Page 29

Burt Grayson, parked in a recliner in the den watching the afternoon game, looks closer to the age you expected—he and Margo must be pushing sixty—but a handsome guy.

He’s tall and burly, with a close crop of silver hair and a neatly-trimmed beard and mustache.

Sterling, you notice, has his exact eyes. He shakes your hand with vigor.

“Good to meet you!” he booms. “Beautiful sack this morning. That little shit Prescott wasn’t expecting that!”

“Babe, we agreed that we weren’t going to ambush him with shop talk right off the bat,” Margo cuts in, but Burt is on a roll.

“Just for the record, Pat McAfee is a clueless hack,” he says.

You are pretty sure his voice is loud enough to hear from the street.

“I told the guys I play golf with that he was wrong about Covelli. I knew he was going to bounce back from that shoulder strain. The kid’s a machine! How is that shoulder treating him?”

“Better every day,” you answer. “He’s been getting some cortisone shots that are doing wonders. I know he’s listening closely to the PT as well.”

“All good, all good!” he says. “I have to say, young man… I’m a Minutemen fan through and through, but they’re letting me down this season. Think there’s room up there on that Cyclones bandwagon?”

“We’d be happy to have you, sir,” you say.

“You wanna grab a seat and watch Detroit beat the brakes off the Grizzlies?” He gestures at the couch. “I’ve got cold beer in the mini-fridge. I’m dying to hear your thoughts on this Williams kid.”

Margo rolls her eyes. “You can jaw off about football later. I haven’t had two seconds with the boy myself, and you are hogging him.”

“And the cookies…” Sterling pipes up.

“The cookies must not be ignored,” you say, despite the fact that the game is tied in the first and is probably going to be a barnstormer. Behind you guys, Cal moves through the house with your bags, and out a back door. Hmm. Strange. “You got another apron?”

Noemi is ready to just give you hers before she abandons the ship, but Margo insists that she has one bigger.

You are a little afraid of what she’ll pull out, and it turns out your suspicions are correct.

The apron she triumphantly hands you is a voluminous thing with a gigantic cartoon turkey on it and, in Comic Sans: Thanksgiving calories don’t count! !!

The large kitchen island is groaning under the weight of enough baked goods to feed an army, all in various stages of preparation: no fewer than four fruit pies are cooling on one end, along with racks of spritz cookies, raspberry crumble bars, and macarons filled with fluffy white icing.

A large bowl of what smells like gingersnap dough is sitting beneath a stand mixer.

“That really is a lot of cookies,” you comment, overwhelmed.

“We’ve been going since six this morning!” Ster enthuses with a manic glint in his eye. “We did all the chopping of veggies and savory prep first, so that we could do all the baking after.”

“Y’all expecting a big crowd for dinner?” you ask, confused.

“No,” Margo laughs. “Just us five.”

Noemi leans over the banister from where she was obviously beating an escape upstairs. “If you let them, they’re gonna make cookies until midnight!” Her voice trails in volume as she ascends. “It’s not too late to leave.”

You are impressed by how outgoing and comfortable she seems in the company of her family.

“Not until midnight ,” Sterling scoffs. “We’re basically almost done. We just have the chai cookies…”

“And the whoopee pies…” Margo adds, looking as if she’s ticking off a list in her head.

“Yup. Oh, and the oatmeal chocolate chip!” Sterling concludes. “They’re Kai’s favorite. ”

In all honesty, all the cookies sound amazing, but you are charmed that Sterling remembers what he was baking the day you guys met. It’s a struggle to keep the dopey smile off your face.

“Like she said,” Burt calls from the other room, “you’re going to be baking ‘til midnight.”

“Well,” you say, tying on the atrocious apron, “I guess we’d better get moving, then. How can I help?”

***

You don’t bake until midnight, but it does take until 10 PM.

By the time you help Margo finish doing dishes and packing away the delivery pizza you guys ate standing up at eight-thirty, you are so sick of the sweet smell of cookies that you are pretty sure you won’t be able to eat a single one the next day.

It’s sunk into your clothing and the stubble of your hair.

But Sterling is as happy as you have ever seen him.

Ten Tupperware containers of delicate cookies are layered in parchment, and he keeps gazing at them with a pride that you would have assumed he reserved for his Grammy Award statues.

He comes up behind you when you are elbow-deep in the sink and wraps his arms around you, sinking his nose into your back.

