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Rory cut him off with a hard kiss. Ivan wasn’t sure what spurred him to move quicker—the shower, Rory’s energized prodding, or the water tank’s warning that they were almost out of hot water.
The Feisty Bull, a favorite among the ranching locals, was slamming on a Saturday night, but they only had to wait thirty minutes for a table. The restaurant didn’t look like much from the outside. It was a long, white clapboard building with a red roof in the middle of nowhere, but it served the best steaks and seafood Ivan had ever tasted. The interior was a tad outdated too, with gleaming wood as far as the eye could see only broken up by red leather chairs or booths and white tablecloths. A long bar was at one end of the building and a massive fireplace constructed from local stone was the focal point at the opposite end. They’d scored a table near the fireplace, which pleased Ivan since it would be quieter there. The locals gathered at the bar for loud discussions, ranging from sports to politics and everything in between. Someone there could recognize Rory, and that would put a damper on their first real date.
The Feisty Bull was considered casual dining, so they hadn’t needed to dress up. Ivan had still spent a ridiculous amount of time on his hair while Rory experimented with more of Hope’s skincare line for men. A candle flickered in a mason jar in the center of the table, casting a warm glow on their table. Rory’s skin looked luminescent, proving his effort was worth it. He looked around the restaurant with a smile on his face. “I like the atmosphere here.”
“This is one of my favorite places away from the ranch, and I wanted to share it with you.”
The building and decor were understated, but the service and food were exceptional. Ivan and Rory couldn’t decide what to eat. They were both torn between one of the seafood pastas or the pricey steaks, so they ordered both to split. Rory chose shrimp and scallops in a lemony garlic sauce over linguine, and Ivan went with a porterhouse steak, parmesan mashed potatoes, and broccolini. They started with a crusty loaf of French bread and a variety of butter spreads. There was one with maraschino cherries in it that Rory had been determined to hate but adored on first bite.
“I don’t like maraschino cherries,” he said after his second piece of bread with a quarter inch of cherry butter on it. “But I can’t get enough.”
“I bet it’s the other ingredient you’re drawn to,” Ivan said.
Rory narrowed his eyes. “Is your liquid gold in this butter?” The question came out louder and a tad more lurid than Ivan would’ve liked. “Your honey, I mean.”
Ivan bit back a laugh. “The Feisty Bull was my first contract.”
“Makes this place even better.” He took another bite of bread and did a little shimmy in his chair. Rory seemed to recall where he was and stiffened.
Ivan imagined those kinds of displays wouldn’t be welcome in the Snyder home, especially in public, where people judged their every word and move. That was no way to grow up. There were years when his family’s farm had performed so poorly that Ivan’s mama had to make their clothes or buy them from the Goodwill in a neighboring town. He still wouldn’t trade his parents or his humble beginnings. “Don’t stifle your joy. I love how you find it in the smallest things.”
“And the biggest,” Rory said.
Ivan was on to him, and his deflection wouldn’t work. “Like the butterfly that landed on your arm this morning in Honeyland.”
Rory, who claimed not to blush, did just that. “It’s hard to imagine something so pretty started out as a caterpillar.” He got a faraway look in his eyes before refocusing on Ivan. “Its wings felt like velvet and seemed so delicate, yet they hold up in the strongest winds.”
“Reminds me of you,” Ivan said. “You’re coming into your own, just like the butterfly, and you’re stronger and more resilient than you realize.”
Rory’s smile was the brightest thing in the dimly lit restaurant. “Today has been eye-opening.”
Ivan took a sip of water. They’d both passed on alcohol, though Rory had chosen sparkling water to Ivan’s still. “How so?”
“Well, first, Harry and Hope tricked me into taking a yoga class at the center.”
Ivan grimaced. “Did you have to wear one of her bawdy graphic tees?”
Rory laughed. “No. Hope said she’d sold out of them when Harry asked. How bad are they?”
Ivan rattled off the few he could remember, and Rory threw his head back and laughed. “She changes them up all the time. How did you like yoga?”
“I actually loved it,” he said with a sheepish grin. He repeated the conversation he’d had with Abigail about checking out and tuning in to his body and his breathing. “It was harder than I expected, but I felt like I had accomplished something when it was over, and I felt much calmer. Ivan?”
“Hmm?” He set his butter knife and the slice of bread he’d been buttering on his plate.
“I want to treat your inner thirteen-year-old Ivan to something he wishes he could’ve done.”
That’s how they ended up making out in a dark corner of a movie theater. They’d chosen an obscure foreign film with subtitles that few people would choose on a Saturday night. Stale popcorn, chocolate-covered peanuts, and two hand jobs later, Ivan’s inner teenager was happier than he’d ever been in his life. Thirty-one-year-old Ivan was feeling pretty damn good too.
Over the next month, he expected those feelings to fade. Ivan expected to wake up one morning and not be excited to find Rory sleeping on the pillow beside him. He expected they’d run out of confessions. That never happened, though, so Ivan braced himself for the day Rory woke up and announced he was ready to leave. But that never happened either.
Rory stopped bragging about how he could quit Ivan at a moment’s notice. Ivan stopped caring about where they were and who was around when the urge to kiss Rory hit him. Standing in line in the dining room to fill their plates at breakfast? No problem. He tapped Rory on the shoulder and planted one on him. At the skating rink while living out more of teenage Ivan’s fantasies by holding hands during the slow skate? Bam! Right on the mouth. Ivan couldn’t say what song had been playing, but he’d remember the look of pure happiness in Rory’s eyes for as long as he lived.
“Soooooo,” Harry said to Rory as soon as she turned out of the ranch’s drive onto the main road. “How was the drive-in last night?” She punched the gas, rocketing the little car toward Last Chance Creek or sudden death.
Rory had ridden with her enough that he should’ve been used to it, but he still gripped the armrest like it was the first time. “Why don’t they put oh-shit handles in zippy little cars like this?”
Harry’s responding laugh was worthy of a Disney villainess. “Quit deflecting and give me the deets on your date with Ivan.”
