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I waved a hand. “No, sorry, I didn’t mean . . . never mind.”
Mike took a step toward me, and for some reason I may never understand, my pulse quickened.
“So, uh, I’m not really good at this sort of thing.”
Mike cocked his head. “What sort of thing is this? Talking to your neighbor? Playing with dogs? Handling balls?”
I turned away and coughed into my elbow. Then coughed again. Then struggled with a fit of coughs.
“Hey, you okay?” Mike’s hand found its way to my back. His fingers were bony and thin, but the circles of warmth they traced were larger than life.
“Would you want to have dinner with me . . . sometime . . . like go out or something?” tumbled out of my mouth before I could order the words.
Mike’s hand didn’t stop circling as he gazed up, a smile parting his lips.
“Let me cook for you?”
I blinked down. Apparently, I did that a lot.
“Uh, sure.”
“Friday night? My place? Seven o’clock?”
Well, damn. The scared little bunny was all sure of himself.
“Sounds good.”
Mike’s hand vanished, and my back suddenly felt very empty, abandoned.
Homer, annoyed that the two humans were still ignoring him, latched onto my leg, ball still clutched in his teeth, and began humping like his life depended on making a dog-leg baby.
Mike’s face burst into horror. “Oh, God. I’m sorry.” He reached down and untangled his horny beast, clutching him to his chest.
“I’ll leave you to take care of . . . whatever that is.” I chuckled. “See you Friday.”
Chapter six
Mike
Therewassomethingundeniablysexy about Home Depot—not in a “Wow, look at these screws” kind of way, but in the subconscious thirst trap way.
Lumber. Power tools. The faint scent of sawdust.
Hot, burly men wandering the aisles looking all rugged and competent.
I mean, how was this place not a gay bar?
Except for the lesbians and their tool belts. They were an odd twist to my hardware store fantasy vibe. Like if Miranda Priestly fromDevil Wears Pradawore Birkenstocks. That would seriously mess with some gay boys’ minds.
Unfortunately, I wasn’t there for hot, burly men. I was there because my kitchen cabinet pulls were ugly as sin, and if I had to look at them for another day, I might actually commit a minor act of vandalism against my own home.
I sighed, running my fingers along a row of sleek, modern pulls, trying to look like a man who knew what the hell he was doing.
I did not. I was purely guessing.
Born with the gay decorating gene, I was not, as Yoda might say. I was also not gifted the do-it-yourself gene. Come to think of it, I must’ve skipped the gene lottery. I was basically a walking, talking, reading machine who lacked most other skills requiring coordination or the ability to throw a ball.
Oh, well. Skilled or not, pulls wouldn’t, well, pull themselves, so I returned to fingering knobs.