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After she left, Niall stared at the card, which described Celeste as a “Vibrational Executive Consultant and Promotional Energetic Strategist.” He was about to toss it in the trash when something caught his eye—a workshop listed on the back—“Social Media for the Spiritually Evolved Business.”

Social media. Chuck mentioned online sales earlier. Maybe online promo was an area where Niall could improve things without spending money he didn’t have.

He pocketed the card and made a mental note to consider some promotional options that didn’t involve Celeste’s off-brand woo-woo flimflam.

At six thirty, as he was locking up, Chuck’s truck pulled up in front of the store. Nerves jangled inside Niall as he approached the truck. First time he’d gone out to dinner with someone who wasn’t a family member or Gavin in… well, years.

“You look handsome,” Chuck said as Niall climbed into the passenger seat. “Hungry?”

“Starving. I skipped lunch.” Wait. Chuck thought he looked handsome?

“That’s a crime against humanity. No wonder you’re so skinny.”

“I’m not skinny. I’m lean,” Niall protested.

“Lean is just skinny with better PR.” Chuck pulled away from the curb. “This place we’re going to, the Lit Wick, it’s a bit of a dive, but the food is amazing. Besides, the cook owes me a favor or two. You cool with that?”

“As long as I don’t need a tetanus shot or a machete, I’m fine with it.”

Chuck laughed, and Niall caught himself grinning back before he’d decided to. “No tetanus required, I promise.”

The Lit Wick turned out to be a weathered roadhouse about twenty minutes north of town, perched on a bluff overlooking the ocean. Niall rarely made it out this way. The parking lot was half full, trucks and motorcycles for the most part. Inside, the decor was nautical kitsch meets biker bar—fishing tackle on the walls, racy vanity plates from across the country, and a jukebox playing the Moody Blues.

“Duck! It’s Chuck!” the bartender, a burly man with blurry tattoo sleeves darkening both arms, called out as they entered. “Thought you’d end up in prison.”

“Hey, man. Out on parole….” Chuck led Niall to a booth by the window. “This is Niall Ashworth. He owns the used bookstore in town.”

“Books, huh? Fancy. Welcome to the Wick. First round’s on the house for Chuck’s buddy.”

They settled into the booth, which had a spectacular view of evening over the Pacific. A waitress brought them menus and took their drink orders—beer for Chuck, iced tea for Niall.

“Not a drinker?” Chuck’s brow creased.

“Designated driver,” Niall explained. “Habit from when Winnie was little. I never knew when I might have to drive somewhere for her.”

“Responsible,” Chuck said, but without the mocking tone Niall expected. “That’s good. Someone in this booth should be.”

“You were a regular here, I take it?”

“Misspent youth. Yeah. This place is far enough from town the sheriff never bothered them much, and they didn’t give two hoots about checking IDs.” Chuck peered around with a hint of nostalgia. “I spent a lot of nights here playing pool and trying to come off cooler than I was.”

“Hard to imagine you having to try. Seems to come pretty easy.”

It was out before Niall could catch it.

Chuck cocked his head and squinted. “Was that a compliment, Niall Ashworth? Careful, or I might start thinking you like me.”

“I’m still deciding.” Niall hid behind his menu a minute. “What’s so legendary about the burgers?”

Chuck laughed and walked him through the options, leaning close, quizzing him on cheese and heat until the burger was a joint construction. Niall took his time deciding, mainly so Chuck wouldn’t lean back, would stay right where he was, nudging and teasing Niall about all his greasy options at close range.

They ordered their two drastically different burgers—bison, jalapenos, and pepperjack for Chuck and blue cheese, bacon, and a fried egg for Niall—with a side of fluffy onion rings to share, then settled into conversation that didn’t stall or stutter. Chuck told a couple stories about his cabinetry gigs in Seattle and the custom jobs he’d worked on before the waterfront disaster, while Niall shared anecdotes about the eccentric customers who frequented Driftwood Books.

“So then….” Niall chuckled as he recounted a tourist interaction from last summer, “this woman in a pantsuit and sneakers marches over and grabs my hand and says, ‘Kid, I need a book with a turquoise cover. Can’t remember the title or the author, but the hero might have been a blind detective who owned a bakery. Or possibly a gigolo.’”

Chuck snorted into his beer. “What did you do?”

“I showed her to the mystery section and said I had a hunch the title was some pun or something. She ended up buying nine books, none of them turquoise, by the by, and gushed at me for tracking down the exact story she wanted.”