Title Dempsey’s Grill
Author Bryan Fagan
Genre Contemporary Romance, Comedic Romance
Publisher The Wild Rose Press
Book Blurb
Gibson Baker had it all. A beautiful house. A beautiful girlfriend. A steady job and the world's most comfy couch. But when Gibson loses his job and his girl on the same day, he is forced to crawl home to Mom and Dad. At least Mom’s happy to see him.
Excerpt
Chapter 3. Prodigal Son
I dozed off on the way home. I was jolted awake by a half dozen railroad tracks Dad failed to slow down for. I raised my head to look around and discovered I had been transported back to Eugene, Oregon.
Dad gave me a quick glance and turned away. For a moment, I thought I saw disappointment in his eyes but I quickly convinced myself it was my imagination.
The first thing I saw when we arrived home was Hope's car parked out front. Mom stood behind the front room window biting her nails. I hadn't been home in over a year. Seattle and Eugene were not that far apart but I had reasons for staying away. I suddenly became an eight-year-old the moment I stepped inside.
I was raised in a home straight out of the 1950's. A two story house complete with attic and basement, an oversized backyard with a workshop, a huge kitchen, a large dining room used only during the holidays, a large front room that nobody sat in, four medium sized bedrooms and a large walk-in hall closet that once served as a perfect hiding place when I was a kid.
Mom gave me a hug and started to cry. Hope stood in the entry examining me, waiting for the right moment to pounce on her injured prey. I was an undersized dying lamb and I had just made my way into the lion's den.
Dad dropped my bag at the door and headed out to his shop. He spent most of his time out there, I was told, during one of Mom's phone calls.
"Hi Mom, I'm home."
I had to pry Mom away from my shoulder. She would stop crying long enough to collect herself, take another look at me and start all over again. I glanced over to Hope wondering what to do. Normally Mom had one good cry in her and that was it. But not today. This was a full-blown thunderstorm.
Hope dealt with the situation by shrugging and disappearing into the kitchen. After Mom's tears dried up she gave me the same rundown she has given me since I moved away. She's getting fat, Dad doesn't eat, Hope works too hard and I look sick. I have always looked sick to Mom.
Growing up in that environment set the foundation for my adulthood. By the time I was a teenager I had convinced myself I would die in my 20's. I was still waiting for that one to happen and while I waited I had this feeling of doom that my 30's would be the decade of failure and mishap. As I looked over my current situation, death seemed almost inviting.
Mom pushed me into the kitchen and sat me down at the table. It was the same table I'd sat at when Hope and I were children. In fact, everything in the kitchen had a life span longer than either of us. I use to wonder what would happen if a sparkling new butter knife was suddenly introduced to the others. Would a butter knife hit be ordered? I cringed at the thought.
"You need a home cooked meal," Mom said, wiping her final tear. I couldn't tell if they were tears of joy for being home or tears of worry for my future. To be honest, I was afraid to ask. "After that everything will be better. You're home and we're all going to help you through this mess. This family sticks together. Don't feel for one second you are alone, honey."
Hope glanced at Mom, sighed, and joined me at the table. Eating has always been a huge event in our family. If there was ever an artist in the family it was Mom. Give her a slice of dried up ham, a half a jar of mayo and a cup of brown sugar and Mom would produce a legendary dish not to be outdone by the finest chefs in Europe. Nobody could touch her talents in the kitchen and nobody dared. If Mom had taken her talents to a restaurant instead of her own kitchen her life may have turned out differently, but thankfully for all of us we were the only customers she wanted and I couldn't love her more if I tried.
Buy Links
What’s your favorite part about being a romance author?
It’s funny, I never plan to write romance with anything I do. It just sort of happens and I’m glad it does. Meeting and being with other people is a huge part of our existence. I guess that's why I'm drawn to it.
My favorite part? Good question. I would say the ending when the journey is complete. The people I wrote about are wearing their battle scars. They have fought and lost and won and tied. You name it. They are emotionally drained and somehow, through it all, they found that special spark in the other and would do it all over again. To me, that’s real life. That’s how a real life story should end and if I can create something to make a person feel good about things, it’s worth it.
Here’s my tip to add romance to your love life:
Surprise them with a book store and dinner night.
Sneak a letter into their belongings before they leave for work, reminding them how special they are.
Cook something together from scratch. If you have an old cookbook passed down from your grandma, the better.
A time capsule: Both of you write down the things you are thankful for. The goals you wish to achieve and a special memory you will always cherish. Hand write it and put it in something safe and weather resistant. Bury it or hide it away to be discovered years from now.
If you live near a lake, a river or the ocean, create a day around it. Get up early and have breakfast at your favorite restaurant. Spend your day near or on the water and end your day in each other's arms.
Giveaway –
One lucky reader will win a $100 Amazon gift card.
Open internationally.
Runs February 1 – 28, 2025
Drawing will be held on March 1, 2025.
Author Biography
I was born and raised in Burlington, Washington. A little farming town 70 miles north of Seattle. I bummed around with odd jobs after high school until one day I spotted a small college in Ashland, Oregon. I later settled in Eugene, Oregon with my wife and two daughters. I began my writing career with the help of my daughters. When they were little, they drew pictures and created stories. One day they asked me to join them. I remember the day my four-year-old asked if I would do something for her. She asked if I would write a novel. And that was the day I began to write.
Social Media Links
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