Page 26 of Keep

“You said you were from Georgia. I didn’t know you still had a house there.” Chad leaned back, letting a playful smile tug at his lips. He was teasing, mostly. But there was a kernel under the teasing—a hard little seed of what aren’t you telling me? “Uh-oh.”

“What?”

“Well, what if you decide to pick up and head home?” Chad gestured with a fry. “Or worse—what if you’re still married and have some poor misguided woman on a leash down there? Or a man? You could have some boy toy for all I know, roaming the streets of Hotlanta.”

Hank’s eyes widened, then narrowed as he realized Chad was messing with him. “First of all, no one serious uses the phrase Hotlanta, but I forgive you this once.”

Chad grinned. “Fair.”

“I’ve been divorced three years now, and my ex, Shelby, and I are still friends. She knows I’m gay. She’s remarried—with a child.” Hank held up his bare left hand as evidence. “See? No ring.”

“Anyone can take a ring off, Hank.” Chad was still enjoying himself. “And if you’ve been single for that long, then you’re likely to have a few skeletons in your closet—young, broken-hearted, blond, blue-eyed men, perhaps?”

Hank crossed his arms and leaned on the table. “Nope. I’m a saint. Believe it or not.”

Chad studied him. Hank’s face was open, maybe a little nervous. No guile there, no performance.

He means it.

When’s the last time you believed someone this fast?

“I don’t know what to believe,” Chad said softly. “You stroll into my bar, seduce me, convince me to ignore my resolutions, then take me to a glorified diner that has—I must say—the most delicious deviled eggs I have ever had in my life.”

Hank took a slow breath, his eyes never leaving Chad’s face.

“I’m a virgin. Do you believe that?”

Chad’s fork stopped halfway to his mouth.

Virgin.

He said virgin.

“I—what?”

But before Hank could answer, Marsha materialized with their entrées. “Meatloaf and a PBB Burger. Get ‘em while they’re hot.”

She set the plates down, refilled their water glasses, and asked if they needed anything else. Chad barely heard her. His entire focus was on Hank, who was now studiously cutting into his meatloaf like he hadn’t just detonated the evening.

“Thank you,” Hank said to Marsha. “This looks great.”

She smiled and left.

Chad picked up his burger—peanut butter already oozing out the sides—and took a bite without tasting it.

Virgin. Forty years old. Divorced. Virgin.

Your picker, Chad. Your goddamn picker.

He chewed, swallowed, wiped his mouth.

“Were you serious about being a virgin?” he asked. “It’s kind of hard to believe.”

Hank spread mashed potatoes across his meatloaf in slow, deliberate strokes. “Why would it be hard to believe?”

“Because of your age. Your looks. Your personality.” Chad shrugged. “I assume you meant with men, considering you were married. You’re not a Gold Star Gay, are you?”

“What does that mean?”