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After I decide on Chinese, order, and find the things I need to set his table in the dining area, I stand back to observe my handiwork. Dinner with Pete. The two table settings make it feel like a date. Is this a date? Why is this more nerve-wracking than Friday night?
I don’t have a particular fondness for dinners. Heck, I don’t even know how to cook much, so I usually get carry-out or load up at a bakery near my apartment. It’s why Brice nicknamed me Muffin. No matter what he says, I still stand by a jumbo muffin constituting a meal.
After a smell check of the clean dress shirt that I put on after my quick shower, I take a deep breath to calm my nerves. I felt like a college kid last time in my stupid Washington State t-shirt. I figured I could make more of an effort, but I stuck with jeans to keep things hopefully a little casual. Pete always looks like he fell out of a men’s fashion magazine, but I don’t want this to feel like a business meeting.
Down the hallway, the water has stopped. Knowing he’s naked just a few rooms away, slick and wet, is not helping me keep a level head. Will he come out in his towel? I’ll need cum-proof pants if he does.
Damn it, Cam. Get it together.
Wiping my sweaty palms on my jeans, I peruse his open floor plan. The kitchen, living room, and dining area are situated in an L shape with a row of patio doors off the living room that overlook a wooden deck. It’s all so homey and inviting. Picturing Pete sitting out there alone makes it seem like a waste of a deck on just one person.
Why is he single? Do I even want to know? He’s giving me what I want. Technically, I don’t need to know more details about him.
As I wait, however, I find my gaze soaking in every detail it can. White walls. Warm afternoon sunlight from the patio doors blanketing the living room. Three steel gray couches situated in a U shape around a white coffee table in front of a TV on the front wall. There don’t seem to be any decorations. No plants, no vases, no pictures. My mother would have a field day.
I spot two clear glass containers on a side table in the hallway and inch closer for further inspection. Their diameters are the size of dinner plates, and each is filled. One contains pens, the other, keychains. Rifling through them, I see venue names of restaurants, banks, hotels, and food convention vendors. The small bit of hoarding makes me smile. It’s a collection of the places Pete Carver has been. Did he go to these places with anyone?
The floor creaks to my right. I drop a pen back in the container like a guilty thief and whip my head toward the noise. Nothing could prepare me for the sight of a freshly showered Pete.
White socks. Faded jeans filled with thick thighs. A faint outline of stomach framed by a noticeable indent of ab muscles underneath a gray t-shirt. A dusting of dark hair on his forearms, that are flexed from having his hands stuffed in his pockets. That chest. My word, that chest—contoured perfectly for his broad shoulders.
His jaw is set behind that dark goatee, but not perturbed, the way Randy’s always is. No, it’s rather cautious, and maybe even as curious about me as I am him. I wonder if his absence of stubble means he just shaved for me. His damp, midnight-black hair looks towel-tousled and is beginning to wave. It has a sexy unruliness to it that is adorable on him.
“It’s just junk,” he informs me, nodding toward the jars. “I had to put it somewhere.”
“Oh, um. Yeah. You’ve got quite the collection.”
“I’m sorry to keep you waiting. My niece called just as I was going to get in the shower.”
“You’re a math tutor, too, huh?” I smile, but he doesn’t return it. “That’s sweet,” I add, so he knows I’m not making fun of him. “My niece barely even speaks to me unless I have a gift for her.”
Frowning, he steps forward and tamps down the pen I dropped, forcing it back into the mix so the tops are level. “Randy has kids?”
“No. Travis, my oldest brother.”
Nodding in understanding, he stuffs his hand back in his pocket. A knock at the door has me nearly jumping out of my skin.
He shuffles past me and greets the delivery person, collecting the bags of food, so I make my way over to the dining table. He starts toward the kitchen, but stops when he notices me, or rather the table settings.
Crap. Was my effort to help too bold? Glancing at his kitchen counter, he looks conflicted, but then he turns and walks over, setting the bags down on the table.
“You didn’t need to buy me dinner.”
His tawny arms freeze inside the bag. “Have you eaten already?”
“No.”
“Then I needed to buy you dinner.”
It’s a bossy bit of chivalry, but it’s chivalry I’ve never been treated to. I like it and feel a stupid smile on my face. When he sets a container in front of me, though, he notices.
“I thought we should…talk,” he explains, clearing his throat.
That wipes the smile right off my face. Talking. Right. Not messing around. I mean, of course, we should talk. Too bad I’m not any good at it.
“Yeah. Sure. Good idea.”
Great. I’m stammering already. This should earn me another round of exploring real quick.
