite.”

“Sure, yeah, I’ll be right down. You can go whenever you want.” He nodded but didn’t move. “I mean, if you want to. To go. Somewhere else. You’re more than welcome to stay here for a couple of days, you know, if you want to make some money for the next leg of your trip.”

“I’d like that, thanks. Your couch is very comfy, and the people here are nice. Would you mind if I played tonight? Just a short set. Maybe make some more tips. Gas is expensive.”

I didn’t have a clue, but what the hell wasn’t expensive nowadays? “That would be fine. Maybe from six to seven after we get most of the eaters fed?”

“Perfect. Thanks, Brann. Oh, and I have something in my bag that I’d be willing to let you use as a decoration in the front window.” He hurried to one of his two duffels stashed behind the couch, kneeled, and rummaged. I enjoyed the way his back muscles flexed under his long-sleeved Henley. Dark, dark curls tickled the nape of his neck. My fingers itched to comb them out, then watch them spring back. He winked at me as he stood with a small brass menorah in his hand. “If you dare. I mean, it says seasonal joy to me.”

“Oh, Kenan, I so dare. I love it. Yeah, let’s get that set up stat.”

He blushed just enough to make his ears adorably pink. I think it was right then that I knew I was in deep, deep , deep trouble.