Page 30 of Red Hot Roaster

Fuck. Was that what I was doing?

Well, yeah, maybe. But the idea of “dating” when you were in your thirties or forties was bizarre—like the terms “boyfriend” and “girlfriend.” So “dating” didn’t begin to describe my irresistible desire to make Rose’s life better.

My longing didn’t stop there. I craved finding out more about her, craved getting closer to her.

Was that fair to Rose? Was I being selfish in wanting more with a woman for the first time in my life—given who I was and where I’d come from? Was that fair given that my plans hadn’t changed—get in, get the job done, get out and on to the next?

So, no, not fair to her. But, yeah, irresistible to me. And did that make me a bastard for wanting Rose, even in the short-term?

Too late. I already was.

I shook my head at Jean-Luc, nodded my thanks to Mateo and tossed some bills on the table. Their laughter followed me out the door.

The fuckers knew I was hurrying to go on my nightly walk with Rose.

Rose was laughing so hard she was in danger of choking on her dad’s Irish whiskey…or snorting it out her nose.

I sat my tumbler on the coffee table and was reaching for her to somehow help when I stopped. Maybe she’d forgiven me for overstepping earlier today.

I was okay with Rose laughing at me. In fact, that was my new fucking mission in life, since she seemed to be so serious or sad or just plain swamped most of the time.

I’d gotten an entirely different reaction this afternoon when I’d announced—her word, not mine—that I was taking her and the dogs to the beach next week. She’d been pissed. To make it worse, it’d been obvious that Mateo was in on the scheme—again, her word, not mine—to cover her entire day off.

I should’ve listened to Jean-Luc.

In the army, being direct was a good thing. Being a man of few words was good too. In the interests of time and lives, you often needed to give or receive orders without a lot of explanation. Apparently, being direct was not so good in civilian life. And especially not with the woman you wanted to make happy or, even better, laugh.

Could an old dog learn new tricks?

Luckily, I’d regrouped and turned my almost-order into an invitation.

Please join me on a trip to the beach. It’ll be good to go while the weather’s still warm and sunny. Pirate and Princess will get a chance to run and chase seagulls. We can take off our shoes and walk along the shoreline. Bet we can even find some seafood for lunch. Maybe even watch the sunset before heading back home. Please say you’ll come with me.

I was pretty sure I’d had her at “take off our shoes.” Plus, she’d looked a little glazed over at the fact that I could string so many words together. She’d smiled big-time and said, “Yes, I’d love to go to the beach with you. Thank you, Rafe.”

She’d thanked Mateo again and again for taking on her shift and promised to do the same for him another time. She’d even jumped forward and hugged me—a little PDA that I didn’t mind—it’d been just Mateo and us in the roastery, after all.

Now it was Saturday evening, and she’d invited me in for a nightcap as a reward for walking the dogs so late. The Chocolate Lab had hosted live music, and I’d stuck around after working in the roastery to do closing with her.

Tucked in our respective corners on the couch, we’d been talking about funny dog names. I’d shared some crazy nicknames from my army days, including my own. Which set her off.

Thankfully, Rose got it together enough to stop laughing and gasp out, “Angel? Angel! I thoughtRafewas your nickname in the army, short for your full name. How did they come up with Angel? Oh!”

The penny dropped.

“Yeah, my mother named me after the archangel St. Raphael,” I shared. “She’d been raised Catholic, I think, and maybe it brought comfort to her, some connection to her faith. We never went to church.”

Rose stilled for a moment and asked, “When did you shorten it to Rafe?”

“Oh, Mamma did when I started first grade in public school. She figured out that Raphael wasn’t going to work in our inner-city Oakland neighborhood. Bullying was alive and well even back then. ‘Rafe’ served me well through high school.”

And during my teenage gang years, too, which Iwasn’tgoing to share with Rose.

“Smart woman, your mom.” Rose smiled while looking into my eyes.

“Yeah, she was,” I said shortly and moved on. “I enlisted in the army when I was eighteen and had to use my full legal name. On the first day of basic training, the drill sergeant took one look at my tough mug and reckoned I was the ugliest angel he’d ever seen. The name stuck for twenty years until I got out.”

“Wish I could’ve seen you at that age. Do you have any photos from back then? Snapshots with your buddies or maybe your military ID?”

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