“Kai and I are going to head out back,” Sterling tells Margo, dropping a kiss on the crown of her head. “We’ll see you in the morning. ”

“You boys sleep well,” she says.

You are confused when Sterling leads you out the back door.

The backyard is huge and neatly landscaped, with a covered pool and several raised flower beds.

Solar lights and pavers make a lit path to the good-sized cedar pool house with French doors and a gray shingled roof. Warm light spills from the inside.

“This is where I stay,” he tells you, taking you by the hand.

“Where’s Cal sleep?” you ask. Come to think of it, you haven’t seen him skulking around for several hours.

“I flew him out to Colorado to spend the weekend with some loved ones of his. He insisted on getting me settled and bringing you in, but I convinced him that I’d be okay at home. It’s not like I have any big plans to go paint the town red this weekend.”

“Ahh,” you say, nodding. He can’t really see it, as he’s unlocking the door to the pool house.

Inside, it’s small, but very cozy. There’s just a tiny, neat living room and a bedroom, with a narrow bathroom.

The inside is the same reddish cedar as the outer walls.

In the living room, there’s a tall bookshelf crowned with a platinum album award for Sterling Grayson , his debut.

A teal guitar is propped in the corner. Your carry-on bag is on the couch, and your suitcase is rolled against the wall.

A pocket door is open to reveal the bedroom.

There’s a wide wooden bed with a sage coverlet and an overstuffed chaise longue.

The curtains on the high windows are thick and covered in a riot of florals that evoke a forest floor, all deep green and plum.

“There’s one bed,” you say cautiously.

“Mmm-hmm,” Sterling agrees. He’s pulling all the blinds and curtains closed, and shouldering off his heathered t-shirt. “God, I smell like a cupcake.”

“Am I sleeping in the house?”

Sterling shirtless goes to your head a little, just like it always does.

You keep expecting that the sight of his bare skin is not going to turn you into a puddle of goo this time, but it keeps happening anyway.

The light is warm-hued in the pool house, and the planes of his dancerly muscles are limned golden.

There’s an explosion of powdered sugar on the hip of his jeans.

“Oh. Yeah, no,” he says. His eyes meet yours, and he dimples shyly. “I thought you’d, you know. Sleep with me.”

“You sure?” Skeptically, you hitch a thumb in the direction of the house. “Are there no extra bedrooms? Because I can sleep on a couch. Maybe not the couch in here, because it’s kinda fun-sized, but I saw in the den… ”

“Kaius.” He says your name simply but directly.

“Yeah?”

He puts his arms around your neck. He does smell like a cupcake, but you probably do, too. His skin is smooth and leaching a lot of heat. Even in his shoes, he has to push himself up to mouth at your neck.

“There’s a guest bedroom,” he says, into your skin.

“Two if you count the apartment in the basement where Cal was staying, but my mom probably hasn’t changed the sheets just yet.

” His nose is chilled from the outside as he rubs it maddeningly under your chin.

“It’s not a matter of extra space. I want you here. With me.”

Without thinking, your hands find his waist. “Uhh… oh. Yeah. I like that a lot.”

You aren’t sure if you are still talking about sleeping arrangements, or his mouth in the space behind your ear. Sterling laughs like you said something funny. In reality, you probably sounded funny, his ministrations making you squeak like a schoolboy.

“I’m so glad,” Sterling says, sotto voce. “I’m so glad you are here, Kai. Thank you for spending the holiday with me.”

It’s a sweet sentiment, but the fact that he’s unbuttoning your fly and insinuating his palm down your pants, against where you are already painfully hard for him, is making you incapable of coherent thoughts.

“Argh…” you manage, when his fingers close around your length.

That makes him laugh again, husky and deep. You have the sneaking suspicion that Sterling enjoys rendering you speechless. You make another sound, this one a strangled moan, but Ster swallows it with his mouth and tongue, sealing them over yours.

The pump of his wrist is brisk enough to keep you hot as boiling oil, but too lazy to build a tempo that might escalate the situation.

“Come on,” he says finally, breaking the seal of your kiss and leading you by the waistband toward the pocket door. “Let’s go to bed.”

***

You’re an early riser as a general rule, and Friday is no exception.

When you open your eyes and check your phone, it’s only 7 AM.

Sterling is curled into your side like a cat, his long curls mussed and his breathing even and slow.

His eyes crinkle when they are closed. It’s really fucking adorable.

You consider spooning him and trying to catch a little more shut-eye, but your bladder is complaining.

