Nate laughed. “I could definitely teach her to play poker.”
“Dogs don’t play cards!” Phoebe cried.
True to his word, Nate bought us all ice cream and a cup of whipped cream for Little Sister. Phoebe thanked him by showing off her double-jointed elbows. Alice followed suit.
“Girls! Stop it!” I said. “He’s eating.”
Nate grinned and overextended his own elbows.
“You can do it too!” Alice said. “Mom can’t.”
“Billie Eilish and Taylor Swift. Also double-jointed!” he said.
“Seriously?” Alice asked, clearly in awe.
Not to be outdone, Phoebe made her tongue into that weird cloverleaf shape. Nate copied her. “Only the Irish can turn their tongues into the leaf of a clover,” he said, with a fake brogue.
“You’re not Irish,” Alice said.
“Say something else like that!” Phoebe insisted.
“My grandpappy on my mother’s side was born in Belfast,” Nate said, not dropping the accent. He let out his signature unhinged laugh, which got me to giggling.
Phoebe wasn’t as easy to impress as Alice, but even she seemed swayed by Nate’s odd abilities. “Mom can’t do that thing with her tongue either!”
“What can I say?” Nate met my eye, suddenly serious. “I’m a man of many talents.”
A tingle spread through me, and I reminded myself I was not there for romance.
As the twins stomped around the patio eating their ice cream, Nate and I huddled on a bench. I pulled up the hood on my L.L.Bean coat, hoping it would make me look like Gisele in a Moncler puffer. As if understanding my need for a mammalian foot warmer, Little Sister lay down on top of my shoes.
I needed to bring up the difficult subject of an illegal backcountry arms deal. But I wanted to know more about this handsome fed who was taking me and my kids out for ice cream.
“How’d you end up in Boise?” I asked.
“Long version or short?” he said.
“I like a man who has a long version.”
He raised an eyebrow at me and grinned. “I grew up in Seattle and did my freshman year at Boise State. But I felt like I’d been relegated to Bumpkinville, so I fled to Portland State.” He held his ice cream in my direction. “Want to try?”
“What’d you get again?” I asked, digging in my spoon.
“Coffee with Baileys. And no offense about this being Bumpkinville?” he said, looking worried.
“None taken,” I said. The bite of his ice cream made me moan—it was that good. “You can only stare at sagebrush for so long before you think there’s got to be more to life.” Now would be the perfect time to segue the conversation to what I’d “overheard” at Huckleberry’s. But instead I found myself saying, “So you went to Portland State. Then what?”
“I’ll hit the high notes because I want to hear about you,” he said.
“A man who asks questions! A rare breed,” I replied. “But go on. You first.”
“Okay, I graduated,” he said. “Went to culinary school. Loved it. Became a chef at a fancy Portland restaurant. Burnt out on restaurant culture.”
“I’ve seenThe Bear, so I get it.”
“Exactly. I know chefs who couldn’t even watch that show because it retraumatized them.” He ate a bite of my ice cream. “Damn, that’s good.”
“Salted caramel. The best.”
