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Biting back a laugh at my misunderstanding, I stare down at my pie. I should be embarrassed over how wrong I was about him, but I’m too grateful. If I hadn’t gotten the wrong idea about that pot, I wouldn’t be sitting here having the best day of my life.
Glancing over at me, the corner of his mouth ticks up at the corner as he gives me a quick once over. He’s been doing that all day, like he’s checking to see if I’m still in one piece. I’m not sure if the apology in his eyes is for his siblings’ behavior or his confession earlier. Miranda and Jesse notice the direction of his gaze though and smirk at each other. If he keeps looking at me like that, he’s going to give us away.
“You about done with your break there, Cameron?” Jesse calls. “Pete’s slacking. We might need you to help him step up his game.”
“No,” Pete warns. “He’s our guest. He doesn’t have to help. Mom told him to eat pie, so let him eat his pie.”
Jesse and Miranda sputter like they’re coughing. Pete scowls, bounding back up his ladder with a vengeance, oblivious. My word. And I was worried I’d be the one to give off vibes.
Once he’s back up in the tree, he sneaks another peek at me. I can practically hear the unspoken questions in his eyes.
Why haven’t you run off yet? How can you forgive me?
His evident remorse is laughable, really. For a guy who was never into guys before, he’s definitely into me. His behavior alone made forgiveness an easy decision.
I honestly don’t know why he looked so worried about disappointing me this morning. The way he was worrying his hands, I could tell it had been eating him alive. It disgusts me that Randy had him so spun up he thought I came bearing false motives, but sadly, his misconception was a completely plausible theory. I was a stranger who sprung a ludicrous proposition on him. That, and I’m well-aware of how my family lauds undeserving people like Preston, while snubbing people who are actually worth their salt.
Maybe I should be upset or wary about him omitting his truth, but I’ve lived with paranoia over my secret for years. I don’t fully understand yet what it’s like to live with Pete’s paranoia, but I can’t imagine what the last few weeks of coming to terms with his sexuality have been like for him. If anything, I admire his commitment. It took me most of my life to accept my sexuality. He got thrown a curveball from me and somehow managed to come to terms with it in less than a month.
He might have lied by omission that day in his office, but I can’t find a lie in anything else he’s done. The way he was with me, the things he says when we’re alone—you can’t fake that. I somehow snagged the perfectly imperfect guy against even greater odds than I previously imagined.
He doesn’t seem to realize how much I acknowledge that all my firsts were firsts for him, too. I don’t know how he was able to appear so calm and confident during our heated moments, but granted, I was a bit preoccupied by my own nerves. Seeing him now, looking so vulnerable, is a touching reinterpretation.
He’s just a guy who was figuring things out and couldn’t resist what was building between us. How can I be mad at the mirror image of my own dilemma? If he’s worried that I’m disappointed he lacks the experience and confidence I originally thought he possessed, I’ll be happy to tell him later that I like this side of Pete just as much, if not more. It’s kind of reassuring to know we’re both on even ground.
Crap. We’re staring again.
Tugging my phone out of my pocket, I pull up my message app, determined not to be drawn in by the longing looks of the sexy man on the ladder. It’s been a minute since I chatted with Brice. I guess Pete isn’t the only one who will have dropped a bomb today.
ME: I think I have a boyfriend.
Typing bubbles appear instantly. It’s one of the benefits of having a confidant who works from home.
BRICE: You think?
My declaration reads more uncertain than I realized, making me chuckle. Typical me. Glancing over at Pete, I catch him focused on his tree. Under the shade of the dormant biennial row, which I was told is nature’s way of giving an apple tree a break every other year, I have a delightful view of his firm backside from this angle without the threat of an apple falling on my head. Corporate boss by day, sensitive man of the earth on the weekend. Yeah. I’m keeping him.
I wait for him to climb down with another load in his picking bag and covertly snap a picture. My first picture of my man, and now I get to brag about him. Shooting the picture off to Brice, I send him proud clarification.
ME: I do have a boyfriend.
BRICE: That guy is so not gay.
What is he talking about? How could he possibly know about Pete’s intimate history? I know I didn’t tell him.
Studying the picture, however, I roll my eyes.
Pete’s back is to the camera, but Jesse’s isn’t. The silhouette of a woman on Jesse’s t-shirt grasping a stripper pole is clearly the center of my photo, right above the words “The Dew Drop, Wenatchee, Washington.”
ME: No, the other one.
BRICE: The lumberjack? You’re dating a lumberjack?
There’s a sexy sheen of sweat at Pete’s temples telling me he could probably lose the flannel, but now that Brice just implanted a lumberjack fantasy in my brain, I hope he doesn’t. I hope he wears them all the time.
ME: No. Mr. Cuticles.
BRICE: THAT’S MR. CUTICLES?
