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My mind began warning me against letting my heart get ahead of my common sense but as I was already picking out what to wear to best compliment my eyes, I had to assume my heart had already thumped common sense over the head with a candlestick and dragged its unconscious form to the dock and rolled it into the ocean.
Yep, that was Elias Lake all right. Jump right into the sea of love and then wonder why he kept getting caught in riptides.
Chapter Seven
Ioptedtobiketo Gibson’s funky yellow shack.
Okay, it wasn’t truly a shack, but humming that to the beat of “Love Shack” by the B-52’s was supposed to be easing my growing trepidation. This was probably a bad idea. Not that I wasn’t a man who embraced bad ideas—cough My-Key cough—but this reeked of rotten conception. Maybe that could be the next Connor Days flick.Daze of Rotten Conceptions. The studio would love it. Not. Then again, I’d not heard anything from them for a week now, so maybe they were working on the title for my next release as we speak. Not, again. Sure, they were dancing a fine and socially acceptable waltz with my agent and the press. Releasing the right words to make them sound inclusive but not committing to any requests from Elle for a sit down to discuss my contract and if it were in peril. I prayed not, but there was a tiny little subsection dealing with a moral clause that had Elle and me concerned. I was a worrisome talent according to several entertainment sites.
Pedaling along as the sun was sinking low into the sky, I tried to shift my mindset from potential bad things—being canned as part of the studio’s right to can said talent if said talent has engaged in questionable acts that could harm any current or future projects or being murdered by a potter—I tried to fixate on good things. Dinner with a new friend. A cleaver new friend.
“No,” I corrected my brain. “Clever, not cleaver. This is not going to end up like some B-grade horror flick.”
There, told me. I rolled along at a slow clip as I didn’t want to make myself sweat. I’d showered, trimmed my scruff, added product to my hair, and dressed in what I liked to call island chic, which was dark blue drawstring shorts, a short sleeve cotton shirt with a sailboat pattern, low-cut socks, sneakers, and dark blue femboy panties. The pouch held my junk just right. I’d never really been able to sort out why dressing in ladies lingerie made me feel so self-possessed. I’d read up on it, of course, and while it’s a fairly common fetish or kink, I’ve never sorted out the whys other than it makes me feel pretty and empowered. Hell, maybe that was reason enough.
The winds coming off the water were cooler now, the tang of salt lingering on my lips as I slowed my old bike and then cruised into Gibson’s drive. Wildflowers had kind of taken over the small lot, grasses and weeds growing up to the rickety mailbox. I slid off the bike, the crash of the waves subtler here as we were a little further inland. You could still hear the music of the sea, but it wasn’t as in your face as it was at the inn. The trees gathered up the sound as did the nearly deafening sound of a seagull cawing at the top of its lungs. I walked my bike up to the front door of the cabin, making a wide berth of the winged alarm bell setting in a big blue pot on a small square of terracotta tiles that made up a fifteen feet or so wide patio. There were tiny pots everywhere, all different shapes and colors, filled with herbs and other plants. Some were on the ground, some were on benches, and some were on a shelf that had dragonflies on the wrought iron sides. The plants were growing chaotically kind of like the lawn.
“Evening, Oregano,” I said to the angry gull. She snapped her beak at me in warning just as the dark green door opened. Gibson stepped out wearing a striped kaftan and sloppy sandals. His hair was down, the wind grabbing it instantly, then giving it a good toss. He was so handsome. “And good evening to you. I bet no one sneaks up on you, do they?”
“They do not,” he replied with a grin that told me he was happy to see me. The slow rake of his gaze down over my body told me other things. Things that I was thrilled to pick up yet terrified of seeing. I’d just been famously dumped and outed. Should I even bethinkingof how sexy another man was? Shouldn’t I be taking a hiatus from this kind of thing? See, this is where all that therapy should have helped. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, fine, just exerted myself on the way over,” I lied and parked my bike beside the patio, keeping a good berth between myself and the gull in the feather-lined pot. “You look comfortable.”
He glanced down and did a small spin. “Thank you. I like to be free when I’m home. Hair down, balls in the wind, that sort of thing. Come in, please. Dinner is ready to come out of the oven.”
Stepping over the threshold, I walked into an area that was just as chaotic as the yard was. Gibson, it seemed, liked disorganization. The cabin wasn’t dirty, it was just filled with things. Lots of pottery, obviously, but books too. Several shelves were stuffed full along with a whole wall of sagging shelves. The furniture was lived on, the wooden floors were clean but worn, and the windows were wide open. It was a simple home. An open area living room/kitchen area, a bathroom, and a bedroom. All the doors stood ajar as if he had nothing to hide. The space was lived in, yes, but in that mish-mosh way that real homes were. Not like my home back in California, where cleaning crews came in weekly to hermitically sanitize everything.
