Page 4 of Love Language

His hands, when he signed, were as small and delicate as the rest of him. His chest and waist were slender, but compact, highlighted by the skin-tight mesh and leather he wore. His black bow tie, worn without any kind of shirt collar, drew Greg’s eyes to his graceful neck. But even though he was smaller than Greg in every dimension, he absolutely radiated dominance.

Greg couldn’t classify him as either handsome or cute. His thick black hair framed his strong cheekbones and his dark eyes gleamed with expression beneath impossibly long lashes. His chin was round and slightly feminine under that alluring—and disconcerting—beard.

His bronzed skin had a soft glow, suggesting Hispanic heritage. Greg found himself wondering if that skin looked as soft as he imagined and immediately pushed the thought away.

He looked like he was barely out of his teens, twenty-five if Greg were being generous.

Definitely not anyone who should be making Greg’s heart pound in his chest.

He forced himself to pay attention to what the sexy stranger was signing. This asshole won’t look at me so I can speech-read.

Sorry, Greg replied, even though it wasn’t his fault. Sometimes he felt like it was his responsibility to apologize every time a hearing person did something inconsiderate. I can interpret if you want.

The stranger sighed, flicking his eyes toward the ceiling. He should have looked like an impatient asshole, but his low-grade aggression was still pushing Greg’s buttons for some reason.

I just wanted to order some beers for my table. He gestured vaguely behind him. I think the bartender’s trying to count drinks or something for people who want to play, but he won’t look at me for long enough to explain it properly.

Greg was glad that he could offer something useful to the conversation. There’s a one-drink limit for people who want to play, and the bartender has to stamp your wristband. So, if people at your table want to play later, they have to order a drink directly from a server.

The stranger glared at a cluster of people who were presumably his friends. Why did they send me over here, then?

Greg shrugged. They might have thought you were flagging down a server. And you can order drinks and then have him use the stamp when he brings them.

The stranger’s shoulders fell. Well, that’s irritating. They probably thought I knew, and I didn’t think to ask.

Yeah, Greg agreed lamely.

It seemed like they were running out of things to talk about, and for some reason, Greg didn’t want to let the stranger go yet.

He tried to tell himself that it was only because he hadn’t gotten to use ASL in a while, and he discovered that he missed it.

Do any of them sign?

The stranger shook his head. One friend uses cued speech.

Ah. I’ve seen cued speech, but I never learned it.

Why would you?You can sign.

The stranger turned a hundred-watt smile on Greg, and he felt his chest fill with the praise. He knew what a gift it was to find a fluent signer in a hearing space, and he was glad he could be that for this smoldering stranger.

He realized, suddenly, that what the stranger was, was pretty. He was completely the opposite of Greg’s imposing, masculine Sir, so it didn’t make the least bit of sense why he wanted to bask in his attention.

He felt himself beaming back. The moment stretched on, neither breaking eye contact. It felt like something was bubbling under Greg’s skin. Some new life that he hadn’t been ready to acknowledge but was just waiting to break free.

Unfortunately, the bartender chose that moment to come back. “What can I get for you?”

Greg turned automatically at the sound, not even thinking about the fact that the stranger wouldn’t have heard it. He’d been out of the Deaf community for too long.

By the time he looked back at the pretty man, the moment had broken. He nodded to let the stranger order first.

He switched easily to voice but didn’t look happy about it. “I’d like to order three beers, one for each of my friends at the table over there.” He pointed clearly to the table. “Everyone will need a stamp, so we’d appreciate it if you could bring them over.”

The bartender nodded, already turning toward Greg who hadn’t quite figured out his order.

“And I’m paying for whatever he’s having,” the stranger continued.

Greg startled, then felt himself blush. He knew it was just a gesture of appreciation, but no one had bought him a drink in a long time.