Page 6 of Mourner for Hire
“About condiments? They are literally my obsession. You should see my refrigerator. And, sir, respectfully, I’ve known you fifteen minutes.”
“Twenty-three.”
“Whatever.”
“Try it.”
“You could say please.”
“I could. I won’t, though.”
I glare at him, inhale deeply, and take a bite of the burger. Flavor explodes in my mouth. Smoky. Spicy. Sweet. The perfect amount of char. The juice from the burger runs down my fingers, and I’m certain this man will never fall in love with me. I can’t even eat a burger like an adult.
He waits, watching me with an expression that is damn near unreadable.
“It’s really good,” I admit.
He nods once. “Mom’s recipe.”
I lick my lips. “I like her.”
“You would.”
That’s all he says as he turns around. He busies himself at the bar, serving up a few more beers, making a couple of spicy margaritas, and three bloody marys topped with celery, bacon, and two jalapeño poppers. But he delivers them to the patrons, calling them Billie and Lucifer.
“That looks like a whole ass meal,” I comment. I don’t knowwhy. I’m just bored and anxious to actually reach my next location. I swipe my phone to check the traffic. Still not moving.
Dunner places a jalapeño popper on my plate. “Try it.”
I narrow my eyes, but nevertheless take the jalapeño popper between my thumb and index finger. “I’m starting to feel like a food critic.”
He shrugs, not smiling. “We don’t get a lot of new faces around here. I like getting outside opinions.”
I take a bite and chew intently. Sweet, cheesy, spicy, smoky—each flavor delectable on my tongue. “My God, these are delicious. I want to eat seventeen of them.”
“That’s specific.” He’s almost monotone.
I moan a little. “Is this your mom’s recipe, too?”
“No, it’s mine.” He restrains a smile and I don’t miss the way his gaze falls to my mouth as I lick the remnants of flavor off my fingertips.
I can’t be entirely sure, but a slight blush sweeps over his cheekbones. It shouldn’t be so endearing that he makes the perfect jalapeño popper, but it is. They’re the perfect blend of spicy and sweet.
“Maple syrup?”
“Brown sugar,” he corrects.
“I love them. They’re delicious,” I say, nodding, then lean forward on the bar. “So, tell me: do I stick out like a sore thumb? Since you said you don’t get many new faces around here?”
“Yep,” he answers with zero hesitation.
I scoff out a laugh. “Really, you know everyone else in this bar?”
He leans closer and points at the end. “That’s Marylou and Bernie Ethercott—he was my fifth-grade teacher, and she was the nurse at the doctor’s office. She’s also an excellent baker… almost as good as my mom.”
Normally, a shot of red flag alarm bells would go off in my mind—BEWARE! MAMA’S BOY!RUN! WE DON’T COMPETE WITH MOTHERS! But for some inexplicable reason, I find this anecdote more endearing than worrisome.
“That over there is Jonesy,” he continues. “We played football together in high school. Janice and Ella were my neighbors growing up. And that guy playing pool with them is Harold Green. He’s probably the founder of this town.” He points at the man who seems to be well into his nineties as he pockets the eight ball. “Or he’s a ghost. We can’t be sure.”
