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Even before Alden had glared at Casey in astonishment and outrage, flounced off to the restroom and never returned, Casey had vowed there’d be no second date.
When the third guy tried the same line on him, Casey got the full picture, and was only mortified that he hadn’t figured it out sooner: Nobody wanted him. Even Bradley didn’t want him. Only the cachet of his name.
Dev, though… Dev seemed to want him, and that tied Casey’s stomach up like tangled fishing line.
“I’m bound to screw this up, Randolph Scott.” He looked up and met the cat’s half-lidded gaze. “I have no experience. Dating is a process, right? How does a product person deal with that?” Randolph Scott raised one leg and licked his butt. Casey planted his hands on his hips. “On the first date? No, absolutely not. You’re worse at dating advice than you are at fashion.”
Downstairs, the screen door slammed in its signature double bump. “Casey?” Dev called, his voice echoing in the stairwell. “You ready?”
As usual, Dev’s deep voice sent phantom fingers walking up Casey’s spine. Randolph Scott must have liked it too, because he leaped from the armoire to the desk to the floor and pawed open the door that Casey had left ajar.
“In a minute,” Casey replied. Then he took advantage of Randolph Scott’s doorman routine, crept onto the landing, and peeked over the banister, ready to jump back if Dev was looking up.
He wasn’t, thank goodness. Instead, he was occupied greeting a very vocal Randolph Scott.
Hunh. Dev was wearing cargo shorts, a royal blue T-shirt that hugged his chest very nicely, canvas boat shoes with no socks, and was holding a navy hoodie bunched in one hand.
Casey scurried back into his room and more or less matched the outfit. His cargo shorts were olive, not khaki, and his T-shirt a vintage black number for a mid-80s production of Tooth of Crime at the Berkeley Repertory Theater. He scuffed his feet into his Vans, grabbed his Columbia hoodie, and trotted downstairs.
“Sorry to keep you waiting.”
“No worries. I’m a little early.”
With a last skritch of Randolph Scott’s ears, Dev stood. The cat clearly disapproved, given the slit-eyed glare he favored both of them with before flicking his tail and stalking away.
As Dev gave Casey a once-over—or maybe twice-over, since his gaze flicked up and down two times—his smile took on an appreciative and distinctly predatory gleam. “Nice T-shirt.”
“Th-thanks.” Enjoy the process, dammit. “Yours is nice, too. Very… stylish.”
“It’s a plain blue T-shirt, Casey, not exactly a designer original.”
“Maybe not.” Don’t just enjoy the process—embrace it. “But it displays what’s inside it exceptionally well.”
Dev blinked. “Uh… Okay then.”
Casey winced. “Shit. Was that too smarmy? Should I tone it down? Keep the inappropriate comments to myself?”
Dev laughed. “No to all of the above. I appreciate the sentiment, trust me. It’s been a while since anyone’s expressed their approval.”
“Hmmmph. You’re obviously catwalk-ready.” Casey flicked his fingers in Randolph Scott’s direction as the cat continued walking. “We have it on the best authority. Perhaps you should invest in community vision testing for everyone in Home if they can’t see what’s right in front of them.”
“Find me the funds in the town budget, and I might take you up on that.” He held out his hand. “Let’s go.”
Casey’s breath caught somewhere south of his throat. Dick-touching was one thing. He’d found that sometimes it was incredibly impersonal, since both parties were chasing their own orgasm and may or may not care that their partner got there too. Kissing was more intimate because it required face-to-face interaction, even with eyes clenched shut.
But hand-holding, especially hand-holding in public, represented something else entirely. It was a declaration. A declaration that you were happy—no, proud—to be connected with this person and didn’t care who else knew it.
Casey laced his fingers with Dev’s. “Wherever you want, I’m there.”
Dev led Casey out the door, not bothering to lock it behind them, which Casey had learned was SOP in Home during the day. A dusty green CR-V with a dent in the rear passenger side door was parked in the drive. Dev opened the door for Casey, but then dropped his hand, uncertainty flickering over his face.
“I know this probably isn’t the kind of transportation you’re used to, but it’s all I’ve got.”
“Excuse me.” Casey clambered in and grabbed the handle, glaring up at Dev. “You’re correct in that it’s not what I’m used to, because I grew up in Manhattan. My standard transportation is subway or bus. I don’t have a car. Never even learned to drive one. And if you’re comparing this extremely practical vehicle to Bradley’s stupid Lexus, don’t. Just hop in, Harrison. I believe you promised me a date.”
Dev chuckled, saluting with three fingers. “Aye aye, captain.” He closed the door and trotted around to take his place behind the wheel. As they exited the drive in a crunch of gravel, they both waved to Pete, who was tooling along Main Street on his mower.
“Does Pete mow all the lawns in Home?”
