I snort.
The ugliest snorts of all snorts.
Violent.
Wet.
Ungodly unattractive.
I cover my nose quickly and wipe it with my hand as he holds the door open for me. “What’s so funny about that?”
Marie, the hostess, greets us with a charming smile. “Table for two?”
“Oh, we’re just—”
“Yeah, table for two,” Brig says, and when I look up at him in confusion, he just smiles and says, “We have some things to discuss.”
“Right this way,” Marie says, grabbing two menus, leading us to the back, next to the windows that overlook the ocean. We each take a seat and Marie places the menus in front of us only for Brig to hand them back and say, “We’re here for the baked bean sandwiches.”
Marie chuckles. “Should have known. I’ll put your order in with your server. Any drinks?”
“Water, please,” I say quickly.
“Me too,” Brig adds and then Marie takes off, leaving me alone with Brig, eating dinner together . . . at a restaurant.
How on earth is this real life right now?
Folding his hands together, he looks me dead in the eyes and says, “Run with me.”
“I think you’ve lost it,” I reply, moving the silverware on the table to busy myself with something other than looking Brig in the eyes.
“I haven’t. I think it’s a great idea because if you run with me, then you can be a foodie with me.”
“Oh, I see your motivation.”
“Come on, we’re going to be spending a lot of time together and we’re going to be sharing meals. I don’t want to have to deal with someone who eats two pieces of celery and one raisin as nutrients. I’m going to want to go to Jake’s Cakes and share a plate of waffle fries with you.”
“Um”—I tap my chin—“when did we decide we’ll be spending a lot of time together? I think I missed that memo?”
I might act confused, but good God, there’s a party going on inside me.
He tilts his head looking far too adorable. I wish I could take a picture—him looking at me, the ocean to his side, the natural wood shiplap behind him. It’s a moment I want to be able to look back on, to cherish.
“What do you not understand about being work neighbors? Are you the only person in Port Snow that doesn’t know I’m incredibly needy and clingy?”
A rumble of a laugh comes out of me. “No, I gathered that after seeing you interact with your brothers in Snow Roast so many times.”
“So then you understand that I’m going to be at the Parlor all the time, right?”
“Are you telling me you’re going to be a mooch?”
“Tea sandwiches, Ruthie.” He clenches his fist. “I need tea sandwiches.”
“Do you plan on paying for these tea sandwiches?”
“Of course. With labor. You can’t possibly do the renovations all by yourself. We spoke about this. The garage is slow right now and my guys can handle whatever comes in. Summer rentals are picking up, we’re a smooth operating machine, but you on the other hand, I mean . . . I just had to patch up a hole in the wall for you.”
“A hole you put there.”
“Doesn’t matter how it got there.” He waves his hand. “What matters is that I was there to help, and that’s the kind of help you can’t put a price on.”
“Pretty sure Rogan could give me a quote from one of his guys.”
He sighs and leans on the table. “Ruthie, I think you need to understand something about me. I can dish it, but I can’t take it, so busting my balls is going to break my fragile self-esteem.”
Chuckling, I say, “My mistake, wasn’t aware I was going to have to stroke your ego.”
“It would be appreciated. Thank you.”
Just then, our server brings us our drinks and our baked bean sandwiches. My mouth waters as my eyes fix in on the homemade bun, lightly toasted with slices of apple, bacon, cheese, and beans in the middle.
I know, I know . . . it sounds gross, but I swear it’s heaven on earth.
“Enjoy,” the server says and takes off. Before I can even reach for my napkin, Brig has the sandwich in hand and had already taken a bite. Leaning back in his chair, he quietly moans and savors the flavors while looking out toward the ocean.
“This is what life is about,” he says after swallowing. “Baked bean sandwiches. This is why we were put on this earth, so we can enjoy something like this, something so delicious. Don’t you think, Ruthie?”
I’m still trying to get over the sound of his moan . . .
“Uh, yeah.” I clear my throat. “Love the beans.”
He smirks over his sandwich before taking a bite, and then he looks away.
Love the beans? Come on, Ruth, don’t lose it now.
Just because he moans into a sandwich and looks like he’s having an orgasm doesn’t mean you need to lose your smart wit.
Get it together, woman.
I take another bite, chew, and swallow. “So, you said we have things to discuss. Does this have to do with sharing a wall with you? You don’t have to worry, there won’t be any raucous behavior happening over at the Parlor.”
“I don’t know. I’ve heard clotted cream on scones can make people wild. For all I know, your Parlor could easily turn into a brothel.”
“You know about clotted cream?”
“Searched the Internet to see what tea parties were all about last night. Wanted to see what the basics were, needed to see if it’s something I’d want to take part in.”
“And . . .”
“I’ll be honest. The term clotted cream threw me off. I don’t think you ever want to eat anything that has the word ‘clotted’ in it. But after I saw what it was all about, I felt confident in becoming quickly addicted to a dainty meal served to me on tiered milk glass.”
“I do plan on having tiered milk glass. Have you been reading my diary, Brig?” I joke, and his eyes sharpen.
“You have a diary?”
I shake my head. “No, I’m just kidding.”
“Damn. I feel like if I got my hands on that, I wouldn’t be able to do the noble thing and look away. I would read that so hard and so fast.”
And if I did have a diary, I’m pretty sure he’d be in for a world of shock, because there’s no doubt in my mind that pages would be filled with his name, my name, and hearts encompassing the both of us.
“Good thing I don’t have one then, given your inability to control yourself and your penchant for gossip.”
He shrugs. “What can I say, I’m meant for this town. The gossip, the secrets, it gives me life. Do you ever check the Hen Line?”
“Not really.”
He slaps the table in disappointment. “Ruthie. You’re missing out on so much. This morning, there was news posted about Darla Eagleton getting a mole removed . . . off her left butt cheek.” He shakes his head in humor. “That’s the spell-binding news I want in my headlines. Butt cheek mole removal. God, that’s good stuff.” He chuckles to himself and takes another bite of his sandwich.
“Poor Darla—”
“She was the one who posted it.”