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He held out a mug.
Nick took it, wrapping his hands around the ceramic. He suddenly felt shy, but somehow more self-assured at the same time. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“Yes, you were very loud sitting out here with your feet in the grass. You do realize I have chairs . . . ?”
Nick nodded. “I know.” Adam’s legs stretched out in the grass, too, one hand holding his own mug of coffee, the other resting on his thigh.
Nick hesitated. Then he reached out, threaded their fingers together, and lifted their joined hands to kiss Adam’s knuckles.
Nick’s eyes met Adam’s brown ones. He’d never felt this way before, like he’d found something precious and fragile that could be taken away. It left him giddy and anxious. Fiercely protective.
Adam smiled. “That look is worth waking up alone.”
Nick blushed and looked away. “I’m sorry. I was trying to let you sleep.”
“Sleep is overrated.” Now Adam shifted closer, eliminating any space between them. He pressed his lips to Nick’s neck, abandoning his cup of coffee to stroke his free hand up Nick’s chest.
Nick sighed and closed his eyes. He totally should have stayed in bed.
He left his own mug on the concrete to stroke his hand through Adam’s silky dark hair, tracing a finger down the length of his dusky chin.
“Where are you from?” he asked without thinking.
Adam laughed softly and straightened. He reclaimed his coffee, but he remained sitting just as close. “Annapolis.”
Nick winced and shook his head. “No—I meant—”
“I know what you meant.” He hesitated. “My father is from Morocco, and my mother is from Brazil.”
There was a lot of weight in that hesitation, and Nick proceeded carefully. “I’m thinking there’s a story there.”
“Hmm. Not really. He came here because he couldn’t find paying work as a doctor in Morocco. Their economy was crap.
She was a student at Johns Hopkins. They met three weeks be-260
fore her visa expired.” He gave Nick a wry look. “She tells everyone she married him for the green card.”
Nick smiled. “I have a feeling I’d like your mother.”
And as soon as he said the words, he realized he was wondering about meeting Adam’s parents, and the thought struck a bolt of nerves into his chest.
Now he understood how Michael had felt Thursday night.
“She’s very opinionated,” said Adam. “Likes to rant in Portuguese because it makes my father nuts.”
Nick’s eyebrows went up. Just when he thought Adam couldn’t get hotter. “Do you speak Portuguese?”
“More than I’ll admit. Less than I should. My father grew up speaking Berber—it’s like Arabic—but I barely know any of that. He wanted to lose his accent because he thought he’d get better work that way, so he hardly speaks it at all now. Most people can’t even tell he wasn’t born here.”
A new note, something close to bitterness, had crept into Adam’s voice. Nick frowned and wondered if he’d made a misstep by opening this line of conversation.
Adam shrugged a little. “He totally bought into the American dream of capitalism and baseball and apple pie—only to end up with a Brazilian wife and a g*y dancer for a son.”
Adam’s father hid who he was. Then he’d asked Adam to hide who he was.
Nick wondered what his own father would have thought.
While he felt certain his mother would have understood him—
