“Joe came in today,” he says. “I was starting to get worried about him.”
My heart sinks as I think about the homeless man who comes into The Gold Room. He always sits on the barstool by the door and always orders a coffee—probably because Nate charges him like a quarter to drink all he wants. Especially in the winter. I asked Nate once why he charges him at all, and he said you can’t strip a man’s dignity. And if he never charged Joe for anything, that’s what would happen.
“How long was he gone this time?” I ask. “It feels like forever.”
“It was going on five weeks.”
We exchange a frown.
“How did he look?” I ask. “Is he okay? No one hurt him or anything, did they?”
Nate sighs. “No, he’s fine. I think he’s been staying at a shelter downtown.”
Relief fills my soul. “That’s good.”
“Murray made him a sandwich, and I packed him one for the road—and a Snickers.”
“His favorite,” I say, melting as I look into Nate’s eyes.
Nate Hughes is one of the nicest men I know. Sure, he’s often surly, rude, and bitches about ridiculous things, but he’s genuinely, inherently kind.
To the outsider looking in, it could seem that it puts him out to fix Shaye’s car or make Joe a sandwich on the house. Nate puts on a good show, insisting it’s killing him to do good deeds. But it’s not.
He cares. Those of us who know Nate know that about him.
Nate might be a work of art on the outside. He might also set my body on fire with a smirk. But it’s his kindness, his heart for others that seals my affection for him.
“Hey, do you happen to remember when my next shift is?” I ask, clearing my throat. “I forgot to check the schedule.”
“I have no idea. I’ll look when I get there in the morning and let you know.”
“Thanks.”
He carries a pot of boiling water to the sink. “Can you grab the garlic bread out of the oven?”
“Sure.”
I find two oven mitts and a hot pad. The kitchen is filled with garlicky goodness as soon as I pull the pan of bread out of the oven and set it on the island.
“You’ll love this one. Murray asked not to work with you Friday night again, by the way. He said he can only handle two shifts with you a week.”
“Oh, I bet.” I roll my eyes. Murray is a spoiled brat, but I can’t help liking him. “I’ll get him to love me yet. Don’t worry about it.”
Nate looks at me over his shoulder. “I have no doubt.”
Something in his gaze makes me shiver.
He turns on his heel and faces me. His face is damp from the pasta water, and his shirt is splattered with spaghetti sauce. But seeing him like this, all domestic and relaxed, is my favorite Nate so far.
“You apologized last night for your … manipulation,” he says, grinning at the word. “I want to apologize to you too.”
Apologize? To me?
“For what?” I ask, confused.
“For giving you a hard time about it.” He runs a hand over his head. “Like I said last night, I would’ve been pissed if you didn’t reach out to me when you needed help. And I don’t think you ask for help much, do you?”
“Not if I can help it.”
He drops his hand to his side. “I know we joke around and shit, and that’s kind of our jam. But I don’t want you to think you’re not welcome here or that you have to hurry and go. Because you don’t. You can stay as long as you want.” So genuine. He fights a smile. “As long as you stay dressed.” And dirty.
My body fills with a warmth that I could get used to. I laugh. “Thanks, Nate. I appreciate that.”
“Yeah.” He clears his throat. “Okay. So that’s done. I’m going to grab Ryder, and then we can eat.”
“Sounds good.”
He disappears around the corner, and I sag against the kitchen counter. I hear him playing with Ryder and Ryder’s laughter.
I take a long, deep breath and blow it out slowly. Nate would be the perfect family man. It’s so easy to see. If only that was something I could be.
“Are you ready to eat, Paige Stage?” Ryder asks, hanging upside down over Nate’s shoulder.
I laugh and look at the boy and his dad.
“I’m ready,” I say.
Nate gives me a smile that feels like a whole conversation. I hope he can read what my smile says too because I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to say it out loud.
EIGHT
NATE
This might be the dumbest thing I’ve ever done.
I watch the shadows from the streetlight move across the ceiling. I never sleep well, but I haven’t been up through the night—not even pretending to close my eyes—until three in the morning since Ryder had colic.