Page 40 of Checking Out the Librarian

The pressure, combined with his name, drew Connor’s focus, and he let out a deep breath. Without looking away from their hands on the table, Connor nodded, then spoke more slowly. “If you don’t want to come over, we can go out, or your place. Although we have to find an outdoor patio because I have Ribby. And I need to shut up.”

“You do not need to shut up, but you do need to breathe.” Jonathan looked at the dog, curled half around C’s bare calf while his tail swished across the sidewalk. The dirty sidewalk. “Your place. And I like salmon.”

“Great. My place it is.” Connor’s lips curved and his eyes half-closed while he gathered the paper napkins and the plate with only crumbs from the scones. He gloated as if Jonathan had said I like you rather than a completely innocent comment about fish.

When Connor stood next to him, hands full, Jonathan deliberately let his gaze linger on Connor’s legs below his shorts, examine the dog, and then climb back up Connor. “Also, I am not ready for fur on my sofa.”

Connor threw his head back and laughed in a way that engaged his whole chest and would be vastly entertaining if he were shirtless.

“Noted. You’re anti-fur.” He slapped his own chest. “Guess I’ll have to try to change your opinion.”

“You’re more than welcome to try. Before or after dinner.”

He would gold medal in the sport of making Connor blush.

10

NOTHING UNUSUAL

The first time he stayed at Connor’s house, which was the night after Connor had walked into his library and bumbled through an apology in front of what had felt like the entire cast of all seven seasons of Buffy, Jonathan realized several truths.

It was the first time, but likely not the last time, he was going to stay at Connor’s.

Also, as soon as he’d put the other man’s address into his phone, he should have swung by his own apartment and gathered his skin care and a change of clothing, because here he was on Thursday morning, naked under Connor’s taupe-colored duvet, contemplating exactly what to wear in order to exit this lovely room.

He’d happily linger to enjoy the vintage wood floors, refinished to a gloss that didn’t erase their dense grain and aged patina, the creamy sage-colored walls that softened the light streaming through the windows, the mismatched oak furniture, and the fully stocked bookshelves that beckoned from the gable, but he needed coffee.

And a toothbrush. And the bathroom. And clothes.

And something, maybe a shot of peach vodka or at least an oxygen mask, that would calm his racing heart. In addition to last night’s planning failure, Jonathan should have anticipated that Connor would throw everything he’d known about himself, other men, and even pets into a blender.

A large dog could like him, and refrain from barking or pawing at him.

A large, goofy man who was more than somewhat similar to his own dog, albeit with far better pawing skills, could swing Jonathan onto a bed, lick and rub his body until he melted, and also—this remained surprising even though it had now happened more than once—beg to be fucked.

And they could laugh during sex.

They could laugh after sex.

They could laugh while brushing their teeth.

This whole sleepover was shocking, but not bad. Possibly nothing that happened in a room with bookshelves, pale green walls, and gauzy curtains could be bad, but the new information Jonathan was learning about himself might qualify as shocking.

Coffee and acceptable clothing would make it all so much less shocking.

He heard clomps and creaks from the stairs. As soon as he’d entered the house last night, he’d noticed the central staircase, its gorgeous old fir treads slightly askew, but with glossy white, unscuffed risers and one of those railings with white pickets and a dark-stained handrail that made Jonathan want to sweep down them while delivering a soliloquy.

Connor’s house was a gem, and he tried not to compare it to his apartment, really tried. He was new to Eugene, and Connor wasn’t. He’d started college later, started working later, so he wasn’t a failure for living in an apartment instead of in this cute Craftsman cottage.

Then Connor bounded into the bedroom carrying a coffee mug, alleviating the immediate need for clothing. “You’re up!’

“So it appears.”

“Already had my workout.” That explained his obnoxious glow and the loose black shorts slipping below his navel as he stretched to offer Jonathan the coffee. It did not explain the shirt, its arm openings sloppily cut to mid-rib and its neckline slashed half-way through the rainbow-colored guitar printed on the front so that it exposed Connor’s chest to a point well below the start of his blond pelt.

No words could explain an adult with a mortgage who wore that shirt, absolutely nothing could, except possibly participation in a revival of an umlaut-flinging heavy metal hair band.

“Did I get it right?” Connor gestured at the coffee Jonathan held but had not yet sipped.