Byron cringed. No. Not the head patting. The idea chased him from the seductive warmth of flannel sheets and into the shower, where he confronted the scalding spray, head up and shoulders back.
His ritual morning routine helped dull his unmotivated subconscious. He made himself a double espresso with the top-rated espresso machine he’d splurged on—money very well spent. Meticulously, he did all the things any other sane man in his shoes would’ve liked to skip today of all days—shaved, brushed, flossed... He checked the weather before choosing khaki slacks, a black tie and a black sports coat. He stuffed his dress shoes in his briefcase before donning his favorite Nike running shoes and an overcoat and hoofing it to work.
If the hot shower hadn’t shocked him awake, the chill whistling through the streets of Fairhope, Alabama, did. It was a brisk five-block walk to the office, mostly uphill. In the spring, it seemed everyone who lived close to downtown strolled to work in the mornings. In winter, usually only those who needed the exercise or a swift wake-up call ventured out without transport. Byron had memorized the cheery bright storefronts, quaint shops, charming courtyards, alleyways and French Creole architecture that were all trademark to Fairhope’s appeal.
Fairhope was nothing short of spectacular in the spring—like something from a book or a dream. By June, the weather was hot enough to melt plastic. By August, only the brave walked the scalding pavement. The rest—the wise—remained behind cool glass and central air. Winter weather didn’t show up until late November. Maybe. It rarely snowed, and when it did it came down more wet than fluffy, coating everything in ice.
The few months of cold made the residents of the bay-front village wish for their blistering summers that melted plastic and tarmac and made even the hummingbird mosquitoes fight for shade. Ducking his head, Byron kept his face out of the wind and prayed the office coffeepot had already punched in.
Grimsby, Strong & Associates was on Fels Avenue. Byron entered through the back door of the small accounting firm, which was his baby. He lifted the cross-body strap of his briefcase over his head.
The scent of coffee hit him. He almost groaned in relief and made a beeline for it.
Tobias Grimsby, his brother-in-law, planted his six-feet-seven-inch frame in the kitchen doorway and brought Byron up short. “Dude. You know what day it is. Right?” Wariness coated every inch of his espresso-toned face.
“I’m a human popsicle,” Byron muttered. Desperate to get to the coffee, he ducked under Grim’s arm. “Out of my way.”
Grim stayed on his bumper. “You want to go home?” he asked in his deep Kentucky baritone. “Go if you wanna.”
Byron tried not to dive for the pot. It was a near thing. He poured a mug to the lip, drank it straight. Refilled. “I’ve got a meeting with Mr. Stepinsky at nine. Your appointment with the Levinsens isn’t until eleven. You didn’t have to come in early.”
“But it’s Valentine’s Day,” Grim proclaimed with all the gravity of a general briefing his troops on a mortal campaign.
Byron offered Grim as deadpan a look as he could manage. “Damn. Sorry, man. I didn’t get you anything.”
Grim tilted his head slightly, measuring Byron’s face. “So...you’re okay?”
Byron jerked a shoulder and eyed the box of croissants their secretary, Kath, had picked up from the bakery. Yeah; he could do fifty extra sit-ups if it meant chowing down on one of those bad boys. “As far as I’m concerned, it’s just another Monday.” He sipped his coffee and clapped Grim on the arm. “Relax. You’ve got the Carltons today at two?”
“Two thirty,” Grim corrected.
“You’ll be lucky to get out of here before your hot date tonight.”
“Ah,” Grim said, reaching up to scratch the underside of his chin. “About that. I was thinking we could do a guys’ night. Just us.”
The mug stopped halfway to Byron’s mouth. He narrowed his eyes on Grim’s innocent expression. “This is your first date night with ’Cilla in weeks and you want to spend it with me?” He frowned. “Is this some half-cocked scheme the two of you cooked up?”
“There’s no scheme,” Grim said with derision that didn’t quite ring true. “Maybe ’Cilla’s sick of me. Maybe I’m sick of her. The further along she gets, the crankier she is.”
“It’s a mother-effing pity party with ’Cilla’s prints all over it,” Byron said, pointing at Grim. “And denying it further will only insult my intelligence.”
Grim’s eyes rolled briefly before he sighed, his shoulders settling into a yielding line. “I told the woman it was a bad plan. You can spot a lie miles offshore. She doesn’t listen.”
The sound of the phone in his office drew his attention. Byron snatched a croissant. “Do me a favor. Let’s not talk about this anymore.”
“It’s probably your mother,” Grim warned.
Dear God, he hoped not. They couldn’t be starting this early. Not all of them. Byron walked through the first door on the right. He set his briefcase behind the desk and settled into the rolling chair before reaching for the phone. Bringing it to his ear, he answered, “This is Byron Strong.”
“Byron. It’s your mother.”
Byron closed his eyes. He reached for his temples, where a headache was already starting to gnaw. “Hi, Ma. Happy Valentine’s.”
“That’s exactly why I’m calling—”
“So you got the flowers,” Byron interrupted smoothly. “I told Adrian orchids.”
“Yes,” Vera stated. “They’re beautiful. You did good.”
“My mitéra deserves nothing less.” He tapped his knuckles on his desk calendar. “Hey, listen, I’d love to chat, but I’ve got an early meeting. Can I call you back?”
“No, you may not,” Vera said, undeterred. “I called to invite you to dinner this evening.”
Byron rolled his head against the chair. “Ma...”
“No, no. It’s all planned. We’re doing chickens. Your father wants to try his hand at roasting them.”
“That’s...tempting.” Byron fought a grimace as he recalled the last time his well-meaning yet culinarily deficient father had tried to roast something. His stomach roiled. “Yeah. I’m gonna pass.”
“And why is that?” Vera asked, tone sharpening to cleave.
“Because I’ve already fielded one pity party this morning,” he explained, frowning at the door to Grim’s office across the hall. “Don’t you think I know what you’re doing?”
“I just want to make sure you’re okay.”
Byron’s gaze fell on the framed black-and-white photo on his desk. It was the five of them—Byron; his father, Constantine; his mother, Vera; and his sisters, Priscilla and Vivienne—standing on the beach in Gulf Shores. On Christmas Day, they always drove to the coast to sit shoulder to shoulder in the sand, drink eggnog out of flasks, wrap themselves in woolen blankets and watch the waves charge and thunder into shore. He scanned one smiling face and then another before closing his eyes again and pinching the skin between them. Nosy. But well-meaning. Every single one of them. He lowered his voice as he spoke again. “It’s been six years.”
“Six years today,” she reminded him.
“I’m aware,” he told her.
“So you won’t change your mind about dinner?”
Byron’s