Page 78 of Famous for a Living

Great. That’s what he got from it all? I own a lot of clothes. I’d be annoyed, but he’s doing that mischievous twinkle-in-his-eye thing that makes me struggle momentarily to take full breaths. Where his mouth says one thing and his forest-green eyes say something completely different.

There’s a long pause.

Finally, he exhales.

“It’s impressive. I don’t think I could do what you do in a million years. I’m actually a bit intimidated by you, to tell the truth.”

A laugh hiccups in my throat. “Me? No way. You’re the one who shoots bears with bows and arrows here.” When he starts to object, I jump in. “Don’t try to tell me otherwise. Peggy explained how we got the bear rug in the office.”

“It was with a crossbow. And the bear was getting aggressive with the tourists. I had to do it.”

“Fine. Crossbow.” Like the crossbow was any less impressive. “A pathetic crossbow.”

He smiles and shakes his head, but I can’t mistake how his chest puffs up just a tad beneath his flannel.

He takes a few more steps. Pauses. “I did wonder about that rémoulade you made for those crab cakes, though. What did you use instead of dairy?”

“Oh.” He’s referring to the story I posted last night when the group (aka Jax and Kevin) came over for dinner. “I just whipped up a vegan yogurt. Two cups of cashews. Some apple cider vinegar. It turned out really well. Even Jax ate it.”

I pause.

What is that look he’s giving?

Is he . . . feeling left out?

“You know,” I continue, “our Snowball Cornhole Risk Blitz nights are pretty off the hook. It’s exclusive, but I know someone who may be able to get you in sometime.”

He shrugs, but I can see the way his eyes light up. “Oh, I don’t know. I hear the venue is pretty small. And cold.”

“True.” I raise a finger. “But the chef is first rate.”

And not to brag, but it’s true. While the games are played and the sewing machine pings and a movie hums in the background, I seem to have stumbled into being the in-home chef. The praises are pretty effusive, which is nice but unsurprising considering menu selections prior to my arrival seem to have revolved around gas station hot dogs, popcorn, and grilled cheese.

“So Jax really eats your food? Even though it’s all vegan? I have a hard time believing that.”

I nod. “He hasn’t clued in yet. Last week he told me my BBQ ribs were a bit chewy, but that’s as close to being caught as I’ve come.” I glance over to Jax currently eating his way through three breakfast sandwiches stacked together. “And don’t you tell him yet either.”

Zaiah raises his unoccupied hand in surrender. “You won’t have any trouble from me. I’d like to see this ignorance firsthand anyway. You take partners in this risk cornhole game of yours?”

“Yes. You can be mine if you like. I’m a weak link, though. You will, without question, be dragged down by me.”

His laugh is deep, warm. “You really know how to sell yourself. I’m in. Partners.”

“Zaiah Smith,” a voice behind us booms. “Just when I thought I was going to have to come and drag you down here myself.”

I glance over to see a man roughly Zaiah’s age. His beard is equal in thickness to Zaiah’s—which isn’t saying too much considering beards in Kannery seem to be part of the dress code, as commonplace as trucks and My Kid’s Chicken Can Beat Up Your Kid’s Chicken bumper stickers. He’s wearing a light-khaki Carhartt jacket.

And yes, he’s notably handsome too.

Not in the same way I’d have to admit that Zaiah is handsome, but a little more city smart: a healthy mix of knowing both how to handle himself in the elements and also how to hop on a subway. Someone who can make it in both worlds.

Except—I note both of his hands on the handles of his wheelchair—perhaps with a little more effort. There’s a makeshift platter on the handle of one side of the chair, and a carafe half full of coffee resting on it.

Zaiah looks visibly startled. “Mark.”

He hesitates, then leans down into an awkwardly given man-pat-slap-hug.

Straightens.