Foothills Pride Stories, Volume 2

by Pat Henshaw

  I smiled at him ruefully as he sat there stewing and patted him on the arm.

  He grabbed my hand pulled me toward him, and kissed me. This one was hotter than the kiss he gave me at night before we parted to go to our rooms and fall asleep.

  My body reacted. Of course it did. So I broke from him. No point in prolonging this agony.

  “Do you love me?” he whispered.

  I couldn’t lie. I nodded.

  That was the problem, wasn’t it?

  Before Christopher could speak again, life intruded like it always does. The installers wanted me to inspect the new sign and the old one, and be paid. Then there was a problem with a customer that Riley couldn’t take care of.

  Christopher hung around, trying to get a few minutes to talk, but interruptions kept us apart. In the end, he and Henry went off to dinner, and I stayed late working at the store. I called Zeke and took a room on the top floor, away from the Darlings. I turned off my new phone.

  I retreated to think.

  Why hadn’t I asked if he loved me? Because I knew I couldn’t take it if he said no. I just couldn’t.

  14

  THE NEXT day breakfast arrived at my door on a tray with a red rose and a note in Christopher’s handwriting: Frank, buddy, we need to talk. XOX Christopher

  The “buddy” zinged right through my heart. A red rose and buddy? Breakfast delivered? Was it at my door so I wouldn’t come downstairs to eat?

  My sadness colored the rose gray, and the breakfast became dust.

  Depressed, I left town for the day, walking in the woods so I didn’t have to deal with Christopher, Henry, Riley, or the townspeople who would show up to see what was going on with the remodeled hardware store.

  When the woods didn’t cheer me up, I drove to Sacramento but didn’t have the heart to party. I wallowed, took a tour of the capitol, and went to a movie. I called Riley to let him know I was still alive, but really, I wasn’t. I was hanging on, but not alive.

  I got back to the hotel in Stone Acres, only to have the desk clerk hand me a stack of notes from Christopher and Henry, all saying Christopher needed to speak to me. His tone got more urgent with every note.

  I sat in my room and thought. Did I want to talk to him?

  Yes and no.

  Did I think he would say something I wanted to hear?

  Yes and no.

  Could I take the leap?

  If I did, would the landing hurt more than the pain I already felt?

  I didn’t know. I’d never been in a relationship. I couldn’t even guess.

  In the end, I took the leap.

  CHRISTOPHER ASKED me out to dinner at a restaurant in Tahoe, where neither of us knew anyone. He explained he didn’t want to be interrupted. He wanted us to be able to talk freely without Henry or Riley or someone else butting in.

  At first I was concerned because I would be miles from town. But after I thought about it, I realized I trusted Christopher. He might not love me the way I wanted him to, but he would never leave me stranded.

  When he arrived at my hotel room to pick me up, he brought me roses in a vase. He explained I’d once told him that this year I was going to have to replant my mother’s roses at the house because the old ones were dying out.

  I found the gesture reassuring and felt better about getting into his van and driving an hour away for dinner with him. He wasn’t a bad guy at heart.

  We made small talk on the way up, the usual things like the weather, Henry’s work habits, the store remodel, but not his house.

  Seated at the table after we ordered, he turned serious.

  “What happened, Frank? What did I say or do to make you back off from me, from us?”

  I explained about how I’d made no plans for after the summer, which I’d told him before. I couldn’t tell him what my assumptions had been.

  “But you said you love me. Remember?”

  “I do love you, Christopher. That doesn’t mean I’m going to put my life on hold. You and Henry are rebuilding your lives, and I have to get on with mine. Surely you understand that.”

  He frowned, and I could tell by his concentration that he was putting together what he wanted to say from what I’d told him.

  His expression got even grimmer than it had been. He sighed.

  “Frank, you know I love you too, don’t you? I thought—no, I assumed you’d be moving into the house with me and Henry when it was finished. I don’t understand where this went wrong. I’ve gone over and over our lunch and can’t figure out what I said or did.”

