Waiting On You (Blue Heron #3)(55)

“Hallo, mate,” Tom said, shaking hands, as well. Lucas moved down to look at the blueprints.

Great. Three beautiful men, all in a row. Two spoken for, one...not.

“Are you an architect?” Levi asked.

Lucas shook his head. “A building projects manager out in Chicago.”

“Oh, yeah? What kind of buildings?”

“Skyscrapers, hospitals, that kind of thing.”

Annie, one of the new summer hires, came behind the bar with a menu for Lucas, her pad in her other hand. “Hi,” she breathed, and Colleen envisioned the girl’s ovaries exploding. “Can I get you anything?”

Lucas smiled. Annie staggered.

“Go clean the bathroom, Annie,” Colleen said sweetly. “I’ll take care of Lucas. He and I are old friends.” She folded her arms under her chest. “Lucas, can I get you something to drink? Would you like to see a menu? Or are you meeting someone?” Yes. Pretend he was just another customer, as unthreatening as Reverend Fisk, who was eighty-nine years old.

“I’m meeting Bryce,” he said. “But I’ll have a beer.”

“Absolutely. What kind, hon? We have Sixpoint Harbinger, Southern Tier IPA, Sly Fox O’Reilly’s Stout, Empire Cream Ale, Naked Dove Bock, Blue Point Toasted Lager, Cooper’s Cave IPA, Victory Donnybrook Irish Stout, Stone Vertical Epic, Captain Lawrence Brink Brown, Ithaca Flower Power IPA, Dogfish Head Immort Ale, Sly Fox Maibock, Bud, Bud Light, Miller, Miller Lite, Coors, Coors Light, Corona, Stella, and, in honor of our New York heritage, Genesee.”

Her regulars applauded, as they always did, when she recited the beer list in one breath.

“I’ll take the Dogfish,” he said.

“Coming up.”

She went over to the beer taps and filled the glass halfway, then filled the rest with 7Up.

“Enjoy,” she said, putting it in front of him.

He took a sip, choked a little, then swallowed. “You like it?” she asked. “Limited release.”

He raised an eyebrow. His phone beeped with a text, and he glanced at it and sighed. “Bryce ditch you?” she guessed.

“As a matter of fact, yes,” he said.

“Well, then. Don’t let me keep you. Nighty-night.” She gave him her best smile.

His eyes narrowed. “Actually, I may as well stay for dinner.”

“Join us, mate,” Tom said, the traitor. Just couldn’t trust those Brits; had the War of 1812 taught nothing?

Fine. That was fine. Colleen slapped a menu on the bar. “No need,” Lucas said, nodding at the chalkboard (which she’d written out that very afternoon, complete with an adorable stick figure lifting a pint). “I’ll take the burger special.”

It was pretty fantastic—an all-Angus beef burger with herbed goat cheese from the Mennonite farm up the Hill, native tomatoes and Vidalia onion on an English muffin and served with an arugula salad and Con’s famed sweet-potato fries. As her brother’s guinea pig with all house specials, Colleen had it for lunch. It was almost as good as sex.

“I’ll have that as well, please, Colleen,” Tom said.

“Make it three,” Levi added.

She smiled oh so pleasantly. “Coming up, boys.”

She went into the kitchen. “Three house burgers, Con. Medium on two—” Tom and Levi were regulars, and she well knew their preferences “—and petrify the third.”

“Really?” Connor asked.

“Yeah.”

She went out again. Time to schmooze. “Hey, lovebirds, happy anniversary!” she said to the Wheelers, who were celebrating their thirty-second. The Murrays were in with their beautiful, red-haired daughters, and Colleen asked the older one how trumpet was going, and the younger one about their new kitten. Bill and Laura Clemson were fighting, but that was nothing new; it was a Friday night tradition. Louis Hudson and Amy Bates, however, were cooing at each other in a dark booth, and Colleen told Hannah to bring them out a crème brûlée, two spoons, on the house. They were engaged, thanks to one Colleen Margaret Mary O’Rourke.

By the time she got back, the three burger specials were just about ready; the two medium burgers were on yellow Fiesta ware; the well-done order was on blue. Colleen lifted the bun to check it. It was dark, all right. Just not dark enough.

“What are you doing?” Connor asked as she put the burger back on the grill.

“It’s not well-done enough,” she said.

“You said well-done. It’s well-done.”

“I said petrify. Where’s that Chinese sauce?”

“Which Chinese sauce?”

“The fire sauce.”

“It’s over the sink. Go easy on that. It’s vicious. Two drops will bring a grown man to his knees.” He turned back to the chicken marsala he was making.

Colleen rummaged through Connor’s salt collection; honestly, did a person need seven different kinds? Rock, kosher, sea, truffle, black... Aha! Here it was, the strange little bottle with the dragon on the label and some mysterious Chinese characters. She took it out, checked to ensure that the burger was a hardened, dry, hockey puck of meat, then put it back on the bun. Doused it with fire sauce, then added a splash more on the fries.

She brought the plates out to the bar and set them in front of their respective orders. “Enjoy, gentlemen,” she said.