Page 151 of Finding Home

“Oh my god,” Tucker says to my side, covering his mouth with his hand.

“Don’t say it,” the man warns Tucker.

I look between the two of them, confusion likely stretched across my face. “What am I missing?”

Tucker leans in, keeping his stare on the bar, but whispering behind his hand. “That’s the head coach for the San Francisco Stags major league baseball team.”

“Was,” the man cuts in with a whisper. “Wasthe head coach.”

“Nooo.” Tucker winces as if hearing the news is painful.

I give Tucker a questioning glare. “Since when are you a baseball fan?”

“I root for the underdogs,” he says, lifting his chin into the air. “And the Stags were…” He pauses to look at the man, before leaning in again to whisper in my ear. “They suck.”

The man nods, lips forming a straight line.

“So, what brings you to Bluestone Lakes?” I ask, trying to change the sore subject.

“Your website is very welcoming,” he says.

Tucker barks out a laugh, and I laugh under my breath because that’s a far cry from the truth. There’s like one photo on the website.

Before I can even respond, Nan and Blair make their way to the bar next to where this man sits.

“Ah, Dallas,” Nan says, throwing an arm around his shoulders as if their old friends. “You found the best bar in town. Have you gotten settled in nicely?”

He nods but remains silent.

“Dallas?” Blair says loud enough for everyone around us to hear. “You’re…you’re the head coach for the Staghorns. I’m from San Francisco too. What brings you all the way out here?”

“Hell if I know,” he answers, keeping his head down toward the bar.

Moving to grab my bottle of Foxx Bourbon off the top cornershelf, I pour him a glass. “On the house,” I say, sliding it across the bar to him.

“Thank you.” He nods.

“You got it,” I say. “And, hey, for what it’s worth… Welcome to Bluestone Lakes.”