Page 2 of Muscle Cub

Definitely way too young for me.

How was it even fucking possible there were men this good-looking just walking around in everyday life? Not online, where they seemed to be everywhere and yet always somewhere else—Provincetown, Miami, São Paulo, Ibiza—but right here in fucking Edgewood, Georgia.

Every now and then, they stepped out of their charmed realm and crossed briefly through mine—on a sidewalk between buildings on campus, in the window of a passing car, around the turn of a grocery store aisle—before they vanished like apparitions.

The guy who’d spoken to me was one of those men, and I hadn’t heard a thing he’d said.

He was stunning, and I was just… stunned. “Sorry?”

He raised a tanned, veined forearm and pointed in the direction of a large ice cooler. “We have some wheelbarrows over there.” He was wearing a gray staff T-shirt. The fact that someone with a body like his was the one person still fully dressed was the most obscene thing about this place so far.

I’d heard him this time, yet still I gaped.

“You know, for carting your stuff back and forth.” He patiently mimed pushing a buggy. “There’re only a few, but I saw one free. If you hurry, you can snag it, or…” His brown eyes softened. “I don’t mind grabbing it for you if you want me to.”

Oh dear God, he was probably starting to get concerned I was either not in full control of my mental faculties—I kinda wasn’t—or that I didn’t speak English.

Feeling foolish but grateful, I stammered like a new kid on his first day at school. “Ah, no. That’s cool. I totally appreciate it. I can get it. Thanks, man.”

He looked me up and down, a slow glance I felt on every pasty inch of my bare chest. “Sure, bro. No problem.” He smiled.

He’s just being nice. Doing his job.

I fled to the plastic wheelbarrow and stacked my things inside. I’d only ever used a metal one with a rubber tire. When I started up the path, the plastic wheels made a hideous racket on the concrete pavers, and the waking nightmare of being the center of everyone’s attention returned.

As I trundled past at an excruciatingly slow pace, Wheelbarrow Boy watched from the shade of the cabana bar, his lips twisted in a half smile of commiseration.

Adorable.

I felt his eyes on me all the way up the trail.

Don’t look back.

Of course, I couldn’t help myself.

He was still watching me.

No way.

Probably one of those chance synchronicities where he’d happened to glance up at the same moment.

Just in time to catch me checking him out and stumbling over a tree root.

2

I spent the next hour setting up my tent and suspending a tarp between the trees above it, but there was no sign of Eric and Ben. Hoping to find them at dinner, I hiked up to the lodge. I’d been warned about the lack of cell coverage, but I brought my phone, thinking I might be able to use the Wi-Fi to message or even email them where they could find my campsite.

The nominal building at Bear Mountain Lodge was exactly what I’d pictured when I heard the name—a rustic log chalet with chunky wood beams, dry-stacked river stones, leather furniture, and windows overlooking spectacular views of the woods. To be honest, it was nicer than I’d anticipated. The structural materials were rich and authentic, and the decor had whimsical touches like oil portraits of black bears on the walls and cushions that appeared at first glance to be black-and-white toile but were actually tiny Tom of Finland characters doing tiny leather daddy things.

There was a library nook stuffed with books and knickknacks. Introvert that I was, I imagined what it must be like when it was quiet during the off-season. I fantasized about going for long walks with the trees as my muses and writing for hours in a big cozy chair by a fire with Wheelbarrow Boy on a bearskin rug…

Writing for hours. Please. Talk about a real fantasy. My muses hadn’t spoken to me in years.

Eric said I was blocked because I needed to get laid.

He wasn’t wrong—I needed a reboot to get back to writing—which was one of the reasons I agreed to join them for their shared thirty-ninth birthday party.

I joined the line of guys waiting to enter the dining hall. Everyone was fully dressed in Hawaiian shirts, snarky graphic tees, shorts, and jeans, looking like a big gay family reunion at the state park. A sign proclaimed you must be wearing clothes and shoes to be served at meals. I hadn’t considered that one of the more potentially awkward aspects of being in a clothing-optional environment might be knowing when to put your clothes back on, but having never eaten in public and indoors without wearing a shirt, it had been a no-brainer for me.