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“Uh-huh.” Disbelieving Sawyer was back. Or never left. “Gage’s friends never make mistakes. That’s why they’re part of this warm, happy Main Street family.” He rolled his eyes, but the sarcasm didn’t come through as strongly as I expected.
Was I feeling a buzz already? Was he? We were about to down four pints, with no food. That seemed like a big mistake. Usually Evie and I got just drunk enough to feel it, and then we’d eat. I wasn’t going that far with Sawyer.
“We need breakfast. I’ll be back in ten.” I pushed back from the table.
Sawyer shook his head. “I’ll try not to wander off and get lost.”
I was getting used to the dry sarcasm, and if I was forced to, I might admit there was something sexy about it.
It was definitely a good time to put food in me.
In the kitchen, I let the fryer and one grill heat up while I gathered supplies. Fries went in the basket and into the oil. While those cooked, I scrambled eggs and diced sausage next to a pile of diced, grilling onions.
When it was all cooked, fries went on the plate first, with everything else next, topped with generous helpings of cheese, salsa, and sour cream.
I brought the large plate back to our table, and Sawyer’s eyes grew wide when I approached. “What is that?”
“Secret menu item. Breakfast nacho fries.”
“I fucking love it.”
We dug in while we finished the first beer.
We’d moved on to the second flavor when Sawyer said, “Tell me how Gage’s Grub came to be.”
“Not a terribly interesting story.” My tale was nothing like Sebastian’s or Aubrey’s. Hell, even Deacon had a more interesting story, though his came long after he took over. “My great grandpa was Gage too, and the store was passed down. I took over about five years ago.”
When we’d started on the fries, Sawyer was being careful. Fork. Knife if needed. Nothing that looked like it might drip on the table or him. So it was fascinating to see him struggle with a lump of several fries, and toppings barely balanced.
“You didn’t want to be the Grub Guy growing up?” he asked after he swallowed the food.
“I was going to be a real cook.” I wanted to laugh at how insistent I was to anyone who asked that it was the only way to cook.
Sawyer didn’t do much of a job of hiding his snort. He took another drink. “Like Emeril or some shit?”
“Something like that. It turns out though that I’m happier working with a short order medium.” Sure, a steak dinner that took four plus hours to prepare had its place, but I was more of a breakfast nachos guy.
“You’re good at it.”
What? I scoffed. “Say that again.”
“Fuck you. You heard me the first time.” Sawyer’s mouth quirked into an unformed smile.
I grinned. “I did hear you, which means it still counts. What about you? What made you become…” an intolerable asshole? “Diverse.” I used the same word he had when we first met him.
“Are you talking about my work or my sexuality?”
There it was—he’d just avoided my question. Not something I’d noticed before, but this time it stood out. He was good at dancing around a direct answer when he didn’t want to discuss it.
I wouldn’t push. Despite the food, the pleasant fuzzy headedness of beer was sinking in, and I didn’t want to wreck the feeling. “Whatever you want to tell me.”
“Nothing. I don’t want to tell you anything.”
“All right.” I shrugged.
“You’re more pleasant when you’re drunk.”
So are you. “I’m mean and I beat people up for looking at Evie wrong when I’m drunk. This is maybe a quarter of the way there.”
