Her eyes widened at my joke, and then she smacked my hip with a towel. “Go on with you. Get out of here before I don’t know what to do with you anymore besides lock you in your room.”
I backed up, putting up my hands palms out. “I’m gone, I’m gone.”
“And go have fun. You’re young.” She shouted the last words just as I walked out of the kitchen and headed toward the front door. I shook my head again, thankful that even with the interruption from my dad and Malik that I got to spend the day with Clarissa. I hadn’t laughed so hard in a long time, and I couldn’t deny that her parting shot was absolutely true. I was still young. I should be out having fun.
And there was only one person who I wanted to have fun with.
My lips twisted as I realized how pathetic that was. Then I pushed that thought to the back because, despite the fact that I really wanted to hear from Tyson, I still had the business card from my dad. While I might not have wanted to use my family connection to get a job, I’d be a fool for dismissing an opportunity like this one. So at least something good had come out of my trip home.
I was just pulling out of my parents’ driveway onto the main road when my phone began ringing from its place in the cup holder.
Without looking, I grabbed it, unlocked it, and answered.
“Hello?”
I pulled over to the shoulder and grinned as soon as Tyson replied with, “On a scale of one to ten, how pissed are you that I haven’t called yet?”
Zero. With that lead-in, I had no reason to be upset. I answered, “You can make it up to me by taking me to dinner tonight. That is, if you’re back in town.”
“I am.” He sighed through the phone. “Do you know Latham Hills? I’ll be working late, but I can meet you there. I’ve got a buddy who owns the Fireside Grill and I have been meaning to check it out.”
Latham Hills, exactly where I had an appointment for later in the week to go see an apartment. I grinned into the phone. “Sounds perfect. What time?”
“Seven?”
I nodded and my grin widened. “Perfect. See you then, Blackbird.”
He chuckled at my use of his nickname. I felt that chuckle slide through me and down to my thighs. “Later, Bluejay.”
He disconnected. I tossed the phone back into my cup holder. And then I pulled back onto the road and drove to my hotel with a smile so wide on my face that my cheeks started hurting. But I didn’t care.
I didn’t stop smiling.
—
On the northern edge of Detroit, Latham Hills was once—decades ago—where the wealthiest of the wealthy created their homes in massive mansions and on abundances of acreage. When I was a child, my mother and father fought for months about moving to the Hills, as so many of her socialite friends had done, but my father refused to give up his ancestral home in Detroit. While I understood where he was coming from, I also understood the pull the area had on my mother. With its lush green lawns and room to roam, Latham Hills was probably the closest my mother ever thought she’d get to living back on a farm in Colorado.
The few main streets the area had were paved in cobblestone. Peace and a sense of safety radiated off the pedestrians as they strolled along tree-lined sidewalks. Couples held hands, smiling lightly and freely, and younger parents pushed their children in jogging strollers, making it seem like enjoying the outdoors was a way of life.
It felt so different in the city, just fifteen minutes away, where the area hadn’t yet fully recovered from the recent economic collapse and so many people were still struggling. Young people were leaving in droves, and crime was on the rise. By the looks of what I saw in Latham Hills, they had made their way north to boutiques, local restaurants, coffee shops, and consignment stores, making the area more chic and trendy now.
I didn’t see a single franchise while I drove through the small downtown area, looking for a parking spot. I had fallen in love before I even saw the red awning with The Fireside Grill printed plainly and boldly in black text, decorated with two small flames.
After parking, I scanned the area and took in the freshness and vitality of everything I saw. Inhaling deeply, I savored the freshest air I’d breathed since leaving Colorado. It seemed as if Latham Hills had a bubble around its borders that protected it from the harshness of the city.
The short walk back to Fireside Grill was wonderful; it was the best I’d felt in over a week.
Because of that, my smile was wide and easy when I pulled open the door to the restaurant.
The reason for the name was obvious as I entered the restaurant: the outside looked like a renovated old-fashioned firehouse with Engine Co. 1 etched into the cream cement blocks above the outside awning. But it was the inside that made me gasp.