So you ease out of the bed as carefully as possible, pull on your underwear, and pad to the bathroom.

Once you’ve answered the call of nature, you find that you are irrevocably awake.

Cuddling Sterling would probably just wake him up, and while you love the idea of slow, sleepy morning sex, you know that he badly deserves a little extra sleep.

There’s nothing to do in the little pool house, and you are fiending for coffee, so you brush your teeth, pull on some clothes, and head over to the main house.

Luckily, the back door is unlocked. You let yourself in quietly, making sure that you don’t track any grass inside.

Burt is sitting at the island with his back to you. There’s a steaming mug in his hand, and the morning news is playing on a small TV set in the corner of the kitchen counters. He’s munching on some toast spread with peanut butter.

“Morning,” you say.

“Hey there, young man.” Burt doesn’t unglue his eyes from the screen. “Coffee’s maybe ten minutes old. I normally make decaf, but I knew Ster would shit a brick. Should be plenty for the both of you. Cups are in that cabinet just above. Creamer’s in the fridge, sugar’s over here.”

You nod your thanks, and set about making your coffee, then you sit down next to Burt. A few sips and the caffeine stretches warm tentacles into your bloodstream, making you more alert by the moment. You look around. The rest of the house is silent.

“Margo and Noemi still asleep?” you ask.

He rolls his eyes. “Crazy women went out to catch a few Black Friday deals. I think Marg’s after a new air fryer.

Don’t ask me what the hell air frying is, but apparently it’s something we need.

” That makes him shake his head. “And Noemi just likes to shop. They said they were making two stops and would be back for breakfast, but I wouldn’t bank on it. Sterling still conked out?”

“Mmm-hmm.” You will yourself not to blush. You are a whole-ass adult, and yet it still discomfits you for a parent to know you shared his son’s bed last night.

“Bet he’s worn out,” Burt comments neutrally into his mug.

“Excuse me?” Your eyebrows damn-near hit your hairline.

“From all the cooking, I mean. You…” That makes him look over at you and bark out a belly laugh loud enough to shake the ceiling beams. “Ha! You dog. I see what I did there. ‘Bout gave you a heart attack, didn’t I?”

Now you know you are beet red. “Yes, sir. ”

“No need for all that,” he admonishes you. “I didn’t mean to razz you. But Ster hasn’t brought anyone home since he was a teenager. You think we don’t know what that means?”

You look down at your own coffee, made blonde by sweet coconut creamer. The mug isn’t puny by any means, but your hand is almost as tall. “I try not to make any assumptions, Mister Grayson. I’m just happy to meet y’all and for Sterling to have me over for the weekend.”

Burt purses his lip. Shakes his head again. “No. I don’t think so. I’m his dad, and, as far as I can tell, Sterling is pretty crazy about you. Like I said, he doesn’t just bring boys home to meet his family all willy-nilly. He doesn’t say much, of course…”

“Of course,” you echo.

“...But I can read the silence, can’t I? Sterling wears his heart on his sleeve. And he’s gone on you. Heart-eyes like Bugs Bunny and all that. You know Bugs Bunny, son?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then you know what I mean.” He slurps his coffee and nods in the direction of his toast. There are crumbs from one end of the island to the other, and you are already low-key looking around for a dustpan to sweep them up so that Margo doesn’t come home to a mess.

“I suppose this is the point where I do my fatherly duty and tell you that you’d better not break my boy’s heart.

He might be world-famous and richer than Midas, but that doesn’t mean he’s not still a kid in my eyes. You two be good to each other, Kaius.”

You are still shell-shocked from the full weight of everything Burt has said. It’s crashing over you like tidal waves, threatening to knock you on your ass. You are a good five seconds late in assuring Mister Grayson that, yes, you will be good.

Just then, the front door bursts open, admitting Margo, Noemi, and a flurry of shopping bags. None of them look they’re holding an air-fryer.

“Happy Makeup Thanksgiving, Kai!” Margo cries, setting her bounty down on the foyer floor. “Do you like Cinnabon? We brought home caramel pecan rolls. Can you help me bring in the rest of the stuff from the car?”

“What do you mean, the rest ?” Burt groans.

When you get up, you spy Sterling through the sliding back doors. He’s making his way toward the house. Your eyes meet, and his face breaks into a huge smile.

You follow Margo out the door to the white SUV—turns out its hers—and there’s a giddy feeling in your chest. Must be gratitude.