The Silver Fox (Red's Tavern 3)

I’d always liked shy people. Awkward people. I was 100% the opposite—I could start a conversation with a tin can if I wanted to, and I was an extrovert through and through. But I loved being able to coax someone out of their shell, to make them feel comfortable.

Especially someone like Perry. He clearly had no clue that half the guys in this bar were probably drooling over him at any point in time, and drooling over his food, too. He could have been a damn model in a whiskey ad, with the streaks of grey hair and the intense expression that was always on his face.

If I were into guys, I would have him in my bed in an hour flat.

The thought floated through my brain, but I passed it off.

“Okay,” I said, being careful not to put too much pressure on Perry. “I don’t know what’s really going on, but listen up. We’re going to forget all about it. By the end of the night you won’t even remember whatever family issues you’re having.”

He raised one eyebrow. “I wish that were true.”

“I promise,” I told him. “You won’t remember that… um... Uncle Alfred and Aunt Peggy were trying to make you come to the mole rat petting zoo, and you had to decline.”

He cocked his head in confusion, looking at me like I was a mole rat.

“Or… that Grandma Nancy has lost her damn mind, and is enlisting the whole family to take a picture together in front of Mount Rushmore with all of you dressed in green ponchos and backwards hats, otherwise she will be revoking your inheritances, and will never tell you the secret ingredient in her mutton stew.”

One corner of his lips quirked up in a wry smile. “Christ. I wish I had your imagination, Rock.”

“I’ve been told I have an overactive imagination for my whole life,” I said, smiling. “But you see? It all could be so much worse. I’m sure whatever family drama it is, you will handle it perfectly.”

Perry looked me up and down, drawing his lower lip into his mouth. I had no idea if he was just being drunk and socially awkward or checking me out again. I sat up a little straighter in my chair.

“Shit,” Perry muttered as a ringtone faintly sounded out. “I’m sorry.” He pulled his phone out of his back pocket and answered it, hurrying off toward the front doors of the tavern and disappearing outside to take the call.

“What the hell crawled up Perry’s ass and did a dance?” Sam asked, walking over from the far side of the bar. Sam was one of the other bartenders at Red’s Tavern, and I liked him, too. He knew how to party. He was young, loud, and constantly wearing flashy tank tops.

“I don’t know what’s with him, but I want to find out,” I said.

Sam wiped the bar with a rag as he shook his head.

“I’ve never seen Perry take more than one shot at a time,” he said. “He doesn’t drink like that. Even the night that Lady Gaga came in, he didn’t take a single whiskey shot with me and her.”

Red emerged from the back hallway, a concerned expression on his face. “I just went back to check on Isobel. Perry left tortilla chips toasting under the broiler and they burned pretty badly,” Red said.

“Oh no,” Sam said, furrowing his brow.

“Yeah.”

My cautious spidey senses tingled. “As far as fire potential goes, that isn’t the worst, but it is concerning,” I said. “Actually, you’d be amazed how many home fires start with people forgetting something in their oven.”

“Really?” Sam asked.

“I responded to a call once on Thanksgiving where an entire family forgot about the turkey in the oven and it burned to a crisp in the middle of the night. There wasn’t even a fire by the time I got there, but man, there was a hell of a lot of smoke.”

Sam snickered.

“Perry never forgets anything in his kitchen, though,” Red said.

“Never,” Sam confirmed. “Not once.”

“I’m going to go check on him,” I declared, pushing my way into a standing position. My ankle protested, but I ignored the dull ache.

“I can do it,” Red said.

“You need to work,” I told him. “And I want to talk to Perry, anyway.”

When I headed out the front doors, I saw Perry at the edge of the parking lot, facing the street. One hand was clutching his phone to his ear and the other was pressed firmly on the back of his neck, massaging in a rhythmic circle.

“I know, I know,” he was saying.

I wasn’t trying to sneak up on him. I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop. But I also didn’t want to scare him as I walked over.

“You’re telling me, it’s been a while,” he was saying into his phone as I approached him. “But I… I don’t just want any guy. What? No, I don’t want Stu. Please stop trying to set me up with Stu.”