Page 11 of Something Cryptid This Way Comes
“Yeah?” Hand still on Trevor’s back, I slide it up and squeeze his shoulder, my grin growing with the thrill of uninterrupted time with him.
A faint pink tinge colors Trevor’s cheeks. “I’ll still need to come in, but I reduced my hours.”
“Good.” Really good. I’ll take every minute I can get.
Jo retraces her steps to retrieve her long sweater from behind the desk. “Ready for dinner?”
“Starving.” Trevor clips the leash to Bandit’s harness. “I texted Conall to let him know we’re bringing the dogs. He said the patio heaters are on, so we’ll be fine there.”
I ruffle Hades’s hair. “My interview with Alex MacDougall shouldn’t take long. I might have to duck inside the pub for it.”
Trevor leans over the desk, his shirt stretches with the movement showing off defined muscles in his back, and grabs his puffer vest from the chair. He slips it on, looking every bit the part of a sexy New England innkeeper. “No worries, I’ll watch Hades. Jo invited her cousin Alaric and his boyfriend, I think Ever and Dmitri are coming, and, knowing Maplewood, more people will show up. He’ll have so many new friends to meet, he won’t miss you.”
“Thanks.”
Trevor and Jo wave to a man with short, bubblegum pink hair who’s stepped behind the desk. Before Hades can decide that he wants to make yet another friend, I guide him outside.
The wind scatters gold and orange leaves over the pathway. I’ve missed the changing of the seasons here, with the mountains in the distance. It’s so peaceful. I suck in a breath, letting the crisp autumn air fill my lungs and wonder again why I stayed away for so long.
Bandit barrels out the door ahead of Trevor, and our dogs greet each other like it’s been days, not minutes, since they parted, entangling their leashes.
Laughing, I change hands, unwinding the straps. “I don’t know if The Striped Maple is ready for you two.”
“They’ll be all right,” Trevor assures me, then looks down at the dogs as if he needs his own assurance. “Won’t you?”
Ugh, could this man be any more adorable?
In a good friend kind of way, of course.
As we walk the few blocks to the pub, chatting like no time has passed, a wave of nostalgia hits me. Memories of Halloweens trick-or-treating with Trevor, Jo, and Ever. Summers exploring the woods looking for Mabel. Winters sledding and skating. And weekends at the Playhouse watching movies as spring showers battered the streets. Even now, after decades away, I consider the friends I made in Maplewood tobe my closest.
A large banner hanging across Maple Avenue advertises Maplewood’s Fun and Fright Fest. I point to it. “What goes on at the Halloween festival? It didn’t exist when I lived here.”
“There’s costume parades for pets and kids, a corn maze, craft activities, and local vendors selling their wares on the Saturday before Halloween.” Trevor ticks each one off on his fingers, and I remember he was on the committee for several years. “A pumpkin carving contest, and music from local bands.”
“Plus a house decorating contest which starts two weeks before Halloween, the week-long haunted house at the inn during the week of Halloween, and adult trick-or-treating on Halloween night, after the kids are finished,” Jo adds.
“That’s a lot.” And it sounds fun. I wonder if I could stretch out my stay so I can experience it.
“And it gets bigger every year. Case in point, Cryptid Night.”
The pub is on the same street as Ever’s shop. After we’re seated at a table on the patio, under rows of fairy lights, Trevor shoots him a text letting him know where we are.
Our table is close to one of the portable heaters. It’s warm enough for me to shrug out of my jacket. I slip the leather over the back of my chair.
Trevor’s gaze rakes over me and for a moment, I swear heat flares in his brown depths. “Nice shirt.”
Oh, right. The flannel. I look down, then smile at him. “You said I could help myself.”
“And I meant it. You look good.” Clearing his throat, he rubs his hand over the back of his neck. “Ah… Let’s get drinks.”
We leave the dogs with Jo so she can flag down Ever, Alaric, and their significant others.
Stationed at the outdoorbar at the patio’s center, a redheaded bartender gives us a winning smile. Then he winks at my best friend. “Trevor, looking good tonight.”
I can’t stop the fine blade of possessiveness stabbing my gut or the way my hand clamps onto Trevor’s shoulder.
His green eyes twinkling, the guy shifts his attention to me and gives my hand a deliberate stare. “And who’s this?”
