Tasting Notes (4 page)

He settled into the wooden chair, cushioned by the worn brown leather seat, and relaxed. It felt good to be sitting in a stationary spot. The thousands of miles he covered since his spontaneous departure from Chicago caught up with him. West closed his eyes and let the din of the other diners swirl around him. He was so close to his destination, but he felt wrung out. He didn’t know if he could go any farther that night.

The waitress appeared a moment later, and West ordered a glass of Merlot and a bowl of clam chowder. While he waited for his meal, he looked around, subtly observing the other patrons. There was a group of guys who were sitting at the bar, perched high on their stools. They obviously knew one another, the way they were joking and laughing. Their jeans, comfortable T-shirts, and baseball hats, paired with their three-day’s growth of stubble reminded West of truckers he’d seen. It would make sense. Of all the roadside towns West had driven through, Canyon Creek was one of the nicest. It was warm and welcoming, and even after having only been there a few minutes, he already felt at home.

And that was saying something.

West hadn’t felt at home since before his grandfather passed away. He used to spend weekends at his grandfather’s place, especially when he was going to school. Sundays had consisted of studying in the morning and dinner, just the two of them, in the evening. His grandfather quizzed him from his notes before exams. It was the thing that drove him. West’s motivation came from the desire to see the look of pride on his grandfather’s face when he accomplished something. It was addictive, and it was the impetus behind his master’s degree. His grandfather was the inspiration for him forging out on his own after only a year under the wing of one of the most prominent venture capitalists in Chicago.

The men at the bar finished their meals and stood, thanking the woman who appeared to be the only waitress in the place before they left. West looked around once more, noticing almost every table in the restaurant had been taken while he’d been sitting there. A group of people dressed like accountants that sat across from him chattered away. They were in suits and ties, and nothing about the way they were dressed made West miss his office. He’d spent surprisingly little time thinking about work since he left.

For a man who didn’t go anywhere without his phone in his hand, being disconnected from the company for even a few hours should have been difficult for him, but maybe this impromptu vacation was longer overdue than he thought. When his mind wandered back to work, the anticipated pang was conspicuously absent. In fact, he felt almost nothing. Perhaps it was the extreme fatigue, or maybe the apathy he suppressed all those years suddenly took over, but he felt numb to the thoughts of his life up until three days earlier.

His gaze drifted away once more, and suddenly the numbness vanished. At the table ahead of him, nestled against the window, were two men having dinner together. One was blond, his back to West as he chatted with his companion, but the other made West’s breath catch in his chest. He was big—big enough to be intimidating—and West wasn’t exactly slight. He had a beard, something West didn’t usually find attractive on a man. The men West usually went for were slick and manicured, high-powered investment bankers and executives in expensive suits with expensive haircuts. This guy was the opposite. He was rough around all the right edges, and the moment his dark eyes locked on him, West felt the tight pull of attraction.

The man stared openly at him, not bothering to look away like most guys would, having been caught looking. There was a flash of something in his eyes, a challenge almost, that made West swallow hard. He couldn’t seem to peel his gaze away, though, and the longer he looked, the deeper the allure burrowed beneath his skin.

He forced himself to break the eye contact, concentrating on the marks and blemishes on the smooth wooden table surface. It looked old—very old—and well loved. He wondered how long the restaurant had been around. He took an inventory of the imperfections of the table long enough to allow his heart to slow down to a normal pace. It wasn’t often a guy got his blood boiling from a heated glance alone. When he looked up once again, the man had gone back to talking to his friend.

The waitress reappeared a few minutes later with his soup and his wine and placed them both down in front of him.

“Anything else I can get for you?” she asked.

Momentarily he considered asking her if she knew who the guy was, but what was the point, anyway? He was only in town another half an hour at most, and although he found the guy to be quite intriguing to look at, there was nothing beyond that. Instead he thanked her and told her he was fine.

