Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 64493 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 258(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64493 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 258(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
“Bonjour.” I shut the kitchen screen door behind me, nodding a greeting to the chef. “How’s it going?”
Jean-Claude, or JC as he was known here, lifted his fingers out of the doughy mixture in the bowl in front of him, and gave me a thumbs-up. “Tres bien. The menu is on the board if you are interested. If you are not, don’t tell me…I am sensitive today.”
I chuckled.
JC was our French-Canadian chef—a stocky man in his late thirties with twinkling green eyes, thick reddish hair, a contagious laugh, and a broad Quebecois accent. He was also the most self-deprecating, occasionally grumpy, and accidentally funny person I’d ever met. He was the kind of guy who told you more than you needed to know about everything from his feelings about world affairs to the state of his digestive tract.
Needless to say, he was very entertaining. Good boyfriend material too. For a little while, anyway.
Whatever we’d had was a heat of the moment, alcohol, and sex-infused thing. We shared a love of food, hockey, and we were both gay. That wasn’t enough for forever, but it was a good start, right?
We’d met at a bar in Montreal. I was with a group of college buddies and notorious bad influences. Needless to say, I was schnockered. A one-night stand led to a second, and a third. And I wasn’t ready to say good-bye. So on a whim, I’d offered JC a job.
And to my surprise, he’d accepted.
He’d needed a change, and my offer had come at the right time for him to make one. A temporary one. We’d originally agreed to a two-or three-month consultation where he’d put together new menu options, work with our cook, and meet with local sources. His input was invaluable. Three and a half years later, JC had pretty much taken over the kitchen. No one minded. Even Haskell, the old fry cook my grandfather hired in the seventies, liked JC.
The boyfriend part ended after a year, but we’d become good friends and honestly, it was nice to have someone to lean on who couldn’t claim they’d known me since birth.
So…win-win.
“I’ll be gentle with you,” I teased, stealing a sliced carrot from the cutting board island.
JC glowered, pointing a knife the size of a small machete at me. “You play dangerous games.”
“Sorry. I’m just…starving.”
He narrowed his eyes and cocked his head as if noticing something new. “You are smiling.”
“I always smile,” I bluffed.
“Different kind of smile. I know that smile. You have a man.” He set the knife aside and scratched his beard thoughtfully. “Who?”
I hiked my thumb in the general direction of the diner. “Later, JC. I’m going to check out the menu and—”
“Is it the hockey dad you said was cute but too short?”
“Who—never mind. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
JC’s chuckle was low and knowing. “You are a terrible liar. Why lie anyway? He’s divorced, non? Have all the sex you want with the dad—”
“I’m not having sex with anyone’s dad, ya weirdo,” I whisper-hissed.
“Then who? I am only curious. There are four gay men under fifty in Elmwood…me, you, a boring banker, and a know-it-all barista. Another question: how do you find the time for a liaison? You work, you coach, you—” JC paused abruptly. “Mon Dieu.”
“What?”
“The NHL hometown hero.”
I didn’t bother denying it. As Jean-Claude noted, I was a terrible liar.
“I—it’s—don’t say anything,” I sputtered. “I’m not kidding. This is new, and he’s…”
“Not so straight,” he finished, raising his hands in surrender before making a button-lip gesture. “My lips are sealed. But are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“Of course not. It’s a terrible idea,” I scoffed. “It’s just a summer thing and it won’t last, but he’s my brother’s—”
“Shh. I am like a vault. I tell no secrets.”
“Thanks.”
“It’s okay. Have fun and…be careful, yes?” JC waited for my nod of agreement, concern etched in the corners of his mouth. Then he pointed at the door. “Good. Now out of my kitchen. Go. Your mother and Mary-Kate are here. Bother them, not me. I’ll bring you samples when I’m ready.”
“Soon, I hope. I’m hungry,” I grumbled, chuckling when he threw a carrot at me.
“Out!”
The smell of apple pie, french fries, and summertime mingled with soft chatter and laughter in the dining room. Midafternoons were pretty mellow in the restaurant.
I waved at our hostess, Marlene, and made my way over to the counter, where my mom and Mary-Kate were hovering over a laptop.
“What kind of trouble are you two getting into?” I asked, squinting at the computer screen.
“Hi, Uncle Nol. We’re shopping for new books.”
“Again? What happened to Anne of Green Gables?”
Mary-Kate furrowed her brow. “I finished that ages ago.”
Oh. That seemed like something I should have known, but in my quest to get up close and personal with Vinnie’s dick, I’d been lapsing in basic guncle duty. I still saw my niece daily, either here at the diner or at my mom’s, but we usually had at least one outing a week on our own—a trip to the ice cream parlor, the nail salon, the bookstore. I had to step up my game.