  A misunderstanding? That’s all this was? I couldn’t believe it. I’d assumed. He’d assumed. And then I’d put the wrong spin on his question?

  “Oh.” The word flew out of me.

  Could I believe him? Was this so simple? Was so much happiness possible?

  His face was filled with hope and love. And fear.

  Did he really think that I didn’t want him? How could he?

  Suddenly, I was flying. The world around me brightened.

  “What? I thought you were telling me you and Henry were moving without me but wanted the table.”

  “Screw the fucking table. I want you, not the damn table.”

  Like someone riding life’s roller coaster, I was ascending. I hoped this would be the last time, with no more dips and curves. I longed for the carousel ride instead, the endless going around and around, enjoying the minor dips while happy music played.

  “We’re good, Frank? Really good? I love you, and you love me? We’re okay again?”

  Christopher sounded so relieved that I smiled and nodded. We were back on course.

  “Wait! Wait!” I took a breath. This was important. “Promise me one thing. Please.”

  “What?”

  “Talk to me. Whatever happens. Talk to me. Tell me everything. I promise I’ll do the same for you. Let’s never have another problem like this. Ever.”

  Suddenly he was solemn.

  “I promise, Frank. Never again. We will always communicate, no matter what.” His face became still as he thought. “Not being honest and not talking has killed every relationship I’ve had and every failed relationship I have known about. I don’t want it to end what’s between us.”

  Carefully and deliberately, he got up, came around, and kissed me in front of everyone.

  I gave a sigh of relief. We would be okay now.

  “Wait here, Frank. I’ll be right back.”

  While he was gone, I had a moment to wonder if our days of not talking or seeing one another were really done or if I’d finally gone over the edge and was dreaming. Since my happiness felt so real and right, I didn’t wonder for long.

  Christopher came back quickly. He had a buoyancy in his step that he hadn’t had earlier.

  “Okay. Let’s go. I got us a room.” His voice sounded younger, mimicking the way his steps had bounced. “I called Riley and told him you won’t be in tomorrow. And Henry is spending the night with Larry. We’re all covered.”

  I stood, and he kissed me again.

  From behind us, someone growled, “Get a room.”

  Christopher turned his brilliant smile over his shoulder and held up his key card.

  “Thanks! We’ve got one!”

  EVERY YEAR my birthday falls on or near Labor Day. The tourists, for the most part, were moving out then, and the residents were cleaning and closing up their rental cabins.

  The store gets a lot of business in the weeks before and after my birthday, so my family never really celebrated—too busy working. After my mother died, my grandfather and father sometimes remembered to give me presents, always unwrapped, and we either had a family backyard barbeque or went out to dinner in Tahoe or Sacramento. We were men. According to them, men didn’t need silliness like celebrations.

  The past five years since my father’s death had been even lower-key. Nothing at all was said about it being a special day. So I figured this year wouldn’t be any different. Why should it?

&nbs
p; Arriving at work this morning, the only parking place available on the street was my reserved spot in front of the store. Considering there didn’t seem to be anyone walking around, I wondered where everyone who’d driven into town was. Old Town should be bustling with folks.

  My question was answered the second I walked into the store and saw the “Happy Birthday, Frank!” banner.

  I was shocked. It seemed everyone I knew was yelling birthday greetings at me. As I stepped forward, Christopher and Riley led a raucous rendition of the birthday song, and Bud rolled up a huge cake ablaze with candles.

  After I huffed and puffed to blow them out, everyone quieted.

  Henry and Larry walked up to me. Henry was carrying one of the test boxes. This one had been modified with panels of mesh on each side and the top. Something seemed to be moving inside.

  “Happy birthday, Frank. We figured out what the box is for.” Henry handed it to me. Inside, a brief, plaintive “meow” could be heard.

  “We call him Nails cuz he’s tough,” Larry added. “He’ll keep out the mice and rats in the back.”

