Ryan Taggert had overslept this morning. He never overslept, but this morning he had, and he knew why. Because the hotel mattress was rock-hard, the room was stuffy and smelled slightly of bleach and old tobacco, and let’s face it, he could not stop thinking about the secret lacy stuff hiding underneath Emily Chambers’s blouse. What. The. Hell? Sure, she was attractive, and they’d had some nice conversation during the taxi ride from the airport. Her daughter had fallen asleep, so Emily had whispered, making everything she said seem slightly naughty, especially when she told him about a few of her youthful escapades, but that didn’t explain why his subconscious had done the horizontal mambo with her all night long. He wasn’t some pimply, hormonal teenager staring at a poster over his bed. He was grown-ass man. Too old to let some harmless flirting turn into a distraction and ruin his night’s sleep.
Now he was grouchy and pissed because not only had he overslept, but he’d missed the early ferry, which meant he’d also missed seeing her in person. And the fact that he was frustrated by not seeing her in person only aggravated him further. Seriously. What the actual hell?
Thankfully, the boat ride to Wenniway Island was uneventful and blissfully short, the breeze off the lake was refreshing and served to wake him up more efficiently than the twenty-ounce coffee he had in his hand, and now he was walking down Main Street on Trillium Bay looking for the restaurant where his father wanted to meet. Emily Chambers and her lacy secrets were tucked into the back of his mind so he could instead focus on the Victorian architectural details of each storefront and restaurant. His tastes ran more toward the sleek and contemporary. He liked clean, uncluttered lines, but he could see why people found this place charming. Every detail seemed accounted for, right down to the wrought iron streetlamps and the constant echo of horses’ hooves. Of course, he would be bored inside of an hour, but if you were interested in just enjoying the quaint view of the lake and wandering aimlessly through artsy boutiques and antique shops, then this would be just the place.
The pervasive aroma of fudge was overwhelming, and Ryan stopped in front of a candy store to peer through the huge window, taking a minute to watch a man in a tall chef’s hat and a white apron use a long-handled wooden spatula to shape a pool of chocolate decadence into slabs. His mouth watered even though he didn’t particularly like fudge. People pedaled by on bikes, cruising around the horse-drawn carriages filled with smiling tourists. Yep. He nodded to himself. The place was cute. He wasn’t a huge fan of cute, but again, for a weekend getaway, Trillium Bay wasn’t half bad.
He started walking again, at last spotting the sign his father had described over the phone. It was shaped like a pig, just like his dad had said, and it read Link & Patty’s Breakfast Buffet in thick block letters. And wow. Just like his dad had said, the place was pink. Ryan had never been to a pink restaurant before, but his dad had assured him the food was good. He sure as hell hoped so. It was the only thing that could make up for the color. Plus, Ryan was ravenous. He’d never made it down to the hotel bar last night, so the last thing he’d eaten was pretzels at the Wawatam airport. No wonder he was grouchy. He was running on fumes, and seeing all that fudge had kicked his appetite into overdrive.
He maneuvered across the busy street, dodging families with strollers, around a row of parked bicycles, and opened an unadorned screen door that led into the tiny waiting area of the restaurant. The place was crowded and too warm, but the smell of bacon and waffles nearly doubled him over.
A plump woman well into her fifties with purple-hued hair and thick eyeglasses greeted him from behind a pink podium.
“Well, hiya, cutie pie. I’ve never seen you before. Welcome to Link and Patty’s. I’m Patty.”
He hadn’t been called cutie pie since he was a little kid, and how the woman could even get a good enough look at him through those Coke-bottle lenses was a mystery, but he smiled at her nonetheless. “Thanks. I’m supposed to meet someone here.”
The wattage of her cheeky smile doubled. “Your father? Are you meeting your father? Are you little Tag Junior?”
Ryan was taken aback by her familiarity—and her correct assumption. “Um, yes. Sort of. Not the junior part, but the . . . the little Tag part. I guess.”
Everyone called his father Tag. Sometimes even Ryan and his brothers called him Tag, but Ryan was surprised that this random hostess at an equally random restaurant would know any of that. He looked back at her, and his empty gut twisted with a terrifying thought. Oh please do not let this woman be the bimbo after his father. If they ever got married, he couldn’t possibly handle Thanksgiving dinner staring into her magnified eyes. It would be like staring at her through a fishbowl.
She moved from behind the pink-lacquered podium, patted his arm with a sticky hand, and grabbed a couple of plastic-coated menus with her other hand. “Well, it sure is good to meet you, Little Tag. Why, you could have just slapped Jack with a flapjack when my husband, Link, told me Tag’s son was coming to visit. We just think the world of your father. What a wonderful man.”
Relief. Okay, so she wasn’t the bimbo. That was good, but how the hell did she know his dad so well? And wait a minute . . . her husband, Link? Link and Patty were actual people? Go figure.
“Your father isn’t here yet,” Patty said, bustling toward the back corner of the room, hitting a chair with each swing of her bulky backside. “But you just come on over to his favorite booth and I’ll get you some coffee. You do want coffee, don’t you?”
His father had a favorite booth? “What? Oh, coffee? Yes, please.” Clearly he needed some. That twenty ounces from the ferry was not going to get him through this morning. She’d better bring the pot.
He sat down and looked around, summing up the place with just two words. Pink pigs. They were everywhere. Painted on the walls, in picture frames, covering the menu. Some looked like real pigs, and others were more cartoon in nature. A few had wings. The door handles on the restroom were pink pig noses. Even the salt and pepper shakers on his table were two little pigs, one wearing an apron, the other wearing a chef’s hat. Clearly the theme here . . . was pigs. Link and Patty’s. It made sense. Sort of.
His father walked in just seconds later, standing tall and looking fit and tan. He smiled when his gaze landed on Ryan.
“Hey, Dad!” He stood up and they embraced, thumping each other on the back.
“Good to see you, son. Glad you finally made it!”
“Me too. It was quite the adventure trying to get here.”