I step onto the dance floor to take in the scene. Although Blur is known for being gay friendly, men and women frequent my club. Currently, the dance floor is crowded with couples and groups bumping and grinding. I usually have a foam party once a month, a technique I picked up that kills two birds with one stone. My customers have fun slipping and sliding all over each other. Then, after everyone goes home, a cleaning crew comes in and uses the suds to deep clean the place. I’m all about an efficient use of resources.
Everything seems to be under control, so I slip away to my office to complete some paperwork. My office overlooks the dance floor via a one-way mirror, making it easy for me to do business while also keeping an eye on things.
I flip through the day’s mail. Bills, bills, more bills, and one envelope that looks like a letter, but when I open it, it’s just another bill. I purchased this wine bar and club at twenty-five years of age. I thought it would be a party every night. Now, I’m twenty-nine and the party is over. Although I wouldn’t change it for the world, the magic of the nightlife is gone.
A few hours in, I get a message from Sara telling me there’s been an emergency and she has to go. I want to be annoyed, but Sara is a star employee and she has kids, so I get it.
I rush next door and find Sara clocking out. “Everything okay, honey?”
“Yeah, but my brother didn’t know Emmy is lactose intolerant and gave her ice cream.”
I cringe. “I’m guessing big brother doesn’t know how to clean diarrhea from the carpet?”
“Worse. She was crying when her tummy started hurting, and so he brought the kids by, thinking she just missed me and not knowing what was wrong with her.”
“Uh-oh.” I’m lactose intolerant myself. I can predict the next string of events.
“She had diarrhea in his car. He’s now in the parking lot, unable to get the kids home because every time he gets in his truck, he gags over the smell.”
“No.” I gasp.
“Yeah. So, I’ve got to let him take the kids home in my car and figure out how to clean the mess from his.”
“Yikes. Want some help?” I offer. The last thing I want to do is clean up kid feces, but I’m dying to see what this mysterious brother looks like.
“You don’t have to do that.”
“It’s fine. I’ve got some vinegar, a bucket, and rags. We can do this.”
“Actually, that would be nice. My initial plan was to take his truck to the car wash and start hosing.”
“Excuse me, everyone,” I call out to the customers while gathering supplies. “You’re in charge of yourselves for a while. I’ve got to go help Sara out.”
The few patrons sitting at the bar and the intimately spaced tables nod back and then return to their conversations. This is what I love best about small towns. Not only can I trust they’ll leave cash on the bar for whatever wine or liquor they consume, they’ll also leave bigger tips because they’ll assume Sara’s problem will cost money. We take care of our own around here.
I follow Sara out to the parking lot that’s only illuminated by two streetlights. Sure enough, a beat-up truck is parked next to Sara’s Corolla. Three figures stand next to the tailgate, two tiny people and one hulking man. A sexy, beefy, hunky hulking man. His hair is dirty-blond and unkempt, he has an overgrown beard, and he’s wearing a Death Cab for Cutie T-shirt with worn in jeans.
Might not be gay, but he’s very easy on the eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he starts. “You didn’t tell me she was allergic to milk. She didn’t tell me she was allergic to milk.” He accuses Emmy with a point of his finger.
The panic on his face and the way he’s quick to blame a little kid is comical. I cover my smile.
“You think a three-year-old is going to turn down ice cream?” Sara rushes over to her daughter and hugs her, despite the brown dripping from her pants down. “But you’re right. I should’ve told you. Where did you even get ice cream? There was none in the house.”
“We went to the store earlier and picked up snacks because we were going to watch some movie about elves,” the brother explains.
“Trolls.” Lou, the five-year-old, corrects.
“Pretty much the same thing, little man.” He ruffles Lou’s hair, then turns his attention to me. “Who are you?”
Okay. He’s direct.
“Oh, right. This is my boss, Kian,” Sara says.
I reach my hand out. “And you are?”
“Archer. Sara’s big brother.” He takes my hand and shakes. He appraises me for a second too long.
There it is, that tiny little glint of interest in his eyes. This man is gay. I’d bet my ass on it.
A flush spreads from my chest to my cheeks and my heartbeat pounds in my ears.
“I came out to help clean,” I say dumbly, holding up my supplies. What the hell is wrong with me? I’m not one to lose my mind, no matter how attractive the other person is. Then again, I’ve never seen anyone this outrageously handsome.
“I don’t want to put her in my car seat all covered in poop, ruining two seats. You didn’t pack a diaper bag, did you?” she asks Archer.
“We were just stopping by. I didn’t pack anything. Plus, she’s potty trained. Why would she need a diaper?”
“For accidents. Like this one.”
“Here.” Archer lifts his shirt off and hands it to Sara. My tummy does a somersault and my jaw drops. His shoulders are broad, and his waist is tapered. Ripples of muscles scroll down his abdomen and frame that stupid V thing that makes girls and gays drool.
“Thanks.” Sara takes the shirt and peers over at me, probably knowing I’d salivate over the man. She’s right. He is delicious. “Come here, sweetie. I’ll set you on the tailgate, and we’ll get you changed.”
She takes her daughter around to the back of the truck for some privacy, leaving me, a half-naked God of a man, and Lou. I bend down to the little boy’s level. “Hey, little Lou. How are you?”
I’ve met both Sara’s kids before, but only briefly.
“Emmy shit herself,” he deadpans.
My wide eyes go from Lou to Archer, who awkwardly chuckles and tucks the boy into his side. “We talked about this, remember? I used a naughty word and you shouldn’t repeat it.”
“Sorry. I forgot.”
“Kids say the darnedest things.” I snicker and Archer scrubs his fingers through his beard sheepishly. “Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me.”
Sara brings Emmy back to the front of the truck. “There we go. She’ll need a bath when you get her home, but at least she won’t dirty up another car seat.”
Archer leads the kids over to Sara’s car and begins to strap them in, but Emmy doesn’t want to go. She cries and begs for her mommy.
“It’s okay, sweetheart,” Sara coos. “I’ll be home just as soon as I clean up Uncle Archer’s truck.”
“No! I want you! My tummy hurts.”
“It’s fine, Sara. You can take them home. I’ll stay here and clean this up.”
“Are you sure?” she asks Archer, but her eyes are on me. She knows how awkward this will be for two strangers.