Page 16 of The Sea-Mist Cottage Inn
Those were not questions I could answer right now, so I set them aside.
As I gave Peter a friendly squeeze, I told him, “I go by Leo now.” I’d shed as much of my past self as I could when I’d left Bluster, and I’d been gone from that self for so long my full name was like an old scar, forgotten despite the mark that remained, but sore when it was bumped.
“Leo. I like it,” Peter said as he stepped back. “Are you two-spirit?”
For some reason, the question made my cheeks warm a little. I mean, I’m a Millennial, and I never had any heartburn about people starting to use they/them or neopronouns and claim different gender identities. I know I lived in Arkansas a long time, but the actual people living there are a lot more diverse than the nutsos who get elected make them out to be. There are plenty of nonbinary and other LGBTQ+ people in Arkansas, just like everywhere else. Still, though, I think Peter was the first person I’d ever encountered who heard my preferred name and asked about my gender. It felt momentarily weird.
“No, no. I’m cis—just the one spirit. I just like Leo better.”
He accepted the correction with a nod and moved on. “You look good, Leo.”
Peter had been a second-grader when I last saw him; my weird feeling shifted to focus on the way he was eyeing me. But I let that thought roll on by and accepted his words as a simplecompliment—as they’d probably been intended. “Thank you. You’ve grown up well yourself.”
He thanked me with a charmingly humble shrug. “Have you come back home to stay?”
“That’s an open question at this point. I’m going to figure out what to do with the cottages. I might open them back up, or I might sell. I’ll decide when I understand more what those choices mean.”
“Makes sense. Well, welcome home, however long you stay. My mom is away from the store today, but when you come again, she’ll be glad to see you, too.”
That was an obvious sign that this little greeting was over—which was fine; we didn’t need to be exchanging a lifetime’s worth of stories in front of the honey and jams. Not that I’d want to get that deep with Peter regardless. He was still a little kid in my mind, despite the evidence of his maturity standing tall before me. Probably exactly the way Roman saw me.
“Thanks, Peter. It’s good to see you.”
As he got back to work, I chose the beehive-shaped honey jar and got on with my shopping.
ONE THING THE GRANARYdid not have was a meat counter. They had packaged deli meats, but nothing fresh. They didn’t have even the plastic-wrapped, Styrofoam-trayed stuff. No ground beef, no chicken breasts, no pork chops, no ribeye steaks. When I asked the checker—a young blonde I did not know—about it, she said the Yurok had always had an arrangement with the Mendozas, and the Greyfather family had seen no reason to disrupt that, since Mendoza Meat & Fish was just around the corner.
I wanted to make a real dinner for Wyatt tonight, and I’d decided to get the big brick fire pit and grill behind the cabingoing. I required meat. Thus, after I put my groceries in the back of the Golf, I walked around the block and went into Mendoza Meat & Fish.
That place was pretty much as I remembered it: concrete floor and rough-hewn ceiling beams, a long case at one side full of fresh, pre-cut meat, a table in the center of the shop stacked with sauces and rubs, and another table where barbecue supplies and gift sets were displayed. A row of sausages dangled over a counter at the back of the store. Behind that counter stood Roman Mendoza, wrapped in a blood-smeared white apron and holding a fillet knife. On the steel worktable before him was a tub of fresh-caught halibut and a large tray half-full of halibut filets.
The register stood atop the side counter, and a transaction was happening as I came in. I didn’t recognize either the slender young man at the register or the heavier, middle-aged man making the purchase.
A chime had sounded as I entered, and Roman looked over and saw me. Under his apron he wore a black t-shirt with sleeves that hugged his biceps.
Had I known, during my crush days, that his arms were so good? If so, I’d forgotten, so I had the full effect of discovery happening now. Damn, they were good arms, with that wonderful fat vein trailing into the crook of each elbow. Butchering meat must be a great workout.
“Leo!” he called and set the knife down. “Hi!”
He sounded pleased to see me. Maybe he hadn’t been judging me yesterday—or if he had, he’d gotten over it.
“Hi ... Roman.” Though he seemed to have transitioned from ‘Leonora’ to ‘Leo’ with ease, the habit of calling him Mr. Mendoza had almost caught me again. Pretty weird, actually, considering my lusty attention on his arms.
As I walked toward the back, the man who’d just completed his sale turned and headed toward the door. We almost collided when we met at a corner of the table full of gift sets.
“Oh, sorry!” I said as I sidestepped just in time.
The man gave me a furious look from beneath his heavy, tawny beard and glowering brow and—I swear I’m not exaggerating—growled and bared his teeth at me as he stalked onward toward the exit.
I did not know the guy. It wasn’t a case of not recognizing someone after twenty years; I had never seen him before in my life. And we hadn’t collided—I’d done some fancy footwork to make sure of it, while he’d stormed forward like a snowplow. There was no reason on earth for the man to be angry with me.
I was so stunned by that strange encounter I could only stand where I was and gape at the closing door.
“That’s Finn Nyberg,” Roman said. “Don’t mind him. He’s just like that. Davy there says a bad mood is Finn’s brand.” His voice was close; when I swiveled my head, he was standing within three feet of me and smiling.
Even wearing a bloody apron and smelling of halibut, the man was hot. It was his smile. Such a good smile. Handsome, but more than that. It didn’t just go all the way to his eyes, it went all through him. Roman Mendoza was a good man, and his smile was bone deep.
It wouldn’t take much to revive my crush on this guy, and this time it wouldn’t be some dumb schoolgirl fantasy, something to write in my diary with a pink pen. But I wasn’t going to do that, was I?No, I told myself,I am not. I had far too much to straighten out in my life; I needed no additional complications.