  Before I could thank them, Christopher pushed them aside, took the box, and gave it to his son. Then he went down on one knee.

  “Franklin McCord, love of my life, sunlight of my days, and comforter of too few of my nights—” Somebody gasped but was hushed up by a woman’s whisper. “—will you marry me?”

  Stunned, I nodded.

  “Yes.”

  It was more of a croak than a romantic answer.

  Was this really happening? It had to be. A dream wouldn’t include everyone I knew in town, would it? Everyone around us was radiating happiness.

  I looked down again. Christopher was taking a ring out of his pocket and putting it on my third finger.

  “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.” He kept repeating it like a mantra.

  After I’d been properly ringed, he bounced up, took me in his arms, and kissed me.

  “Oh God, I love you so much, Frank. So much.”

  Now he was crying, and I was too.

  One of my former neighbors handed me a hankie, and I blew my nose.

  “Happy birthday, sweetie. This couldn’t happen to a nicer guy,” she whispered.

  And now she was crying with us.

  AFTER THE noise and congratulations ended and everyone had left, the store cleaned up and the banner put away, Christopher and I stood hand in hand in front of the sales counter.

  I was amazed how much I’d learned about myself this summer. I now knew that, unlike Emil, I wasn’t willing to live on breadcrumbs, whatever I could get from Christopher. I wasn’t so desperate for love that I would live with him no matter if he loved me or not. I needed my self-respect as much as I wanted love.

  In fact, I’d found I’m a greedy chap who longed not only to love someone but to have that someone adore me. I wanted it all. I wanted Christopher, who’d been around the marriage block and knew exactly who and what he wanted—someone he could rely on to love and cherish him, who wouldn’t drop him and Henry for the next best thing.

  Me.

  As I gazed at the ring, he picked up my hand and kissed the symbol of his love. “I’ve been carrying this thing around for a few weeks. I was just too chickenshit to give it to you or to say anything.” He looked up at me. “It took a kick in the ass to make me move. I knew I had to give you a grand gesture in front of everyone to make you really believe how much I love you.”

  He kissed the ring again and then hauled us together, crushing me like I was something special he had to keep close to his heart.

  “I almost proposed at the Rock Bottom one night, but I figured everyone would laugh and wouldn’t take it seriously that I’d done it somewhere nicknamed the Bottom.”

  I sighed. Who could ask for a more romantic proposal than one in a historic hardware store?

  Not me.

  To Jake, Becca, Sarah, and Jill, without whose help and love, I would have given up long ago. Thank you all so much. I love you! To Max Pauley who agreed to become a piano player for this book. Raven is ready to hire you. And to Andi Byassee, without whose editing prowess I would often be lost. Thank you, Andi!

  1

  MEETING A potential client for the first time was usually a mixed bag. As a contractor and partner in Behr Construction, I never knew what I was going to get: a fanciful dreamer, an actual customer, or a combination of both.

  So I was surprised when I opened the door to the gutted restaurant and found a giant of a man twirling Julie Andrews–style. He was grinning like a loon as the light poured over him.

  That should have been laughable since he was alone, but he was kickass savoring the moment. Instead of appearing loco, he struck me as a big overgrown Peter Pan. He looked so happy, I had an urge to join him, which gave me a moment of panic because I’m not an old boy who does much dancing or cavorting—in public or in private.

  “Uh, hello? Mr. O’Shea?”

  When he turned toward me, my jaw dropped. I’m sure I musta looked like the village idiot.

  The guy was unbelievably gorgeous. I don’t usually think men are good- or bad-looking. They’re men. Before that moment, I would have said men weren’t my type. But, damn! He was smoking hot.

  He looked about my height—six four or maybe a little taller—and was dressed in a classy three-piece suit with a gleaming tie tack, had one pierced ear, and wore a sparkling watch. His raven hair stood up in a tall buzz cut in front and tapered long enough to curl around his ears in back.

  But what stopped me and turned me to jelly were his wickedly merry eyes and his shit-eating grin.

