Uncle Harry doesn’t like the location because of its proximity to the town’s resident motorcycle club, and my mother doesn’t like it because I’m almost ten minutes away from her. But the rent is reasonable, parking is easy, and Mindy doesn’t even have to drive to work anymore. Plus, after living with my mother for the last three months, I’m more than happy to be ten minutes away from her. So, I guess the new apartment has its perks and its time I stop griping about silly little things like busted light bulbs and bad history that I can’t change.
Mindy and I walk quickly toward the hardware store that’s about to close. I don’t even know what time it is, but I grew up in this town and everybody knows that the hardware store closes at dusk. Old Man Hill has been closing Early Bird Hardware at dusk since he was a newlywed and was too paranoid to leave his wife home alone after dark. His eccentricities would be romantic if they weren’t so freaking inconvenient during winter. Thankfully, Mindy and I make it in time. Old Man Hill does take a moment to chastise us for being out so late and even talks us each into buying a small, pink can of pepper spray. I have no idea what I’m going to do with it, other than likely spray myself in the face with it, since we live in one of the safest towns in the state, but oh well. It’s ten bucks I won’t get back, but it’s also ten dollars’ worth of Mr. Hill’s silence.
Fresh light bulbs, garbage bags, shelf liner, and cute little pepper sprays in tow, we make the three-block trek to Sea Salt Pizza—an old favorite of ours. It’s been years since I’ve been in the place, but I’ve missed it dearly, so Mindy made a good call when she told me she knew the perfect place for us to grab a slice. Not that we have that many choices. For a town of less than ten thousand, and being as remote as we are, Fort Bragg does well to keep their residents’ basic needs met—like movie rentals, wine, and pizza. Still, finding decent food around here can be kind of a crapshoot since local business doesn’t usually depend on whether or not the product is good. It’s all about liking the owners, and thankfully for me, the owners of Sea Salt Pizza seem to be very well-liked since they’ve been in business for nearly fifteen years.
Sea Salt Pizza is the kind of place where you walk in, grab your own table and your own menu—if you even need one, that is—and give the staff a smile and a wave to get them to serve you. If you don’t know the protocol, you’re largely ignored until you catch the right person’s eye. It’s also normally loud from the endless chatter and the joyful clanking of glasses, or even agitated shouts as the customers in the back room are watching sports on one of the TVs. But tonight, the place is low-key and quiet. I can’t hear a single TV, and there doesn’t seem to be any celebrating going on. At first, I think the place is empty – then I hear him.
In a corner booth sits Sterling Grady and his daughter, Cheyenne. He sits tall and almost rigid, with his back to the corner, his deep green eyes scanning the area around him. In a way, he reminds me of Uncle Harry, in that he’s hyper-aware of his surroundings. But unlike Uncle Harry, Sterling Grady is a major asshole. I can only hope that he doesn’t see me because it’s too late to change my mind. Mindy’s already heading for a table in the center of the room. Just my luck.
Days-old stubble dots Grady’s well-constructed jaw and extends halfway down his thick neck. His tanned skin peeks out from underneath his black and gray flannel shirt. Naturally tanned skin is something of an anomaly around here. It’s so overcast all the time. He must have a job that requires manual labor. It would certainly explain the broad shoulders, thick arms, and massive chest. Even under a comfortable layer of flannel, I can see that he’s built. Surprisingly, he isn’t wearing his leather vest that labels him as a member of the Forsaken Motorcycle Club.
It makes my skin crawl that, despite how big of an asshole he is, I still find him attractive. He’s not the first hot guy I’ve ever seen, but he is certainly the biggest douche bag. I really shouldn’t be paying any attention to him. Maybe it’s because, being back in Fort Bragg, I’ve noticed that most of the eligible men are either ones I went to high school with or obnoxious hippie transplants. Not that a serious jerk is a better option. He’s just better built.
Mindy and I sit at our table in the center of the room, and I purposefully angle myself so I can watch him from the side, but not head on. I lean back in my seat and give the young boy behind the counter a smile and wave. He nods and makes his way around the service counter. As I’m leaning back, I peek to see who Grady is sitting with. It’s Cheyenne. She’s hoisting up a slice of cheese pizza and staring at her cell phone in wonderment.
“Grady,” Mindy says quietly. I snap back to reality and try to fake confusion. She shakes her head and smiles. She knows me too well. “His name is Grady, and the girl with him is his daughter, Cheyenne. Don’t bother telling me you weren’t looking, because you were. And he’s hot, but he’s also really bad news.”
Bad news is possibly the understatement of the century.