The soup was incredible—a better meal than he had at many of the five-star restaurants he frequented with clients. It was savory and creamy and filled his belly with warmth. By the time he made it through half the bowl, the exhaustion that had been on his heels all day finally caught up with him. He was struggling to stay upright, and his eyes were heavy. He wasn’t sure if he was going to be able to make it all the way to Eureka that night.

When he was finished, the waitress returned to collect his empty bowl.

“Is there a hotel around here you’d recommend?” he asked.

“There’s Canyon Creek Inn over on Court Street.” She looked him up and down, her eyes discerning. “It’s decent, but if you’d like somewhere a little nicer to stay, I’d recommend the McClellan Bed-and-Breakfast on Churchill. It’s an old Victorian-style manor. You’ll want to talk to Ambrose Hennessy. She owns the place.”

Before West could say anything, the waitress turned around and was motioning to a woman seated a few tables away. Her hair was swept into a messy bun on the top of her head, her thick bangs brushing against the edge of her black-rimmed glasses. She couldn’t have been older than thirty, and despite her casual dress in yoga pants and a men’s collared shirt, her red lipstick and heavy eyeliner were flawless.

“Rosie!” the waitress called. The woman looked up and smiled, her white teeth in stark contrast to her dark red lipstick. She rose from her chair and glided over to West’s table.

“This gentleman is looking for somewhere to stay tonight,” she said, motioning to West, who sat, a little dumbfounded, in his seat.

“Sure. Most of my rooms are available, slow season and all. Actually, Jane and I were just finishing up. If you’re ready to go, you could drive me and I’ll give you directions.”

West spent most of his days dealing with outspoken people who didn’t hesitate to say what was on their mind, but he never had a woman offer herself a ride home before. He wasn’t even certain he was staying the night, but the waitress had apparently made that decision for him.

“Sure,” he said, leaving a couple of twenties on the table before grabbing his jacket and following Ambrose out into the parking lot.

THE SECOND
half of dinner had been unsettling. Rush saw the sleek black sports car pull up and park in the lot outside the restaurant. Seeing strange cars wasn’t anything new. Although Canyon Creek wasn’t the tourist mecca some of the smaller businesses on Main Street hoped for, it did receive its fair share of outsiders stopping by on their way through town.

But that car looked like something the devil would drive to a business meeting. It stuck out, parked between the rusty trucks and reliable family vehicles that took up most of the parking lot. Rush didn’t like it. What he liked less was the man who climbed out of the car. His clothes, although casual, were a little too smooth, like his jeans probably cost more than Rush’s first car.

The man sauntered across the parking lot toward the door, and Rush hated the way his own eyes followed, noticing the way his body moved. He was confident and self-assured, like he was in charge of every situation he ever walked into. He’d met guys like that before. It put Rush’s teeth on edge.

“Everything okay?”

Rush turned his attention back to Sebastian. “Sorry. Yeah.”

“You spaced out there for a second.”

“Just watching the dipshit in the sports car.”

Sebastian followed his line of sight. “You know him?”

“Nope. But I know his type.”

Rush watched as the man took a seat at the table in front of him and Cherie went over to take him a menu. The man smiled at her, and Rush couldn’t seem to pull his gaze away. He was beautiful, as much as Rush hated to admit it. His dark hair and pale skin were striking, and the way his five o’clock shadow dusted across his jaw made him look a little mysterious. Rush found his mind wandering to where the stranger might have come from—or was headed—in a car like that. Certainly Canyon Creek wasn’t his final destination. There was nothing around there for people like him. The population was made of simple, honest people who worked hard and were grateful for what they had.

It was one of the reasons Rush returned to the small town after he left the military. He’d been all over the world, but no place felt like home except the tiny town at the base of the Trinity Alps. It was the best place he’d known.

“Rush?”

“Sorry,” he apologized again. “I don’t mean to keep spacing out on you.”

“Maybe you should head home and get some sleep. You’re probably exhausted from today.”

“I’m fine,” Rush assured him, digging back into his meal. “Just let my mind wander for a moment.”

