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There are no less than a dozen old-timers ranging in age from I’m guessing sixty to ninety. They’re parked on long couches watching some bass fishing program like the last episode of Pam & Tommy just dropped. They’re pouring refills at a coffee station with a tray of mismatched ceramic mugs and a warehouse-sized canister of powdered creamer. Two of them are leaning against the counter shooting-the-shit style over a copy of what I’d bet is the Gazette. And behind the counter, in that torturously hot, fitted black polo with the store logo over his left pec is Cam.
He’s nodding attentively to this shrunken raisin of a man who looks to be telling some kind of big-fish story based on the slow-motion gesturing happening over there.
“Gullsy, that you?” A burly guy with a gray buzz cut slaps his knee from the couch.
Behind the counter, Cam straightens.
I raise a hand in greeting, and the old guy gives up a wheezing laugh. “Just this morning Missy was telling me that Cheryl heard from Pastor Craig you were back in town.”
Face heating, I nod. “Yes, sir. Back for a month.”
There’s a chorus of croaked greetings and comments about my last game with the Slayers. It’s nice but also makes me feel more than a little conspicuous.
Eventually, I make my way over to the counter where Cam’s standing in a wide-legged stance, arms crossed over his broad chest, a curious smirk on his handsome, clean-cut face.
“So much for my plan to quietly drop some coffee by for you. Half the town’s in here.” I look back to where most everyone’s attention has returned to fishing. “Didn’t realize this was such a hot spot.”
“That it is. Is one of those for me?” he asks, nodding toward the heavy-duty paper cups in my hand.
Trying to be cool, I hold one out. “Felt bad about you missing your coffee window. Though I guess you’ve got plenty here.”
The corner of his mouth twitches as he waves me closer. I lean over the counter, and he meets me halfway. There’s a wash of his breath against my skin, and I close my eyes against the sensation, afraid of what they’d reveal.
“It’s decaf. They don’t know, but we’ve been making both pots with the same stuff since before I was born. A deal Gramps made with one of the wives forever ago, and we’ve stuck with.”
“Whoa.” I pull back a couple inches, as far as I can willingly make myself go. “And you trust me with this state secret?”
His laugh is low and warm, the same one I remember from when we were paired up for biology lab in high school, the one that drew me in with a force I didn’t understand. But made me curious just the same.
“What?” he asks before taking a sip and then rocking back on his heels with an almost pornographic moan. Or maybe it was standard appreciation and the fact that I haven’t gotten any for damn near six months is starting to screw with my head.
“Just thinking about the first time I noticed your laugh.” I say it quietly, but his brows still go up and his eyes shift from me to the crowd behind us.
I know. Careful.
If I don’t want people to know, I shouldn’t say things like that. I shouldn’t find reasons to be jogging by his house or bringing him coffee at work. But that’s the thing… Cam makes me want people to know. He makes me want another shot at that thing we barely had a chance to skim the surface of the first time around.
But while I’m winding up to send caution into the wind, he’s taking a step back from the counter.
That soaring feeling in my chest starts to sink until he holds up a finger for me to wait.
Ducking into an open doorway at the far end of the glass top, he clears his throat. “Dad? Can you handle refills on the coffee for a few? I’ll hit inventory this afternoon.”
There’s a muffled response, and then Mr. Dorsey emerges from the back with a stack of paperwork and a laptop. There’s no mistaking the family resemblance. The fall of dark hair and square-cut jaw, the broad build on a lean frame. “Where you off to?”
“Just out back. Come and get me if there’s a run on the register.”
His dad snorts and waves him off.
And then I’m following Cam through the back of the store and out to a narrow strip of fenced-in grass with a shaded picnic table in the center. It’s private and quiet enough that the only sound I hear is the rustling of the breeze through the trees.
I rub the back of my neck. “Hey, sorry about showing up like that. I shouldn’t—”
“I’m glad you did.” He drops onto one bench and signals for me to take the opposite side. “Needed the coffee.” He wags his head with one of those half-smiles I can’t seem to look away from. “It’s not bad seeing you again, either.”
Heat floods my cheeks, and after a minute of studying my cup, I ask, “So everyone inside… knows?”
“That I’m gay? Yeah, they know.” He watches me a second, running his teeth over his bottom lip. “But if you’re worried they’ll make an assumption about you showing up today, don’t.”
