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“I figure the same should probably apply to dishes,” I rationalize.
“Hm,” he hums thoughtfully. “Could you imagine if you worked in a restaurant? I bet you’d be sick of that song. We should look it up in different languages, so it doesn’t get boring for you. Wait. Is the Birthday song even the same in other languages? It wouldn’t work if it’s longer or shorter, I guess.”
Honest to God, I can’t with him. How does he do that? How does he take a completely absurd topic and make it seem like it’s the most interesting thing he’s heard all day? He’s never going to make it in the world. He’s too… good.
Taking the plate from him, I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from humming. I don’t do it at work or in public, only where I’m comfortable or around my family. In spite of my heart being aflutter by his presence, I’m strangely comfortable with him. Why he’s comfortable with me, I don’t understand, but I feel like I should do something with a gift like that.
Drying my hands, I turn around and lean against the counter. He’s doing that anxious thing where he works his lips together as he watches me. He’s waiting, waiting for my next move. I’m the broken one, and he still trusts me to lead. Phenomenal.
“How far are you wanting to go with this?”
His cheeks tint, so I know he understands my meaning. Shrugging, his voice comes out bashful. “I don’t know. I’m just here out of your good graces.”
He doesn’t know? Or has he changed his mind?
“That’s not an answer.”
Another shrug, but this time he bites his lip and rakes his eyes over my body like he wants dessert with our meal. “As far as you’re willing to go?”
It’s another sentence that shouldn’t be a question, but it’s a good question. How far am I willing to go? I don’t even know how to get to the destination or what the destination is. With his eyes on me like that, though, I want to clear a path into unknown territory.
Tell him you’ve never been bi before, Pete. Tell him.
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
That… didn’t come out at all like I planned it to, but something tells me the alternative wouldn’t have rewarded me with that breath-stealing smile on his face. He looks like I just granted all his wishes with one sentence, one big, fat, bold dare I don’t know if I can pull off.
Inching closer, he stops in between my feet. Raising his hands, his gaze scans my upper body like I’m a bomb. I feel like one, especially when his palms alight on my chest and make slow sweeps over my pecs to my biceps.
“You look good in jeans and a t-shirt.”
“I get that all the time.”
His little chuckle and the way it makes his nose scrunch up has my heart doing a somersault. How in the hell can he be a Fairway? Fairways repel, but not Cameron. He draws me in like a flame on a winter day. I never thought it possible that another man could do that, but everything about him is so honest. He’s quickly becoming the most attractive person I’ve ever met.
I watch and absorb the feel of his fingertips as they trail down my arms. I’m the only thing in his field of orbit, the way his eyes dart to mine periodically for assurance to see if I approve. When his knee brushes against the inside of mine, he’s certainly the only thing in mine. I’m about to melt into a puddle and dribble down the front of my counter. He’s changing everything, everything I ever thought I knew about touching.
“Are you…going to touch me back?”
My God, if I do, I might not stop. Swallowing, I muster the confident, experienced-sounding man he needs. The need to be what he needs is overpowering.
“It’s your show.”
“Well, you can touch me…if you want to touch me.”
I’m grateful he can’t see my hand trembling as my fingertips glide up the back of his sleeve. My determination to give him the reassurance he needs overrides my nerves, though, and I splay my palm over the back of his shoulder. That simple touch makes him seem all the more real now, no longer just a person.
His eyes slip closed, and he leans forward, threatening my already starved lungs. For a second, I think he might kiss me. Butterflies circle in a rush inside my belly, but he doesn’t kiss me. His arms wrap around my waist, and he buries his face in my shoulder.
He’s hugging me. Just hugging me, and I think it broke my damn heart.
His body goes pliant against mine, relaxing into my chest. My prediction was correct—we fit together perfectly, even more so when his hands move further up my back and grip like I’m an anchor he’s clinging to. He sighs again, a shaky sound of relief, pressing his face tighter against my neck.
It’s not the subtle curves or hard plains of his body against mine that have my attention, however, as my eyes slip closed. I slide my other hand softly across his lower back to complete the embrace he seems to crave. He’s touch-starved, so heartbreakingly touch-starved that I don’t know how I didn’t notice it sooner. When his arms close tighter around me, I can’t help but wonder if I am, too.
We stand motionless, feeding off the simple act of comfort the other offers. No matter that my senses of responsibility and self-preservation urge me to find reasons why we should stop, why this should be wrong, or how it will alter my routine, I can’t find any reason worth agreeing with.
I can feel his breath on my neck. Feel his lips against my jugular as his head turns. When he inhales me again, my fingers dig into him tighter, and I do the same. I want to put him in a candle jar on my nightstand and light the wick. Snuggle. He smells like freaking Snuggle fabric softener. I love Snuggle.
