Page 62 of Blame it on the Bet
While he’s gone, I ring the intercom that links the apartment kitchen with the pub kitchen.
“Kitchen,” Donovan’s voice comes crackling up at me from below.
“Hey, Don, it’s Hennessy. Are you busy? I’m wondering if you’ve got a shepherd’s pie down there that I can get my hands on.”
“You betcha, boss. It’s on its way,” he assures me. “Perfect. Thanks, Don.” I hang up and take a deep breath, scanning the small kitchen around me. I’m a little alarmed to find I’ve got butterflies in my stomach. First date butterflies. What? No… Oh yeah. Having Bryan Truitt in this apartment, alone, is a little…thrilling. And exciting. And scary.
Definitely first date butterflies. But this isn’t even a real date!
Right?
Shaking off my confusion and ignoring the fluttering in my tummy, I start to set the table, pulling down dishes from the cupboard and lifting silverware from the drawer. I find a bottle of Merlot in the cabinet above the fridge, and I rummage around for wineglasses. The good wineglasses. I rinse them and set them on the table, then stand back and take in my handiwork.
“Nice,” I murmur, just as Bryan sticks his head back into the kitchen.
“Hey, the carpentry work in this place is amazing! I hope you don’t mind, I just took a peek around. My God, the built-in dressers and bookcases are beautiful.”
“My pops made those,” I inform him proudly. “You said there was only unfinished space on the blueprints? That’s because he bought it like that, and then he and my mom put in the apartment themselves.”
His dark brows arch up in surprise. I like surprised on him. It’s a nice change of pace from smug and all-knowing.
“Seriously? I mean, that’s the work of a craftsman, not a hobbyist.”
“Yeah, well, things were pretty tight when I was very young, and if my parents wanted something, they had to do it themselves. Even the pub. That used to be a restaurant downstairs. They gutted it and turned it into what it is today. I was a munchkin then. There are pictures of me asleep in my bassinet on the floor while my father is hammering a two-by-four not five feet away. I guess I just got used to the noise.” I laugh. “But all that woodwork down there was Pops. He built that bar by hand.”
Bryan looks impressed.
“Jeez, he had some talent, your father.”
“He did,” I agree, pulling a corkscrew from a drawer and handing it to him. “Would you mind opening that bottle on the counter for me? I think I hear our supper coming up the stairs.”
“What, like room service? Well, that’s a nice little perk.” I open the door to the back staircase just in time to greet Donovan, who has a large, stainless steel tray balanced on his shoulder.
“Dinner is served,” he quips as I step aside so he can enter the kitchen.
“Bryan, have you met Donovan Douglas? He’s our cook. Well, I guess ‘chef’ is more flattering.” I chuckle and elbow his ribs gently.
“We haven’t officially met, but I’m a big fan. Man, that chili you made for the cook-off would’ve been my favorite if I’d been allowed to vote for you,” Bryan gushes, and Donovan smiles proudly.
“Thanks, man, I appreciate that. I hope you like shepherd’s pie, too. That’s my specialty,” he announces proudly as he sets the deep pie dish on the table atop a folded bar towel that doubles as a trivet.
“Hey, this thing is mammoth,” I say, poking at the pie. “It’s like the size of a wagon wheel! Do you want to take a break and join us, Donovan?”
But he’s already turning back toward the stairs. “Sorry, Hen, I can’t. The Sunday night darts league has their first match tonight, and Walker’s already freaking out. I’ve got to go back down there and talk her off the ledge.”
“Oh…did you want me to go down and help out?” I offer, hoping he’ll decline. He does.
“Nah, we got it covered. But I’ll ring you up here if we get into the weeds.”
“Fair enough,” I agree, closing the door behind him. “Please, sit,” I gesture to the table and pull out my own chair. Bryan joins me with a freshly poured glass of Merlot, and I take a long, slow sip.
“What was that about?” Bryan asks as I scoop a steaming heap of the pie onto his plate. “Your sister doesn’t strike me as one to lose her cool.”
“She doesn’t, really. But for some reason, Walker’s got a lot of self-doubt. Especially when it comes to the pub. She’s loved being there since she could turn the doorknob and manage the stairs herself. And of course, Pops loved that about her. He was grooming her to be his Mini Me. You’d never know it to look at her, but Walker took his death harder than all of us. They were really close. And now, it’s like she’s afraid she’ll let him down.”
He nods his understanding. “Yeah, I so get that.”
“You and your dad?” I venture slowly. But he shakes his head.
