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“This is delicious.” I suck a drop of runaway syrup from my bottom lip and am immediately aware of the eyes watching me, which I ignore. “Do you cook a lot, Dean?”
“As much as time allows.” He sips his coffee, which is pale from all of the creamer and sugar he dumped into it. “My mom had me in the kitchen from the time I could walk, so I’ve picked up some stuff. It’s nice to have a home-cooked meal, even if it takes time and energy to prepare it.”
“Ditto,” Shane concurs. “I don’t know shit about cooking, so I’m extremely grateful for our Little Suzie Homemaker here.” He pats Dean’s shoulder, and Dean feigns irritation and offense when he shrugs it off, making us all chuckle a bit.
“You don’t appreciate me,” he scoffs.
“Oh, honey, we all appreciate you. Don’t we, Niles?”
Niles is busily eating, but pauses with his fork in front of his lips long enough to say, “Yes, dear. Of course.”
I cover a laugh behind my hand. These guys are too much. I love how they play off one another and have fun together. I could definitely get used to waking up to this kind of dynamic each day. It would certainly set my days off on the right foot. It certainly beats waking up alone and grabbing a quick bagel on the way out the door. Normally, my biggest source of interaction comes in the Starbucks line while waiting for my morning Joe and my mostly one-sided conversations with Colleen, who’s as dry as a piece of unbuttered toast.
Thinking of Colleen, I shake my head and smile to myself. Oh, how her head would spin if she knew just how straight Niles really is.
“Now she’s smiling.” Dean’s pointing accusingly at me with his fork, his expression comical. “Well, fess up, toots. What are you thinking about?”
I swallow, caught, and my eyes dart from one man to another. When my gaze settles on Niles, I know this isn’t anything he hasn’t already heard from me before, and I’m sure it will get back to Dean and Shane eventually.
“I was just thinking that Niles, and you guys too, aren’t gay.”
There’s a surge of testosterone in Dean and Shane’s burst of disbelief as they vocalize their denial and offense.
“You thought we were gay?”
“I’m personally offended right now.” Dean clutches his chest.
Niles continues to eat, shaking his head with a slight smirk on his face as he continues to eat. It’s nothing he hasn’t heard, so he apparently doesn’t feel the need to engage this time.
“I thought our bedroom antics would have destroyed any question,” Dean continues, then looks to Shane. “This is all your fault. I told you that wearing women’s perfume would give off the wrong impression.”
“It’s vanilla spice,” Shane defends. “It’s not a woman’s perfume. Plenty of men wear vanilla.”
“Don’t even get me started on those leather braids you call jewelry either.” Dean is scoffing, stabbing his French toast with his fork as if he has something personal against it. Still, as much as he’s puffing his chest and acting upset, I get the distinct impression he’s just teasing.
“You’re an idiot.” Shane isn’t happy, but again, I get an impression from him and while I sense that he’s genuinely upset, it’s not with what I said. I feel as if they’ve had this argument before and he’s tired of defending himself.
“I think vanilla is nice. Warm and spicy,” I interject and shrug my shoulders. “Kind of reminds me of the holidays with freshly baked cookies…”
My words are enough to distract them and stop the bickering.
“So you thought we were gay?”
I meet Dean’s eyes. “Honestly, I wasn’t sure at first. A coworker said that Niles was, and when I found out that he lived with you two, I had to question it.”
“And now?” he asks. “I hope we’ve changed your mind. If not, we can take this upstairs right now and get some stuff straight.” He emphasizes “straight” as if to drive the point home that he is.
“No, I got it. It’s clear.”
He narrows his eyes briefly and finally breaks his stare down once he’s satisfied, muttering, “Damn, that could have been fun.”
While I enjoy the sex, I’m feeling it this morning, and I’d like to walk without a distinct limp when I leave. Talk about giving Colleen more fodder for her grapevine. I’m not interested in giving the woman more ammunition, especially when it’s about me.
After we finish our breakfast and place our dishes in the dishwasher for later, I return upstairs for a quick shower, while the guys venture outside to start clearing the snow from the driveway in preparation for whenever the roads open up, which should be soon, I hope.
My phone is ringing on the bed when I step into the guest room in my borrowed robe. I pick it up and sit on the edge of the bed while reading the screen to see who is calling. It’s my mom.
“Hey, Mom. Merry Christmas.” I attempt to sound chipper, but I’m sure she can pick up on my disappointment over not being there.
