Page 39 of Sizzle

“You think your nonno is up there shining this down on us, too?” I whisper, watching one of the simplest wonders of the earth with him.

“Probably up there growling about how early it is, but how the fish don’t bite well at any other time of day. And he’s definitely made those angels buy him a decent espresso machine, because he was cranky as hell if his coffee wasn’t up to snuff.”

We laugh quietly together, but I hear the sadness tinging Liam’s chuckle.

“I’m so sorry you lost him.”

“I am, too. It took me a long time not to be so fucking mad about it.”

Turning, I hold him now, trying to give him the same comfort he gave me when we were talking about Lucy.

“My nonno was my best friend. When I lost him, it felt like I’d lost the one person who really understood me. It’s taken me quite a few years to adjust to the fact that I need to let other people in, to give them the same chance I gave him as I grew into a man.”

“And how is that working out for you? Letting others in?”

He leans down to ghost a kiss over my lips. “I’d say pretty damn good. You should try it sometime.”

“Noted.” I squeeze him in a hug, relishing this connection we’ve discovered.

We’re two people who were impacted in very different but very profound ways by their grandparents. And it feels like both are standing on this bridge with us, guiding us gently along whenever we need them.

“I want you to join me for family Sunday dinner this week,” he says as the rays of the sunrise shine on our faces.

The brightness seems to warm my bones as well as my heart. “I would love that.”

“Really?” I feel Liam’s stare bore into mine.

“What? Did you think I’d say no?”

He chuckles deep in his throat. “I thought it would definitely be much harder to convince you.”

“I think you’re learning to speak my language, Ashton.” The tease comes with a light elbow to the gut.

Those skilled lips press gently to my temple. “Let me become fluent and I’ll never speak in any other dialect.”

18

LIAM

Aside from the farm, the restaurant, and my home, the farm and feed store is one of my most frequented locations.

I’m here once or twice a week to pick up this or that, even though we have a shit ton of supplies, tools, machinery, and whatever else we need on the farm. But, as is life, we’re always missing some key element that I have to run a last-minute errand for.

Since I started shopping here as a kid with my nonno, I’m used to bumping into the other local farmers and chitchatting about the weather, harvest schedules, crop ratios and yields, and just about everything else that is riveting to me but would probably bore the hell out of my siblings.

Which is why it’s strange for me to see Dan Quillin here on a Tuesday afternoon when I know he’s usually up to his elbows in cow’s milk. After a while, you come to learn the schedules and tasks of the others in your profession in the area.

“Dan, what’re you doing here?” With the desired hammer in my hand, because Alana somehow keeps coming by the farm to steal the brand I buy and like, I reach out the other one to shake his.

His old, tired eyes grow shifty and tense, like he can’t hold himself together or something. “Ah, Ashton, good to see you.”

That doesn’t answer my question, nor does he take my hand in greeting. A sense of awareness prickles up my scalp because I’ve known this guy for years. Decades. He’s a solid dairy farmer who sticks to his word and is usually no-nonsense. He’s glib, like me, most of the time, but if I get him talking whey and curd, he’ll go on for hours.

“Yeah, everything okay? Isn’t today one of your main milking days?”

That wrinkled, weathered face that looks like it’s seen years of sun appears downright exhausted. “It used to be.”

A sinking feeling consumes my gut. Looking around, I see it’s relatively empty in the store today, so I step closer.

---