He and Sebastian finished their meals, Rush trying to keep his eyes on his food and his dinner companion, rather than letting them wander back to the stranger at the table across from them. He mostly managed too, until he heard Cherie bellowing across the restaurant. Rush watched with rapt attention as Rosie made her way over and the three of them had a quick conversation before the man followed Rosie out the door.

Rush didn’t like it. He didn’t like it at all, and as soon as the two of them left the restaurant, he called Cherie over.

“What can I get for you?” she asked. “You can’t possibly still be hungry.”

Rush looked down at his empty plates. “No, thank you. I’m good. I was just wondering who Rosie left with.”

“I didn’t catch his name,” she replied.

“But you told Rosie to take him home?”

Cherie chuckled. “No, she’s not taking him
home
. She’s taking him to her bed-and-breakfast. You know, the business she runs,” she teased. “He’s passing through town and needed a place to stay.”

Rush had the decency to look somewhat embarrassed by his assumption.

“Robert James Coeman, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were jealous.”

Rush growled. No one called him by his real name, no one other than his mother. At least not since he left town all those years ago. He earned the nickname when he started college, and it stuck. Since then, Rush was all anyone called him. “Not jealous,” he insisted.

“Didn’t think so.” Cherie winked and slid the check onto the corner of the table. “Whenever you gentlemen are ready.”

“WHERE’S MY
buddy?” Rush gushed as he walked through the door to a happy dog. He loved coming home to Casper. He never felt better than when he saw himself through the eyes of his dog. Unconditional love at its best.

He crouched down on the ground, ruffling Casper’s thick fur and roughhousing with him. The dog barked, jumping around, bucking his back legs out with excitement. Rush rolled onto his back, letting him jump back and forth over his belly. It was one of Casper’s favorite games and Rush’s too, if he was honest. He enjoyed the easy happiness that came from spending time with his dog.

When Casper became tired of their game, he flopped over onto his back and let Rush scratch his belly.

“All right, bud. Let’s get you a treat.” At the word
treat
, Casper’s ears perked up, his energy miraculously restored as he bounded toward the kitchen, where Rush kept the Milk-Bones. The dog nosed at the cupboard where they were kept. Rush knew he was able to get into it on his own, but he waited patiently on the mat near the sink for Rush to grab a couple and toss them toward him. He was a good dog.

When Casper had made doubly sure he’d licked up all the crumbs—real and imaginary—that might have tumbled onto the floor, he and Rush retired to the living room, where Rush fell back onto the couch, one leg hanging off, and grabbed the remote. Casper jumped up next to him, curling against his thigh. Rush flicked through the channels, looking for something that would hold his attention. He settled on a true crime show, watching the shoddy reenactments and trying not to roll his eyes at the subpar acting.

His mind wandered first to Sebastian, who seemed… off. He was usually happy—at least happier than he seemed that night. Rush made a mental note to meet up with him the next day and grill him for answers if he had to. It wasn’t like him to be sullen.

From there his mind wandered back to the man he saw at the pub. It bothered Rush that he was still on his mind. He had been since he set eyes on him hours earlier. Every few minutes he mentally retraced the lines of the man’s muscles, visible as the soft fabric of his shirt moved against his body. It was quite the body. Rush could tell that much from looking at him. Clearly the man kept in shape, but he looked like the type to keep his physique at the hands of an overpaid personal trainer. Still, whoever that trainer was, he did good work.

Rush exhaled sharply. The problem would take care of itself come morning. The guy was leaving, and Rush would never have to see him again.

“WHICH ONE
is yours?” she asked.

West pointed to his car, the sleek black paint job gleaming under the streetlights. The sun had set while he was inside, and the cool mountain air descended, settling in the valley. Suddenly curling up in a comfortable bed seemed worlds more desirable than driving three more hours to the ocean. It would still be there in the morning.

“Swanky,” she sang as she sidled around the passenger’s side and waited for West to unlock it. They got in, and she directed him back out onto the main road and east, toward Churchill Street.