All along the rich, dark wooden walls of the entire restaurant were various types of firefighter equipment. It wasn’t done in a trashy man-cave sort of way, but more like it was meant to preserve the history of the building that used to claim this corner restaurant as home. Vintage firefighter axes and hoses, suits and helmets, and countless photos of groups of men—who I assumed were former Company One firefighters—decorated the expanse of the walls and tables. Interspersed among the history, including photos from the black-and-white photography era and rich and professional looking digital photos, were dozens of televisions. They showed a range of sporting events, from football to baseball and even hockey although it was still the off-season. But Michiganders loved their hockey. I wasn’t surprised at all to see ESPN Classics replaying a Stanley Cup Final from what looked to have been the mid-eighties on several of the large screens.
The entire restaurant held an inviting and warm atmosphere for families and friends to gather around the tables and booths and share a meal, but it was also a fun and entertaining place to go to watch a good ball game.
“Can I help you?”
I smiled at the hostess, Emily—based on her nametag—and quickly took in her easy appearance. Black polo shirt with Fireside Grill emblazoned over the right side of her chest, screen-printed with small flames, and simple jeans made her seem as casual and comfortable as the rest of the area. The whole atmosphere made me envision girls’ night out with not-yet-made friends and drinks after work. I smiled politely. “I’m meeting someone, but I don’t think he’s here yet.”
She reached for two menus. “You must be Blue.”
I jerked my head back in surprise.
She simply waved for me to follow her. “Tyson told me to expect you. He’s in the back right now speaking with Declan, but he told me to seat you as soon as you arrived and then let him know you’re here.”
I followed her quick steps and slid into a booth, taking the side that would give me the best view of the restaurant. She set the menus on the table. Her hand brushed along the edge and with her same easy and tender smile, she nodded again. “I’ll go let him know. Would you like some water?”
“Yes. Please. And thank you.”
I didn’t reach for the menu right away, and instead continued to take in the restaurant with a slow, lazy perusal. Something about this place made my heart beat slower than it had in days. It felt as if the entryway into this dark but warm sports bar had the ability to melt away the stress of everyday life with a simple step inside.
I had relaxed further into my seat and opened the menu when two metal doors to what I assumed led to the kitchen swung open. Tyson stepped through and I watched him take a quick look around the open area, before heading directly toward me. Behind him, another man followed at a slower pace. I quickly noted that the other man was wearing a slightly stained apron over a plain black T-shirt that was bursting at the seams around his biceps, and well-worn jeans frayed at the knees. But it was his slightly tanned, olive-toned skin, shaved head, and deep dark eyes that almost made me want to kneel in his presence.
He was massive. If this man didn’t meet the definition of tall, dark, and dangerous, no one would.
“You made it,” Tyson said, his deep voice pulling my gaze away from the man behind him.
I stood from the booth and worried my bottom lip with my teeth. “I did.”
He wrapped his arm around my waist and pulled me to him. I melted into his embrace when his lips brushed against my temple before he set me back. I was still a bit woozy from the kiss and his touch and the smell of him when he gestured to the big man behind him.
“Blue, I’d like you meet Declan. He was on the football team with me at Central U.”
I caught a glint of something in his eyes. Then the dark look quickly disappeared and Declan stepped forward with one hand held toward me.
“Declan James. Nice to meet you.”
I shook his large hand and returned his smile. “Blue Galecki.”
“Declan owns Fireside,” Tyson reminded me. “Opened it just over three years ago.”
“I love it. It’s beautiful and perfect.”
Declan’s expression dimmed at my review, and I wondered if I’d said the wrong thing. Perhaps men who looked like they could lift cars with their bare hands and eat bolts for breakfast didn’t appreciate the word beautiful being used to describe something.
“I should get back to it,” he said, his voice now abrupt. “It was nice to meet you, Blue. Dinner tonight is on the house.”