Page 6 of Sigh of Relief

Chuckling, Elton hung his trench with the other coats. “Hence the restaurant.”

“Hence the restaurant. Which is closed until February, so we’re a well-fed bunch.”

Elton followed him down two steps into a living area with a stone hearth and crackling fire, the antithesis of the gray day outside the long wall of arched glass doors. He was tempted to sink into one of the oversize chairs and soak up the fire’s warmth, but Ezra was leading him across the room, past a long dining table, and through an interior arched doorway.

“You know,” Elton said, “when I called to ask for lodging recs nearby, I didn’t expect you to offer room and board.”

“He runs a hospitality company. He doesn’t know how not to.”

Elton’s gaze shot past Ezra to the other silver fox in the room.

The one he’d come back here for.

Dressed in work boots, worn jeans, and a faded plaid flannel, his salt-and-pepper hair wild, his matching beard thicker, Archer Scott looked as lumberjack handsome as Elton remembered. “Archer,” he greeted with a nod.

“You two know each other?” Noah asked, as the chef circled from behind the island with a casserole dish of bubbling goodness.

“We met the night of the harvest party,” Elton said, following the others to the round wooden table in the kitchen’s eat-in nook. Frequently used, judging by the nicks in the table’s surface and the scratch marks on the floor beneath each chair.

Archer lowered himself into the chair beside his. “He was poking around my whiskey still.”

“What can I say, it called to me.” He mock whispered in an Irish accent as close to Aidan’s as he could mimic. “Why am I in these tanks? In these barrels? Drink me!”

“Not for another six months, and it’s not bottling for another eighteen.”

Elton slumped in his chair and jutted out his bottom lip in an exaggerated pout. “Well, that’s a fucking shame.”

“Hear, hear,” Ezra said, handing him the first loaded plate.

“Shrimp and pearl couscous with stewed tomatoes and harissa,” Noah said. “I’ve got labneh in the fridge if it’s too spicy for you.”

Elton waved him off. “Appreciate it, but my ex’s chow chow was more pickles and peppers than anything else. I can take the heat.”

“Sounds like Greg’s recipe.”

“He’s the chef of our place in New Orleans,” Ezra explained.

“He gave us a jar once,” Noah said. “Lit my ass on fire.”

Ezra elbowed Archer’s side. “About like that whiskey sample you gave me the other day.”

Elton elbowed Archer’s other side. “So, can I get a taste, then?”

Archer grumbled them both away. “If the boss wants a taste, he gets a taste. Paid for it too, didn’t you?” he said to Ezra.

Who sheepishly shrugged while Noah snickered beside him. “It was basically white lightning,” the chef said. “Lit his ass up.”

Elton tilted toward Archer and batted his lashes. “I can handle it. Promise.” He added a wink and got the eye roll—and the blush streaking across Archer’s cheeks—he was after.

“Eat your food, then I’ll take you out to the barn.”

Elton reared back. “You’ll do what now?”

The rest of the table erupted in laughter.

“Your room,” Archer said, once he was done wiping the tears from his sparkling hazel eyes. “Which is part of the guest quarters in the old barn we renovated. These two”—he nodded at Ezra and Noah—“have a plane to catch this evening.”

Ezra hadn’t mentioned that when he’d called. “You’re leaving?”