Page 5 of Embers Glow After the Fire

“Ummm—just an iced sweet tea, for me.” His fingers fumble the hem of his shorts.

Robbie thumbs the ingredients into his device, pausing to peer up.

Matthew realizes he’s still grinning at Brendon and shakes himself from the trance. “Just a small coffee, black.” His freckled cheeks flush.

Robbie winks, curling the edge of his mouth, looking back to Eli.

“Unsweetened green tea with lemon,” he says softly.

“Matthew, help me carry the drinks?” Robbie stares, awaiting a response with mischievous eyes.

“Sure,” he agrees.

They both pile out of the vehicle. Matthew meets his host around the front and they strut toward the coffee truck, shoulder to shoulder. Robbie’s new boat shoes squeak with each step.

Robbie nudges Matthew’s elbow. “Brendon is a sweetheart.” He stares at the sandwich board menu with a suggestive smirk scrunching his cheek.

“Don’t you start!” Matthew chuckles. “I’m here for a week. I’m not getting involved with your employee.”

Robbie rolls his shoulders and steps up to the service window.

“What can I get for you gentlemen?” asks the short bubbly barista wearing thick-rimmed cherry-red catseye glasses.

He recites the list from his phone, pays the bill and they wait.

“I’m not suggesting anything.” Robbie grins, lifting the edge of a brow.

Matthew rolls his eyes and laughs away the nonsensical but sweet intention. The last thing he needs is to complicate the first week he’s had to get away from the everyday chaos of running a business and fathering its staff. It’s already taking a lot of energy to refrain from checking in with the salon back home.

They collect two cardboard trays of drinks with straws and napkins and make their way back to the Yukon.

Chapter 3

Road Trip

Brendon folds his right leg, tucking his ankle under his left thigh and twisting slightly in his seat, listening to old friends reminisce about the crazy shenanigans they used to get up to in Atlanta years ago. Pinching his straw in his fingers, he slowly sips the sweet brew held close to his chest. His fingers and chest have gone numb from cradling the iced concoction so close and goosebumps riddle his bare legs from frosty air conditioning circulating on high from under the seats.

Matthew’s knee falls against Brendon’s as he leans forward, excitedly sharing another memory. His thick arms are speckled with ginger hair and freckles, challenging the delicate fabric of his near-sheer top. It stretches across the broad slope of his back and rises at his waist, exposing creamy flesh beneath. He’s not wearing underwear.

Brendon feels a wave of electric heat transfer through their connected knees. He doesn't pull away. He studies the wave patterns of strawberry blonde hair and the motion of full peachy lips telling a joyous tale.

When Matthew glances over at him, Brendon smiles and chuckles as if he heard the discussion over distracting thoughts racing through his mind. He hasn’t desired another man in ages, but this stranger’s warm fresh scent is waking something that's laid dormant too long. He dismisses the intrusive thoughts to rejoin the group’s exchange.

Dennis’ laughter clamors through the SUV. “That was so funny.”

Matthew’s hand lands on Brendon’s thigh as he throws his head back in laughter. He snatches his hand back when he realizes, mouthing the word ‘sorry.’

Don’t be. Brendon excuses the gesture with a smile. Sitting back, he silently savors the lingering warmth of Matthew's handprint until the conditioned air carries it away.

An hour and a half into the drive and just about three-quarters of the way to their destination, according to Robbie, they pull into a small country store just off the barren highway. The two-story white-sided building with black shutters is settled on a dirt lot, backdropped by a dense forest. A big wooden sign with hand-painted lettering advertises Billie’s Country Store and Cafe. Simple and direct. A handful of cars scattered about the property with no rhyme or reason to their parking.

“This place makes incredible Maine Italians and hand-tossed Pizza.” Dennis slumps back in his seat with an elated bear grin stretched across his face.

“What’s a Maine Italian?” Matthew looks baffled.

“Oh, baby—” Robbie claps his hands. “It's a summer staple up here. People think the Lobster roll is the most popular sandwich, that's just for tourists. The Italian is what the locals get into.”

“Deli meat—usually ham, white American cheese, onion, pickle, tomato, and black olives stuffed in an Italian roll drizzled with oil, then salt and pepper.” Dennis practically sings the list of ingredients. “And no one does them better than these little middle-of-nowhere country stores.”

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