Page 2 of Center of Gravity

I bent and scooped him up in a football hold as I opened the door to greet the guys, trying for a polite expression. Winslow nipped my thumb and arched, springing from my grasp and landing on all fours before zooming for the front gate.

“Gate!” I yelled, taking off down the steps after him. I’d already gone running once that morning and had no desire to spend the rest of it chasing a dog—though it was tempting in that it presented an excuse to avoid eight hours in the company of the ill-advised bathroom hookup currently standing on the front lawn.

A comical dance-off ensued between the brunet guy and Winslow before Winslow feinted right and darted left around his legs. Cracker Jack, whose name still eluded me, had lightning reflexes, thank God, and reached out to snap the gate shut just as Winslow barreled into it. Winslow accepted his defeat by releasing another series of shrill barks before dropping his nose to the ground and sniffing Cracker Jack’s shoes.

My pulse thundered in my ears as Cracker Jack’s attention turned from Winslow to me. His eyes were a striking hazel, indecisive in coloring and flecked with green and gold, that raked me in a quick once over before coming back to linger as recognition dawned. He frowned and his lips twitched as if he might be about to say something. An amused brightness lit his eyes. And though his look did nothing to ease the tempo of my pulse, I attempted a neutral expression. One fair eyebrow arched up, and then his gaze darted to his coworker before dropping to Winslow’s archaeological dig at his feet.

I blew out a breath that didn’t feel as much like relief as I wanted it to.

“That a Jack Russell? My little sis would flip,” Cracker Jack said casually, as he tucked his clipboard under one arm and lowered to a crouch, reaching for Winslow before I could warn him off.

“Something like that. I think he’s the defective version.”

Instead of flipping out as I expected him to, Winslow nuzzled into Cracker Jack’s extended palm, then licked it. No doubt it was the draw of caramel there.

And then he nipped him.

“Ahh shit.” Cracker Jack yanked his hand back and gave it a shake. “I should’ve known better. We’ll try again later, buddy.”

“So,” he straightened. “Robert Macomb?” The corners of Cracker Jack’s eyes creased a little as he hesitated over the name written on his clipboard. Then he leveled that gaze on me, brows rising. And that was the other thing about that night in the club. The name I’d given him, the one that was on my Grindr profile, wasn’t my own. For reasons. None of which seemed very good right now.

Brunet smiled, then extended his hand. “Tom,” he said. He was laced with brawn and beefy, well-defined by muscle where Cracker Jack was more whipcord lean. I tried to concentrate on Tom even as my memory supplied the sensation of Cracker Jack’s body against mine, sending a dull warmth slithering up my spine.

“Interesting,” Cracker Jack murmured.

I released Tom’s hand and nodded, too distracted for something more eloquent. It had been months since I’d experienced even the vaguest twinge of real desire for another man. I thought, perhaps, that in addition to me, my ex had also given my libido the pink slip. Most of the hookups I’d had since my ex had felt more like masturbation than actual interest. But it seemed now that it had just been on an extended vacation, because this guy had everything in my body taking notice. And the timing couldn’t have been worse.

“I’m Alex,” Cracker Jack finally offered with a smirk that said,since you forgot.He consulted the clipboard and his eyes rose to mine again, still annoyingly bright. It was evident he was enjoying this. “So Mr. Macomb—”

“Rob,” I interrupted. Fifteen years behind a desk crunching numbers for corporate America had no doubt bled into my appearance, but I didn’t want to be a Mister to him. I didn’t want to be a Mister to anyone, but especially to a guy who’d once been on his knees before me with my cock in his mouth while I’d given a very explicit voice-over of exactly what he was doing and exactly how much I liked it.

“Rob,” Alex amended before continuing. He appeared to be the more socially astute of the two. Tom had slid out of the gate again and was opening up the back of the truck. “We’ve got you down for some packing, dumping, donation, and storage. That sound right?”

“Correct,” I said and trotted up the steps, gesturing him inside, eager to get on with the packing. Winslow followed close at Alex’s heels.

My parents’ house was a two-story coastal design set on pillars, with a wide front porch and large windows, stuffed to the brim with dark furniture and knickknacks. I’d always noticed a strange sense of disconnect coming here after they’d moved; the setting completely novel, but the furniture old and familiar. When I sprawled on the couch and looked at the ceiling, I couldn’t shake the expectation that I should see the cracked old popcorn of our Jersey semi-detached rather than airy, beachy-chic planking.

The summer before I started college, my father had gotten a new job as a history professor at Silverton, a small college outside of Savannah. Connected to the mainland by a wide spit of marshland and one highway, Nook Island, with its small population and retro vibe, was an ideal compromise of my parents’ desire to retire near the ocean in a place not subject to Northeastern winters. Summer had hated it, stayed long enough to finish her senior year, and fled to California before the ink had dried on her diploma.

“Where are you moving to?” Alex asked as we stood in the living room, taking in the heavy brocade of my mom’s couch, the austere wingbacks with their houndstooth pattern rubbed into indistinction in places. I followed his sightline around the room and was a little offended he assumed this was my place. There wasn’t anything wrong with my parents’ bric-a-brac, but it had the distinct flavor ofretirement ageand I was nowhere near that, yet.

“Nowhere. My parents are both dead and I’ve been tasked with packing up and disposing of their life. I live in Savannah.” I didn’t mean to sound so abrasive. It was part defensive reaction to his assumption that the house was mine, and part residual grief. I didn’t want to be doing what I was doing any more than Summer did, but I was nearby. Between my mom, my dad, and my ex, the last year had been one fragrant shitstorm after another, and at this point I wanted nothing more than to pack up the house, put it on the market, and be one step closer to leaving the whole pile of manure behind.

Alex’s expression was a quiet, sheepish apology, and I regretted that my response had composed his features that way. They were much nicer features when they weren’t drawn. The sensual mouth, strong jaw, high cheekbones. The kind of almost-jock look that I’d salivated over in high school and college, though my lot had usually been the eye-lined drama-club enthusiasts and angsty types. I think they were drawn to my steadiness. I was unremarkable and bland, even then, so they always remained center stage.

“It’s been months and months. It’s fine.” I waved a hand as if I could fan away my bitterness.

“This isn’t my dog either, for the record,” I said, aiming for a lighter tone. I’d harbored a brief hope that Winslow’s devotion was enough that he’d follow Dad into the grave, but it hadn’t happened yet and he’d had plenty of time over the past several months to consider it.

It wasn’t that I didn’t like dogs. Dogs were fine. But something had happened with my parents: the older they got, the smaller and more undeservedly vicious their dogs had become. We’d grown up with a gentle, affectionate golden retriever named Bonnie, who’d curled up on my floor and allowed Summer to dress her in costumes. And somehow their legacy was this patchwork thing of wild tufts of hair that liked to raise five kinds of hell.

“What’s his name?” Alex asked, dropping to a crouch again and extending his hand like a glutton for punishment.

“Winslow.”

Winslow pranced around Alex’s hand a few times before drawing closer to sniff it. Alex waited as Winslow huffed and snorted through his decision before nudging his small head into Alex’s hand. He could have palmed the whole dog, and I watched with fascination as he turned his knuckles over and stroked Winslow’s back until the dog arched and twisted into his caress. I’d done much the same in that bathroom stall.

“You have the magic touch,” I said, before I could think about what I was saying. God, this needed to end.