Nothing was ever out of place. And sadly, there were no family pictures to be found. Gibson’s cabin was chock full of pictures, many in ceramic frames, all of him with another man who gazed at Gibson as if he hung the moon and the stars. A partner of some sort that was obvious. A young boy of around six was in several, both men were always with the child.
Yeah, the other man had to be a love interest. No one could fake that kind of deep emotion. I should know, I was a trained thespian. I could cry on command—not that Connor Daysevercried—and emote at the drop of a hat—not that Connor Dayseveremoted any kind of emotion other than rage—and I’d never been able to drum up that kind of expression on screen. Of course, Connor Days rarely fell in love with a woman. He’d had his one great love, and she had been murdered by a car bomb set by a Venezuelan drug lord, thus prompting him to go on a ten movie killing spree. Sure, he slept with women all the time but never grew close to them. New leading lady in every flick. Each one no older than twenty-three please even though Connor—and me—were now pushing forty.
Why thehellwas I making those damn movies?! The more I thought about Connor Days the more I wanted to knee him in the balls.
“Come on in and sit down. I have some foods of the philosophers for us to dine on. To fire up the mind as we delve into the depths of why we do what it is we do.”
The seagull in the pot called out a few times. “Is she okay?”
“She’s fine. She’s just asking for treats.” He padded to the open front door to speak to his squatter. “Oregano, we’d discussed this before. I can’t bring you appetizers before the guest has been served. Now just sit there on your eggs and remember your etiquette lessons.”
I chuckled to myself, taking a mismatched seat at an oval wooden table that had been set up to reflect the owner. A whirlwind of different colored plates, bowls, glasses, and linens. The tablecloth was pink, the napkins green, and the vase in the middle was a short white ceramic piece with round red circles and splashes of green and purple. I was beginning to wonder if the man was color blind. Still, even with the colors assaulting my eyes, it was a charming and welcoming table. The chair creaked a bit as I settled into it.
“It’s been a long time since I had a dinner guest that wasn’t plumed,” he tossed out as he flip-flopped back and forth with dishes that I had never heard of before. “Now this is a mix of seafood with minestrone and olives.” He set a crock of soup in front of me, then a platter with some figs, cheese, breads, and some sort of squishy yellow stuff in a glazed red bowl. Then he poured some wine into two squat blue ceramic wine glasses. “Now this is the milk of Aphrodite according to Homer in theIliad, but it’s simply Lemnos wine with rose petals and edible flowers. It’s quite tasty and goes well with the soup and quinces.”
Ah, that saved me from asking what the mushy yellow things were. “This is an interesting menu,” I said, plucking a fig from the platter.
“Yes, these were some of our favorites to serve when we were hosting symposiums for our students. Generally, the wine always went first,” he said with a bittersweet edge to his voice before sitting down with a bit of flare as he swept his kaftan up and to the side, giving me a peek at toned calves. “We served these various foods and drinks in the manner of Giorgios Palisidis, a famed Greek culinary professor, to help explain the philosophy of Aristotle to eating. The Japanese also have a name for this type of food preparation that…” I glanced up, spoon in hand, from chasing a clam around in my soup crock when he faltered. “I’m sorry. I’m boring you.”
“No, no, not at all.” I fibbed. He sort of had been boring me, but I’d been enjoying his enthusiasm. “I’ve not had this kind of food since I was in Greece five years ago to shoot the sixth film of the series.Daze of Malice.”
“Thank you for being kind. I’ll try not to talk your ear off about tiresome topics. So, you filmed in Greece. What did you think of the country?”
“Mm, I loved it. The people are amazing, the lands beautiful, and the wine is quite tasty.” I took a sip of wine from my glass. It was sweet with a hint of berry and bay leaves. “Where did you find edible flowers on Kesside Isle?”
“There’s a small shop next to the pet sitter that carries such delicacies. Quite a few of the summer residents enjoy sprinkling them in their wines as we have,” he said, leaning up to pass me some of the dark bread to dip into my soup. “If you could pick one thing about Greece that you could bring back to the States and incorporate into your life, what would it be?”
“Oh.” I chewed my bite of soupy bread, then swallowed. “I never really thought about that.”
He smiled, tapped his temple, and waved his bread at me to speak. “Well, I did like the custom of being kissed on the cheek instead of shaking hands. It seems more genuine than showing someone that your sword hand is empty.”
