Page 68 of The Hitman’s Final Job

Dante Reyes runs the Ridgeline the way his sister runs the Sunrise Bakery—with the warmth of someone who considers feeding and gathering people a genuine vocation rather than a business. He’s younger than Maria by a few years, with the same dark eyes and the same quality of making you feel immediately at home, and he’s given over the entire back room of the bar to the so-called dick competition.

The back room has been transformed.

A long table covered in a dark cloth runs the length of one wall and is set with individual display stands for each entry. The lighting has been adjusted so it looks more like a museum display than a small-town competition for vegetables that resemble dicks.

The Knot Today members arrive at seven on the dot. There are six women, ranging from what I’d estimate as early seventies to genuinely indeterminate. They’re wearing T-shirts, each with a knitting pun that makes me think they got them made just for this competition.

Before the judging starts, a couple of young women and a guy wearing the same T-shirt join the ladies.

I stand beside Silas, who’s clutching his hands together while the women—and gent—get ready to start. They pick up the first entry, which is an eggplant that seems to have a couple of tiny balls growing near the green stem. It might not be realistic, but it does look the part.

Watching the judges’ faces as they work is entertainment in itself.

“They move together like a tiny swarm; it’s both cute and menacing,” I say.

“I certainly wouldn’t want to come up against them at the farmers’ market,” Silas says.

The room fills up around us, with more people coming in to witness the judging.

Chris is practically bouncing on his toes and following the movements of the panel like his life depends on it. Hux, as usual, is right next to him like a silent bodyguard ready to pounce.

“Hey, Vaughn.” Silas pulls my shirt sleeve so I get closer to him. “Are Chris and Hux a thing?”

“As far as I know, they’re not, but you know I’m not the one to ask.”

“How can you be part of a community and not know these things? What are you doing with your life, Vaughn Reeves?” He shakes his head. I want to grab him by the neck and kiss him just to show him what I’m doing with my life, but Tess and Clayton join us.

Tess is hugging glass of wine like she’s been waiting for it all day. “Who’s winning?”

Silas pulls her close to him. “No one yet. They’re still judging, although I don’t understand the need for so much … touching and poking.” Teresa snorts. “Anyway, I wanted to ask you. Are Chris and Hux together?”

“Hmm. There’s a long story there. They’ve been best friends since kindergarten. Inseparable. Then when they turned eighteen, Chris went away to college and Hux went traveling. About four years ago, Chris’s grandmother passed away and left him with a small inheritance. He came back and opened Riverside Outfitters. Next thing we know, Hux is back and now he’s Chris’s business partner. They behave like they’re together, but as far as I know, they’re not. I’ve seen Chris dating men, but Hux is never seen with anyone.”

The story is new to me, and I find myself as interested as Silas, who’s focused on the guys like he can solve the riddle of whether they’re together simply by staring.

I lean over into his side to whisper in his ear, “You know it’s okay for people to have secrets, right?”

He turns his face to me, his gaze on my mouth before he meets my eyes in an expression that’s best explained as it’s okay for us to have secrets, not anyone else.

“Which of the squashes is yours?” I need to change the topic before I kiss him in public.

He points at the penultimate squash on the table. Sir Squash-a-nova has developed in a direction I genuinely did not notice over the last three weeks. I have to admit it’s an impressive specimen.

“He’s quite something,” I say.

“Thank you,” Silas says.

“I’m horrified.”

“Also valid.”

The Knot Today panel keeps moving along the table in a line, pausing at each entry, conferring in low voices, making notes on the clipboard. When they reach Squash-a-nova, there’s a longer-than-average pause, followed by a murmured exchange I cannot hear but that produces nods from all nine of them, and then they move to the last one, which is Chris’s.

I turn to Tess. “Is the gay cruise still on the table as the prize?”

She nods. “It seems so. There have been a few sponsors, and they’ve apparently raised enough money.”

“What if the winner is a woman?”