“He’s your dad,” I said gently. “You can give him whatever you like.”
He shook his head, jaw clenching. I could see he was struggling to hide his emotions. My heart thawed a few degrees. Maybe Hopper was a decent guy going through a hard time, and I’d ascribed some untrue motives to him.
I moved in beside him, opening the container of stuffing and adding it to the plate he was fixing for his dad while he spooned out sweet potatoes. “Listen, Hop?—”
“I was wrong about you,” he said abruptly.
“What?”
Wrong about me?
“You’re a gifted chef. I always thought you should have stayed here. Cooked somewhere in town. But I see now…” He shook his head. “You’re better than anything we’ve got around here.”
His eyes met mine, and a frisson of shock went through me. Was that…
Hopper was straight, right? There was a look in his eye that made me think of the hookups I’d met in bars. A look of appreciation and…longing.
But it was probably just for my food, right? A guy like Hopper loved a good meal.
I shook off the strange tingle down my spine. That I was attracted to Hopper was a no-brainer. He was everything I liked in a man: big, strong, ruggedly handsome.
Assuming he was willing to kneel for me. Beg for me. Take whatever I wanted to give him.
I didn’t yet know if Hopper wasthatkind of man.
But he was straight, so it was a moot point, anyway. Probably for the best. I was only here for a few days. I wanted to make sure my parents could handle the farm, make sure Dad was really recovering okay, and then head back to Chicago. I’d have to figure out what to do about my failed career. Hell, maybe Hopper had the right idea, and I should start over somewhere more humble. I’d be a smash hit in Granville or Riverton—hell, even Omaha—but in Chicago, I had already burned through a lot of bridges.
Still, that felt an awful lot like giving up. I hated the idea of quitting on my city. It was too close tofailingfor my tastes.
Hopper put the plate in the microwave and started reheating it. He cast me a curious look. “Something I said?”
“Maybe.” I shrugged. “I didn’t only leave here because I wanted to be a chef, you know.”
He considered that. Nodded. “High school wasn’t easy on you.”
“That’s putting it mildly.”
“I tried to help, but?—”
“I couldn’t let you,” I said brusquely. “It would have made everything worse. Like I needed a protector. Would have made you a target, too, maybe. More likely, they’d have convinced you to torment me, as well. To prove you were the all-American jock they needed you to be.”
“I wouldn’t have done that,” Hopper said flatly. “I might not have known?—”
“Where’s that food?” his dad bellowed from the dining room. “I’m starving!”
Hopper swore under his breath and pulled the plate out of the microwave. “To be continued,” he muttered.
I followed him back to the dining room and retook my seat, wondering just what Hopper hadn’t known back then. Maybe he just didn’t know how bad it was for me or how other peoplewould react to him helping. It wouldn’t be what I was hoping he was about to say.
I may not have known I was gay.
Yeah, that was about as likely as Hopper confessing he was hot for me and begging me to take him apart.
I cut a bite of pumpkin pie and slipped it into my mouth. A lot of people liked to get fancy with their pies. Chocolate-pecan, or pumpkin-chocolate swirl, or raspberry-rhubarb, and so on. But there was something to be said for the purity of a classic, especially when done right.
The blend of pumpkin and spices was a savory delight. I took my time finishing my plate, sipping my cooling coffee, and watching Hopper’s dad put away mounds of mashed potatoes and stuffing. At least he’d brought his appetite.
Mom and Dad tried to make small talk about town, about the tree farm, about Richard’s job. It wasn’t going too well.
