complaints.
“She’s staying with you?” I knew what neighborhood he lived in, but I didn’t know his address. Six weeks into our erstwhile relationship and I still hadn’t seen the place.
“God no.” David laughed. “Her husband’s a surgeon. She’s staying at the Sentinel Hotel. Her husband’s lucky Melanie doesn’t come shop more often.”
“My mom does the same thing. Always brings a cooler full of food for my fridge and acts like I can’t tie my own shoes.”
“Mel was great right after . . .” He wiggled his hand and I knew he meant the seldom-discussed death of his lover. “She’s the one who encouraged me to move and make a fresh start. But now she acts like the rest of the family—like I’m a million miles away and in constant big-city danger.”
“My folks live outside of DC. Way more congested place than here, yet they act the same way. Mom’s sure everyone here is smoking pot and in poly relationships.”
David laughed, rich and full. Looking into his brown eyes felt like sinking into my favorite leather easy chair.
“You want me to testify that you’re eating your veggies and locking your doors?” I worked hard to keep my tone joking. After all, we were hardly in the meet-the-family stage, no matter how much I wanted it.
“You would?” His eyes popped wider. Then he seemed to shrug off his startled reaction, his shoulders slumping. “Trust me. You don’t want to be anywhere near Mel and her endless game of twenty questions.”
“Sure I would.” But my reassurance only seemed to make David more antsy; he craned his head to see the front of the line and shuffled his feet forward.
“Never mind.” I squeezed his arm. Being around him felt comforting, like butterscotch candy, and I didn’t want to crunch up that feeling by being too pushy.
“Yeah,” David said, his attention diverted by the moving line. A group of college kids exited the restaurant, tasty aromas wafting from their reusable coffee cups and plates overflowing with baked goods. They claimed one of the wrought-iron tables in the outdoor seating area. The clatter of dishes and the hum of voices made me more impatient to get inside.
My muscles felt heavy, like I’d slogged through a rainstorm despite the happy, sunny Sunday crowd, my shoulders stiffened with familiar misgivings. Was I ever going to see David’s place? Was I ever going to meet his family? Was I the world’s biggest chump for holding on to hope with this guy?
“Um, David . . .”
“Yeah?”
He looked down at me and, like he knew I was about to blurt a bunch of worries about what the hell we were doing here, he did that David thing that always kept me hanging on. He sent me a smile. The smile. The one where his lids went droopy and his eyes went dark and his mouth quirked in a sly smile. There was nothing “just friends” about the quiet seduction in his eyes.
My rigid shoulders went limp and liquid and I swayed toward him. He took my hand, squeezed my fingers, and, okay, I wanted a lot more from the guy, but holding David’s hand made me feel as bright and sweet as the fresh-squeezed orange juice on the end of the buffet.
“Sorry again for being late,” I offered.
“It’s okay.” He shrugged, his big shoulders tugging on the cotton of his shirt in a way that made me want to see that shirt on the floor. “Hopefully we don’t end up squished in with a big group.”
“Hey, I don’t mind being squished in with you.” Understatement. I’d love to be squished in with him in my ancient single bed.
But that wasn’t happening anytime soon. Six weeks of brunch, the occasional quick dinner, three movies, and a few games of disc golf, and the best I could hope for was some passionate parting groping.
David moved at such a glacial pace that he seemed almost indifferent to sex. Me, though? I was going nuts. My palms sweat, my dick hurt, and my brain played a never-ending loop of porno-riffic possibilities.
I knew that David was
“She’s staying with you?” I knew what neighborhood he lived in, but I didn’t know his address. Six weeks into our erstwhile relationship and I still hadn’t seen the place.
“God no.” David laughed. “Her husband’s a surgeon. She’s staying at the Sentinel Hotel. Her husband’s lucky Melanie doesn’t come shop more often.”
“My mom does the same thing. Always brings a cooler full of food for my fridge and acts like I can’t tie my own shoes.”
“Mel was great right after . . .” He wiggled his hand and I knew he meant the seldom-discussed death of his lover. “She’s the one who encouraged me to move and make a fresh start. But now she acts like the rest of the family—like I’m a million miles away and in constant big-city danger.”
“My folks live outside of DC. Way more congested place than here, yet they act the same way. Mom’s sure everyone here is smoking pot and in poly relationships.”
David laughed, rich and full. Looking into his brown eyes felt like sinking into my favorite leather easy chair.
“You want me to testify that you’re eating your veggies and locking your doors?” I worked hard to keep my tone joking. After all, we were hardly in the meet-the-family stage, no matter how much I wanted it.
“You would?” His eyes popped wider. Then he seemed to shrug off his startled reaction, his shoulders slumping. “Trust me. You don’t want to be anywhere near Mel and her endless game of twenty questions.”
“Sure I would.” But my reassurance only seemed to make David more antsy; he craned his head to see the front of the line and shuffled his feet forward.
“Never mind.” I squeezed his arm. Being around him felt comforting, like butterscotch candy, and I didn’t want to crunch up that feeling by being too pushy.
“Yeah,” David said, his attention diverted by the moving line. A group of college kids exited the restaurant, tasty aromas wafting from their reusable coffee cups and plates overflowing with baked goods. They claimed one of the wrought-iron tables in the outdoor seating area. The clatter of dishes and the hum of voices made me more impatient to get inside.
My muscles felt heavy, like I’d slogged through a rainstorm despite the happy, sunny Sunday crowd, my shoulders stiffened with familiar misgivings. Was I ever going to see David’s place? Was I ever going to meet his family? Was I the world’s biggest chump for holding on to hope with this guy?
“Um, David . . .”
“Yeah?”
He looked down at me and, like he knew I was about to blurt a bunch of worries about what the hell we were doing here, he did that David thing that always kept me hanging on. He sent me a smile. The smile. The one where his lids went droopy and his eyes went dark and his mouth quirked in a sly smile. There was nothing “just friends” about the quiet seduction in his eyes.
My rigid shoulders went limp and liquid and I swayed toward him. He took my hand, squeezed my fingers, and, okay, I wanted a lot more from the guy, but holding David’s hand made me feel as bright and sweet as the fresh-squeezed orange juice on the end of the buffet.
“Sorry again for being late,” I offered.
“It’s okay.” He shrugged, his big shoulders tugging on the cotton of his shirt in a way that made me want to see that shirt on the floor. “Hopefully we don’t end up squished in with a big group.”
“Hey, I don’t mind being squished in with you.” Understatement. I’d love to be squished in with him in my ancient single bed.
But that wasn’t happening anytime soon. Six weeks of brunch, the occasional quick dinner, three movies, and a few games of disc golf, and the best I could hope for was some passionate parting groping.
David moved at such a glacial pace that he seemed almost indifferent to sex. Me, though? I was going nuts. My palms sweat, my dick hurt, and my brain played a never-ending loop of porno-riffic possibilities.
I knew that David was
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