The Silver Fox (Red's Tavern 3)

“Cool it, Rock. Don’t go too hard on the tequila tonight,” Red told me, grabbing a few full bottles from under the bar and arranging them on the shelves behind him.

I snorted. “Me? Blame Silver Fox over there,” I said.

“Elsa scared the hell out of Isobel,” Perry told Red, ignoring my comment.

“Elsa wouldn’t hurt a fly,” Red said. “But I feel bad that she went back into the kitchen. Liam just left with the two dogs to walk back home.”

I interjected. “Perry, speaking of kitchen safety, tequila by the flame is not a good—”

“Rock, leave my cook alone,” Red said, rolling his eyes. “Don’t start with it.”

“I just want to make sure he’s safe,” I said.

“Rock thinks that just because he’s a firefighter, everyone else in the world has no idea what flammability even means,” Red explained to Perry.

“I’m very safe in my kitchen,” Perry said quickly. “When I make Bananas Foster, I always make sure to keep the alcohol in the pan and step away from the flames.”

“You’re making Bananas Foster in that kitchen?” I said, my chest tightening even at the thought of it.

Perry blinked at me, like it would be insane not to risk his life every single night in this place. “It’s one of the most popular desserts,” he said, his matter-of-fact tone almost adorable.

“I’ve only seen it through that little window and already I can see six fire hazards in that kitchen, waiting to smolder.”

“Leave him alone,” Red warned me again.

Perry wasn’t even paying attention, though. He was in the process of pouring himself yet another shot as I finished the one I’d been nursing for the last ten minutes.

“You’re ravenous,” I told Perry as I swallowed the citrusy lime over the cool burn of the liquor.

“I need it tonight,” he said, whistling and shaking his head.

“You all right?” Red asked him, furrowing his brow.

“Doing my best, boss,” Perry told him. He stood up a little straighter2. “We’ve started some peaches macerating in pearl sugar back in the kitchen. Tomorrow we’ll have some new syrup for the summer margaritas. And the supplier confirmed we’ll have some Italian plums next week. I can’t wait for those.”

I’d silently noticed how Perry had immediately changed the conversation from himself to the subject of food.

“Been a long day,” he said quickly.

Red nodded. “I’m going to go prep some inventory reports in the back. Don’t go too hard. And make sure my brother doesn’t either, will you?”

“Roger that, boss,” Perry said.

“If he gets too drunk he’s gonna slip in that ankle boot and wind up staying with me another month,” Red said, winking before disappearing back into the hallway.

Perry looked minorly frightened, as if Red had just asked him to keep watch on a baby lion.

“Don’t listen to him,” I said, waving my hand. “I’m not gonna get wasted. And even if I did, I’d probably just end up giving someone a sloppy kiss, not hurting my ankle again.”

His cheekbones burned red, and he looked back down at the tequila.

I let my eyes linger on Perry a moment as he finally took his shot. His bicep flexed as he put the bottle of tequila back up on the shelf, still looking totally out of it.

“So what’s actually bothering you, Chef?” I asked, searching his face.

He glanced up at me.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. He clearly wasn’t used to talking about himself.

“If you tell me what’s going on, I’ll stop worrying about it,” I said. I ran my fingertip in circles along the coaster in front of me.

“Has Red been bringing you in here to be the resident bar therapist or something?”

I didn’t know whether to laugh or be offended. “I came in here looking for a drink and a burger, but now I need to know what’s up with you.”

“You want more than just the sliders? I can toss a Red Monster burger on the griddle for you,” he said, already taking a step toward the hallway that led to the kitchen.

“No, no,” I said quickly. “Stay up here for a sec.”

He let out a long breath. “I don’t want—I can’t talk about it, okay?”

“You don’t have to give me any details. But I know nobody goes that hard on tequila unless something is up.” I nodded at the bottle.

He bit the inside of his cheek, deep in thought before finally shaking his head. “Family stuff,” he said.

“What kind of family stuff? Everything okay?”

“Everything is okay, I’m just…”

He trailed off, reaching up and rubbing the back of his neck. It was incredible how a person could look so physically strong and confident, sexy even, but still stumble over his words.

Adorable. Not that I ever thought I’d be saying that about a man.

“I’m sorry. I don’t want to be pushy.”

He sighed. “I’m worried that I’m disappointing people. Okay?”

I bit my lower lip. “Okay,” I said, a pang of sympathy twisting in my chest. “I sure as hell hate disappointing people, too.”