Page 1 of Coached By the Grumpy Gargoyle

Chapter 1

Rory

Sunday night at the Wandering Gnome smells like sugar and vanilla, which also means the French silk pie. And French silk pie is the guiltiest of my guilty pleasures, something I have no intention of ever apologizing for.

The chalkboard on the pie case says LAST SLICE in Mathilda's block capitals. I’m the first one to see it as she steps away from the chalkboard and I make my way to the counter to nab it before anyone else.

I do love a small win. Early bird gets the worm and all that applies here. My week might actually be salvageable after all.

The windows are fogged white at the edges, the brass lights have turned the whole room golden, and the percolator is doing its low burble behind the counter like it's gossiping about somebody. Half of Saltford Bay is in here pretending they came for good conversation and coffee. Nobody comes here for conversation on a Sunday.

They come for what's in that case.

And what's in that case, as of thirty seconds ago, is one slice of French silk with my name on it. Not technically, but give me a minute.

"The last slice of the French silk pie, please," I tell Mathilda, and I do not apologize for the way I say it, like she might change her mind if I show weakness.

Mathilda, the gnome proprietor of the establishment, looks at me over her half-glasses for a beat longer than necessary. Then she plates it, wipes the chalk notice away with one flour-dusted thumb, and slides it across the counter my way.

I carry it to a window booth like it's a relic and I'm the last surviving nun of my order. Fork. Napkin. Then I take a moment to appreciate the fact that something has finally gone right. I have had the kind of week where a seventeen-year-old cried in my office, twice, both times it was about the same problem, and neither time was I allowed to fix it with violence. I have earned this slice. Deeply. Personally.

The first bite is on the fork and I take a moment to groan with anticipation. The fork is almost to my mouth when a shadow falls over my table, big enough that the brass light gives up entirely.

"That's mine."

I know the voice before I look up, which is its own little tragedy, because I shouldn't. A year of two-word exchanges shouldn't be enough to teach anyone a voice. But this one sounds like gravel settling at the bottom of a quarry, and there's only one man in this town who comes with a voice like that.

Coach Bram Stryge. Seven feet of granite-gray gargoyle in a back-vented button-down, wings folded high behind his shoulders like the world's most judgmental cathedral, green eyes doing that startling thing they do against all the gray. Arms crossed. Scowl pre-installed.

Gorgeous as sin and cold as, well, stone. I get instantly annoyed at how I appreciate his good looks even as he’s being a jerk.

For one full year I said good morning to this man in the staff room. I complimented his terrifying whistle technique. I once brought him coffee during playoff week and he looked at the cup like it might bite him. A year of me being professionally delightful, and the sum total of what I got back was granite. Cold, carved, aggressively unbothered granite.

And now he speaks to me. In public.

Over pie.

"I'm sorry," I say, in the tone that means I am not sorry. "Were you talking about my dessert or me?”

I lift an eyebrow and I’m rewarded for my sass by a deepening of his brows.

Ok. No sense of humor. Duly noted.

"That slice is set aside." His eyes drop to the plate, then come back to me. “Every Sunday. Mathilda knows it.”

Oh, that’s how he wants to play it? Being a cold jerk at work isn’t enough for him, he thinks he can bully me into surrendering my slice of pie and my only win of the week?

Fat chance, stone boy.

"Funny. It didn't have a name on it. It had a chalkboard that said LAST SLICE, and I ordered the last slice. I’d say I won that slice fair and square. Better chance next time and all that.”

Something ticks in his jaw. Oh, that's delightful. In a year of trying, I have never once gotten this man's face to move.

"Mathilda holds it for me.” He nods at the shelf behind the register, the one with the boxed slices and the masking-tape names. “She always does.”

I look. There are three boxes on that shelf. None of them say STRYGE. I turn back to him and let my smile go wide and terrible.

"Then it appears your standing order fell down on the job. My condolences. The apple pie is also lovely."