Page 8 of Brought By the Storm

Carrington looked at me with uneasiness. “You don’t have to give me your popcorn.”

“Stop,” I commanded. I retrieved a large bowl and dumped the bag’s contents in it, handing it to Carrington. He paused, then nodded with a smile, taking it with appreciation.

“I love popcorn,” he admitted, grabbing and shoving in a handful. I had noticed at dinner that he put large quantities of food in his mouth, causing his whole lower face to contort and move while he chewed. It didn’t seem to align to his ‘hoity-toity’ life, but I was glad. There was something about the way he ate that I found masculine and sexy.

I looked away when I realized I was staring. “I have more bags in the pantry. Please just help yourself whenever you’d like.”

He was about to put another handful of popcorn in his mouth, but paused and looked at me with bewilderment. “Why are you being so nice to us?”

I shrugged. “I’m a nice guy…I hope.”

His mouth formed that little grin that I was beginning to love, and he continued to eye me with a mix of surprise and admiration. His piercing blue eyes giving me that much attention was starting to affect me. I felt heated and exposed, standing before him in my boxers and too tight T-shirt. Thinking about that also caused my dick to stiffen a bit. I leaned into the island that separated us so he wouldn’t notice.

“Why are you single?” he asked.

That question didn’t help me relax. “Um, I don’t know. Hard for a guy to find eligible men in this one-horse town.”

“One-horse town? I’m guessing that isn’t a literal thing?”

I laughed. “No. I mean, it’s a rural town—it’s not a gay mecca.”

“But you recently moved from New York City,” he remembered. “I’m sure there were lots of men to choose from there.”

I swallowed hard. It was a reflex that I had since I was a child, something that signaled to anyone watching that I was nervous. I hated that about myself, but try as I might, I could never shake it. “None of them wanted to choose me, I guess.”

Carrington looked at me as if I were a con man who had just offered a suspicious deal. “I’m quite certain that’s untrue.”

“Why?” I asked, somewhat surprised.

He glanced down with a bit of bashfulness. “You’re kind. You’re successful.” He bit his lower lip and raised his eyes back to my face. “You’re very good-looking.”

“Don’t.”

Carrington looked panicked. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t soliciting sexual favors from you.”

Of course, he wasn’t. That was the thing. Every man I had ever found attractive didn’t reciprocate. For some reason, I was always drawn to the wrong men—often straight ones. Maybe it was the aggressiveness of the gay men who approached me that repelled me. Too many men liked to grab. Having grown up in a home where physical affection wasn’t displayed, I found the forwardness of many gay guys jarring. On the rare occasion I would find a gay man like Carrington that was my type, they were already taken or they weren’t interested—or in this case, both.

“No, I wasn’t thinking that. I know you love Stefan.” Carrington didn’t respond, which I thought was strange. “I just meant you didn’t need to flatter me. I’m a realist. You and Stefan are like models. Believe me, I know. I took enough photos of aspiring ones during my side work to know the real deal. You two are better looking than anyone I ever photographed, in fact. So, I know gorgeous, and I know average. Nobody’s going to take photos of me. And you know as well as I, in the gay world, good looks are king.”

He shook his head. “I’m not trying to flatter you. I don’t know why you think you’re average looking. You’re beautiful. I would want to take pictures of you if I were a photographer.”

I didn’t know whether he was being genuine, but I wanted to discuss something other than my physical appearance. “Can I get you something to drink? You must be thirsty now that you’ve been eating popcorn.”

Carrington sighed. “I’m not changing the subject. Why are you critical of yourself? Who did that to you?”

I did the hard swallow thing again. “What? I told you, I’m a realist. Even my own mother once said to me, ‘you may not be an attractive person, but you’re one of the smartest’.”

He grimaced. “Yes, you’re bright, but with all due respect to your mother—who I’m sure is a lovely person—I wonder if her eyesight is failing. This must not have been a recent observation on her part.”

“It wasn’t,” I acknowledged. “She and I don’t talk much. Let’s just say I was an unattractive teenager—braces, long hair, skinny.”

“And you’ve metamorphosed into the man you are now. I’ll bet if you asked her today what she thinks, she would tell you that she’s amazed at how you look.”

I barked a laugh. He didn’t comprehend from my comment that my mother and I had no interactions whatsoever. “Yeah, I doubt it. So, what do you want to drink? Water? Juice?”

Carrington looked resigned. “Water would be nice. Thank you.” I reached into the refrigerator for a bottled water and handed it to him. As he opened the cap, he shot his eyes back to my face. “Can I just tell you why I think you’re beautiful, then I’ll drop it?”

I sighed. I did want to hear, but I assumed it would be about my personality. While friends and acquaintances often told me I was a good person, those compliments felt like encouragement that it didn’t take attractiveness to be loved. “If you promise to drop it…”