Page 6 of Falling

I chuckled. “Are you driving home?”

“Walking,” he said.

I poured him that whiskey he looked like he needed and slid it across the bar. Our fingers brushed as he accepted it and it took all my willpower to stifle the way my breath hitched at the tiny spark I felt. “Here,” I said, clearing my throat. “That’ll keep you company while I handle the food.”

My phone buzzed in my pocket as I pushed open the door to the kitchen.

Seth:

*that’s* your type?

3

MILES

Evie:

how was your first day?

Miles:

Bear Sherlock Holmes took one look at me and poured me a whiskey

now he’s making me dinner

so you’re on a date

no one ever makes me dinner on a date

I laughed wryly at my own joke and sipped the whiskey—I didn’t know enough about it to know if it was any good or not, but the kindness of the gesture meant more than the quality of the booze, anyway.

Miles:

oh, also, I think he’s gay and I think this is a gay bar

I took a quick shot of the huge pride flag behind the bar and sent it off to Evie—for proof, or analysis, or whatever. One of the reasons I’d been hesitant to come here was that practically all my friends were some kind of queer, and I hadn’t expected to meet people like them in a small town.

Then Seth had turned up in court heels, carrying a purse that matched his ruby-red nails and lips.

And now Bear Sherlock Holmes, who’d just been offered a male stripper for his birthday, was making me food.

Just as I had the thought, food appeared in front of me, and my stomach rumbled again at the incredible smell rising from the plate. Maybe it was because I’d forgotten to eat today, but I’d never seen a more appealing dish in my life.

“House-made sweet potato gnocchi pan fried in sage-infused butter with crumbled pancetta,” Holmes explained. “I’m working on a new fall lunch menu.”

“So, you’re the chef here?” I asked, grabbing the fork.

Holmes snorted. “Absolutely not. I just run the place,” he said, a wry smile twitching at the corner of his lips. “I have an incredible cook, but he’s uh… not in today.”

“Because the bar doesn’t open on Mondays?” I asked, looking up at him with my fork halfway to my mouth.

Holmes scratched the back of his neck and shrugged. “You looked like you could use… a bar, I guess.”

I meant to say something intelligent, but the first bite of food had just hit my tongue and all I could manage was a happy little whimper. The rich salty pancetta, the sweetness of the gnocchi, the savory herbal comfort of the sage butter, the perfect crispness and pillowy softness of the whole mouthful. That was another thing I hadn’t expected to find in a small town—anything resembling halfway decent food.

This, though, was already in my top five favorite meals.

“Good?” Holmes asked, a hopeful light in his eyes. I needed to get a real name for him.