  He acted like a kid who’d found Santa or the Easter Bunny.

  In the middle of the total disaster of the old Thompson’s steak house, this guy looked like he’d hit the jackpot.

  Fuck me. I’d come to a standstill and was staring at him openmouthed. Since I’m your basic laid-back good old boy, nothing usually bothered me. Now I was poleaxed. He was bewitching. Too hot for somebody like me to handle.

  He’d stopped spinning. Without missing a beat, he strode over to me with his hand held out. In the blink of an eye, he changed from the picture of kidlike excitement to a polished city businessman.

  I stood stock still, wondering what the hell had just happened. Had I hallucinated the twirling around? Maybe it was time to get away from work for a while, take a vacation, maybe go do some fishing.

  “Isn’t this place great?” he greeted me. His voice held a leftover tinge of joy.

  He didn’t look embarrassed or bothered that I’d caught him dancing around like an ass. Up close, he was even more powerfully sexy and self-assured. Face-to-face, his lively, assessing stare unnerved me. His unbridled enthusiasm wrapped around me and lifted me off my feet.

  The guy seemed to be pulling my personality and soul toward him as he decided whether I was friend or foe. Then he grinned even wider, stuck out his hand, grabbed mine, and shook like we were on the verge of becoming tight. Why did I find this move hot as fuck?

  I shook his hand, stunned, and almost wanted to run back to the alley, where I’d left my regular, easygoing self.

  His eyes brightened and his smile turned sexy, as if he’d discovered a delightfully lascivious secret.

  “Mr. Behr? May I call you Ben? I’m Mitchell O’Shea. Call me Mitch.” He squeezed my hand one more time, then dropped it. “Great space here. I’m going to buy it.”

  His hand swept up in an extravagant Vanna White gesture. I was about to tell him he couldn’t afford a vowel, much less a remodel, when he grinned and sucked me in again.

  Fuck. Oddly, my body agreed with that sentiment. Why was this happening? To me, of all people. I wasn’t gay. Even a little bit.

  My brothers, Abe and Connor, had come out a while back, but everybody knew I was the straight Behr. I’d been dating girls since I was twelve (but looked sixteen). I wasn’t attracted to guys. Ever. I didn’t go for tall girls, especially ones as huge as me, so why was I attracted
to a big man?

  I stepped back and gave him the once-over. My body sure as shit was a little interested. Okay, maybe more than a little.

  Like all the Behrs, I’m tall and squared off. As my grandpa always said, I’m built like a brick shithouse. A brown brick shithouse. Brown hair, brown eyes, brown tan. Nothing exotic about me.

  But this guy? This guy had dark blue eyes flecked with light blue and green. His big body was lithe, with a tapered torso, and he moved like a dancer. He hit me like a gorgeous morsel of urban life. Somebody polished and sophisticated except for a patch of boyish fun. His smile was so engaging, I figured my friends would even like him.

  My buddies had always said I was attracted to bright, shiny things. Was that all this was?

  Noise from outside burst my bubble. Mitch O’Shea and I’d been standing too long staring at each other and not talking.

  Through the blush heating up my cheeks, I cleared my throat and shifted uneasily.

  “What can Behr Construction do for you, uh, Mitch?”

  There was no way under God I was asking him what I could do for him. Or to him. Or whatever. I made myself stop overthinking. Just focus.

  His grin grew, embracing me. My prick rose. Dammit.

  “I’d like you to take a look at this place’s structure and tell me if it’s sound enough to remodel. Or should I just raze it and start over again?” His voice had changed to one only board presidents and big money used around us peons.

  I took a shuddering breath. I’d dealt with hundreds of Mitches as a contractor. Estimates and suggestions I could do.

  We both turned to the dismal interior of the former steak house. I cleared my throat, then took a breath.

  “Okay. Sure.” I took a step away from him and looked up at the lung-cancer ceiling. “What do you plan to do with this place?”