“You were out of breath climbing the lighthouse,” Shiloh reminds me.
“Can I request a segue into the romance part of the date? I want the poetry words, please, not the sarcastic ones.”
Shiloh, smirking, refocuses on the recipe. I let him have his silence while he fiddles with the ingredients, not wanting to distract him. I take a closer look at the house as he preps dinner, admiring the bright, open interior and the abundance of natural lighting. The walls are white, but the trim and the cabinetry are painted a soft, seafoam-green color. Blue pillows rest on the couch, and with the exception of one hideous lobster, the art mainly features ocean scenes in the same color palette. It’s incredibly beachy and the exact sort of coastal decorating people like to see in a tropical vacation home. The entire place is soothing, like an on-land underwater oasis. I wonder if, when Shiloh opens up those big glass doors, the crash of ocean wavesfills the space.
“Okay, let’s fire up the grill,” Shiloh says, wiping his hands on a towel before dropping it onto the counter.
Obediently, I follow him out the back, helping open the glass patio doors I’d just been pondering. I smile when I can immediately hear the rush of the ocean. It’s soft, but it’s there; comforting, like a white-noise machine meant to lull you into relaxation. Stopping next to where Shiloh is fiddling with the grill, I watch.
“I’ve never used a grill before,” I admit.
“No?” He pauses, glancing at me and back at his hands. “I suppose you might not have space for it where you’re at?”
“No,” I agree. “My loft is a good size, but I don’t have a yard or anything. To be fair, though, I doubt I’d have bought a grill even if I did have the space for one. I don’t particularly care about what I eat, nor do I want to put much effort into it.”
“I care what you eat.” There’s a definite note of finality to Shiloh’s tone, like he’s adding extra meaning to those five words. “Have a seat, okay? I’ll grab the salmon.”
Both Adirondack chairs are on the deck this time, with a little table between them. Just a chair, I suppose, but also so much more than that when I remember how fucking sad it was to see the one alone before. I didn’t like the implication of that single chair, and I like the look of these two together maybe a little too much. I don’t know what I’m doing with myself right now, not really. My life and career are in limbo, and Shiloh and I are…what? Taking a chance on something neither of us knew existed before and hoping we can make something of now? I need to be very, very sure that if I claim that second chair, I never give Shiloh a reason to think he’ll ever go back to sitting alone.
Taking a seat as directed, I tuck my hands into the hoodie pocket and look out over the rocky, sand-covered yard. It’s a little less cold here than it was at the lighthouse, the sun shining down directly on the patio and the breeze dampened. Shiloh’s inside for longer than I’d been expecting, and by the time I’ve decided I should go in and find him, he’s stepping back out the open door with a baking sheet in one hand and a pair of beer bottles in the other. He brings those over to me, smiling.
“That okay?” he asks.
“Perfect. Thank you.” I’m not a big drinker usually, but then again, I’m usually drinking alone. I peek at the tray as I take his bottle as well, putting it on the little wooden table between the chairs. “Kabobs, too?”
“I figured we’d better get some vegetables in you since you probably haven’t eaten anything green in years.”
“I live in LA, smart-ass. Green smoothie central,” I joke, but it falls flat. Shiloh’s face, so open and relaxed moments ago, shutters slightly, and he turns away, walking back to the grill.
I wait for him to ask whether I’m planning on going back, stomach turning a few slow somersaults. I don’t want him to ask, because I don’t have a plan. I don’t actually know the answer. So no, I don’t really want him to bring it up, but there is a part of me thatdoes. A part of me that hopes he forces me into a decision, forces me to stop overthinking and just make a choice based on what I want and not what I feel like I shoulddo. But he doesn’t. Instead, he puts the tin foil–covered salmon on the grill, followed by the veggie skewers. He lets the silence spool out until the natural flow of that conversation fizzles out in the ocean breeze.
Once everything is cooking, he joins me. Sitting down with a groan I feel low in my belly, Shiloh kicks his legs out until his feet bump up against mine. I drop an ankle over the top of his, hooking him into place for the time being. He looks at me, a quizzical tilt to his mouth.
“Want to talk about it?” I ask, feeling us slip even further into that sublime space we occupied as kids, where words were rarely needed for us to communicate.
“I don’t know,” he admits softly, taking a sip of his beer. “You’re not seeing anyone in California?”
“No.” I strangle the stab of pain that tries to take root at that question. He’s right to ask it. He doesn’t know me as an adult. For all he knows, I could be married with kids, here to have a holiday fling with my old friend before flying back to my family. He nods, not looking surprised by my answer, which further soothes my slightly ruffled feathers.
“I want you to be around,” he tells me. Or tells the ocean, rather, as he’s no longer looking at me but out at the horizon. “I want to keep spending time together.”
“I want that, too,” I agree. Applying a little pressure to where his leg is tucked underneath mine, I add, “In whatever capacity you’re comfortable with.”
He sighs, fiddling with the bottle in his hand. After a second, he places it back on the little table and looks at me. Iwait, maintaining eye contact and doing my best not to blush under the scrutiny. Whatever heat has simmered to life between us matters little in comparison to his friendship. If he doesn’t want to date or hook up or enter into any romantic engagement with me, fine. I can live with that. I don’t want to live any more days without his friendship, though, so if that’s where we settle, I’ll die a happier man than most.
“Well…” He trails off, frowning, a little pull between his eyes as he thinks.
After a second, he gets up to use the grill as an excuse not to answer. I turn my head to watch the back of him, happy with the amount of spank-bank material I’m obtaining today. Those jeans are a blessing. When he opens the grill, a fragrant cloud of smoke is expelled, and I nearly groan. My stomach rumbles, and I try to remember the last time I even ate a full meal. Yesterday, I’m pretty sure, and it was nothing that smelled that good, that’s for damn sure.
“That smells amazing,” I tell Shiloh as he rejoins me. “How much longer until we eat?”
He chuckles, looking pleased. “Soon. Do you need a snack while we wait?”
“Beer will do me.” I look up at him, surprised when he steps over my stretched-out legs instead of going around the way he’d done before. Putting a hand on the armrest of my chair, he leans down until our faces are close enough for me to see the freckles dotted on his cheeks from sun exposure.
Putting his hand on my neck, he tips my chin upward with his thumb. I shiver, and this time, it has nothing to do withthe cold and everything to do with the blue eyes on mine and the cool skin pressed to my face. I wait, awash with trepidation and excitement and a little bit of fear, like this is my first time being kissed ever and not my first time possibly being kissed by Shiloh. When he strokes his thumb along the line of my jaw, my heartbeat turns painful.
“This is a date, right?” he asks, voice low and eyes a deep, dark blue.
