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“I think that counts.” Even his hair tingled with elation. Right now he could run a mile. Design a castle. Swim to an island, out in the channel. “Home remedies. Releasing tension. Though I should probably shower, now.”
“Me too. Um. Again. At least clean up. Can I call you back after?”
“Of course,” Devon said. Everything in him had settled, grown serene, melted into honeyed sweetness. Fulfilled, he thought. “And now I’ve got more to show you. I mean art, obviously. When you get here.”
“Two weeks,” Burne repeated. “And a couple days. We’re going to do this.”
“I hope,” Devon told him, “we are.”
Chapter 7
Two weeks and five days later, Burne might’ve never been more full of wild tap dancing excitement. He’d thought he was in love before. Right now, in his small practical car at the gate of Devon Lilian’s Rose House, he thought he could fly.
He stretched a hand out. Tapped the intercom button. The scent of roses—large, velvet-petaled, sweet and lush—layered itself through sea salt and beach air.
Coming up the hill, he’d known exactly why Devon had wanted this location. The snug colorful houses and shops of Summervale lay below like a rainbow; the ocean stretched out in glorious endless blue, laced with white froth and gilded with sun. Devon’s house from the outside lay tucked into the rocks and curves like part of the landscape: pale grey-blue, white trim, lots of glass and openness, airy and possessing a sense of motion, as if breathing with the waves.
Devon’s familiar amber voice beckoned, “Yes, come up, park anywhere!” and the gate swung open. Burne considered the steepness of the hill versus his compact Honda, and went for it. The roses lined the drive, cheering him on. Anticipation skittered down his back, coiling at his spine.
He left his car behind the garage and got his bag and turned and looked up. The bag slid out of his hand and hit the path.
Devon Lilian, in person, had run out a side door and onto a flight of steps, white-painted with thin rails. Devon was also thin and tall and made of elbows, and wearing beach-weathered flip-flops and dark jeans and a surprisingly nice indigo shirt with the sleeves rolled up, rich color against burnished skin, and the wind lifted his black hair into swirls and banners. He’d let it grow out a little, Burne thought dazedly.
Devon ran down the steps and over to him, and slid to a halt, breathless. His eyes were wide, sunlit and grey like wood-smoke and stone and welcome. “You’re here.”
“I’m here.” Burne reached out. Couldn’t not. A strand of ink against his fingers. Silk. Tucking it back behind an ear. The brush of his hand against Devon’s skin. “I told you I would be.”
“Yes.” Devon put his own hand over Burne’s, turned his face into the touch. If that might’ve been odd, it didn’t feel that way. The two of them, touching. “Come in. Please.”
Burne came, hand in hand with Devon, other hand clutching his bag. Himself, here. In this fairy tale. They’d agreed on a week, over the phone. To see how this felt, if this could be true.
He knew it was. Certainty like stones, earth, soil.
He’d barely been able to concentrate, these last two weeks. He’d made himself focus on work. He and Devon had kept talking, texting, every day. They’d had phone calls—and sometimes more—every night. And in the middle of the day, a time or two.
He’d tried not to bring up sextoooften—he’d heard the heart-rate monitor, and Devon’s rapid breathing, the first time—but the sheer tidal wave of want rocked him to the core, and he thought Devon felt the same. Burne hadn’t spent this much time with his hand on his cock since he’d been a teenager. Devon’s voice, the sweetness of that small gasp at the peak, his own mental image of Devon lost in bliss…
Devon had sent him one particular photo in the aftermath of thesecondphenomenal phone sex encounter. Artistic and indecent, it showed Devon lying flat on a darkly sensual extravagance of a bed, shirt shoved up, dick not quite visible but climax shining in splashes across his taut stomach. His lips were parted, pink and flushed; his eyes were heavy, satisfied, dreamy.
Burne had stared at that photo so many times. So many orgasms.
They’d had time for one more letter-exchange, mail-boats coming and going. Devon had sent him a detailed sketch of a rose, petals opening, with a tiny kitten napping in the center. Burne had looked up one of his mother’s favorite poems, one about daffodils, and written it out and sent it back.
He’d chatted with his brother a few times, and had mentioned his plans to meet his architect, his person, as soon as he got back. Sean had demanded, “Wait, are you sort of kind of maybedating Devon Lilian?When? What?How?!” and Burne had said, “Why doyouknow his name?”
Sean’s exasperation grumbled, “How do younotknow his name, isn’t he like one of thosehouseholdnames, or about to be, you know, like this generation’s next Gehry or Frank Lloyd Wright or something?” Burne, remembering Devon’s tea-mug and its flawless pun, choked on laughter.
Sean, in the way of older brothers, nevertheless texted after getting off the phone, wanting to know Devon’s address, and how long Burne planned to be there, and whether he was still coming to Candace’s birthday party next month. Burne answered withThe Rose House, anda week, andyes of course!
He’d run home to his small sunny townhouse near campus just long enough to throw bags in the door, shower, do laundry, sleep enough to be coherent. A couple of days. An attempt to trim, or at least tame, the beard. Devon’s art, wrapped up and devotedly preserved during the boat ride back, sat on his desk in the spare bedroom he used as a home office.
Most of it did. He had the rose-kitten propped up next to his bed. He’d wanted to look at it, going to sleep.
Devon said, hand still in Burne’s, “This is it,” and pushed the door open. Burne stepped in, felt his breath catch, felt his feet slow with amazement.
Devon lived in a storm-light house, a water-house, a lightning-whip house. Curves and arches like clouds. Deep cool walls in blue and grey, but not dull, because the acres of clear glass brought the sea and sky and harbor right in, mingling. The kitchen backsplash borrowed some glass in violet and silver and green and smoky opal highlights.
The rugs sprawled everyplace, deep and flecked with color—blue, lavender, bronze—through grey and black. The sofa was deeper grey, with the sunrise-ocean blanket thrown across it. One wall climbed to the ceiling in artistic jagged stone, framing a deep fireplace. Another held books in dark straight built-in rows: those mystery novels, books about bridges, books about art.
