Page 29

TWENTY-NINE

Jethro

Walking around Clay’s living room feels like walking around an alternative history of my life. His home is clean and bright. It’s inviting and comfortable, which shouldn’t surprise me. He always had great taste.

There’s only one thing that puzzles me about this place. Why is he here alone?

“Hey, have you eaten?” he asks after we head back to the kitchen.

I shake my head. “Nah. I walked into the Great Cupcake Crisis and never got a chance.”

He opens the refrigerator and takes out a container. “I’ve got some chili, and I’m starving. Want a bowl?”

I hesitate, but only for a second. “You know I do.”

“Cool,” he says briskly. “Grab some spoons, would you?” He takes two wide bowls from a cabinet, fills them with chili, and puts them in the microwave. “I’d offer you a beer, but you said you don’t drink anymore?”

“Uh, no. No thank you.”

“Okay.” He gives me a sideways glance, and I can see him straining against the impulse to ask why not.

“It was a decision I made after my sister went to prison,” I explain. “Too much substance abuse in my family. I live with my father, who’s in recovery, and not drinking makes things easier on him. And also…” I swallow. “I always told myself I could give it up, and I wanted to be sure it was true.”

He gives me a thoughtful nod. “That’s a power move, Jetty.”

“You can have a beer, though,” I add quickly. “I won’t even notice.”

“I’m good,” he says, removing the bowls from the microwave.

We set up our meal on the kitchen island, and I take a seat on a barstool.

“Hang on,” he says, opening the fridge again. “We need sour cream.”

I lean over the bowl and sniff. Then I let out a little groan. “Smells so good. How do you do that?”

“You’re just hungry.” He plops a blob of sour cream on my chili. “Here.”

It’s not just hunger. His cooking is so good that I regularly burned my mouth when I lived with him. I was that eager. I carefully test the temperature with a small taste, and then dig in. My first bite is sublime. It’s meaty and rich, with just the right amount of spice and smoke. I let out a moan of happiness.

He gives me another sideways glance before picking up his own spoon.

As we eat, I can’t help but flash back to our old life together, sitting at that shitty kitchen table. To distract myself, I glance around the room, taking in all the upgraded equipment. There’s the mixer, a fancy espresso machine, and some kind of complicated-looking blender. Very civilized.

“Who are you cooking for these days?” I ask.

His spoon halts on the way to his mouth, and his blue eyes flash toward me.

I realize a beat too late how awkward I just made things. “Never mind,” I say quickly. “Christ, I didn’t think that through. I retract the question.”

“Nah.” He gives his head a shake. “It’s just… I don’t cook for anyone, except a couple weekends a year when I’m hanging out with my sister. So, yeah, it’s kind of…” He sighs. “Humiliating? Depressing? Take your pick.”

Whoa . “So you don’t date?”

“No,” he says quietly.

I’m full of follow-up questions, but I’m also aware that it’s none of my business. So I take another bite.

He sighs. “I’m never dating women, Jethro. I’m not built like that. And I decided a long time ago that I can’t date men, either. So it’s just…hookups on summer vacation, always out of town.”

I take that in, not trusting myself to comment. And unwittingly, I picture Clay in a Hawaiian shirt at a resort somewhere, flirting with the bartender. Slipping him his hotel key.

And then the bartender thinking to himself— Fuck me, I just won the lottery .

“Yeah, I realize it’s weird,” he says into my silence. “And I’ll never know if it had to be this way, or if I complicated my life unnecessarily. I try not to think about it too hard.”

I swallow a bite of chili and try to decide what I’m allowed to say about that.

“Whatever you’re thinking, I’m sure my sister has already said it,” he says. “It’s lonely. It’s stupid. It’s unhealthy. I’ve heard it all before.”

“That’s not what I’m thinking.”

He snorts. “Sure.”

“No, really.” Like I’m one to judge? “I mean… yeah, it sounds lonely. But you’re not the only lonely man in hockey. What I was thinking, though, is that we’re both kind of stuck in the same spots we were fifteen years ago. You’re still the people-pleaser who puts everyone else’s needs first. And I’m still the grumpy loner.”

He gives me a startled look.

I say, “I was also thinking that me being perpetually single isn’t very surprising. But I never expected that for you.”

He blinks. “Why are you perpetually single?”

“I date women. In theory. But women seem to like the idea of me more than they actually like dating me.” It’s the sort of naked honesty that I can only provide after a very long day, while eating a bowl of the world’s best chili. “After putting up with the long hours and the traveling, they expect their patience to be rewarded with a lot of fun times. They want a guy who’s the life of the party. The kind who goes out of his way to impress their friends. But all I want is a hot meal and a movie on the sofa.” And sex. But I keep that part to myself.

“Sounds like you haven’t met the right one, then.” He pauses between bites. “Charm is nice, but there are more important qualities.” He studies me again with those familiar blue eyes, and I fight off a shiver. “You’re kind of an acquired taste.”

I bark out a laugh.

“No!” he holds up a hand for patience. “I mean that sincerely. A woman would have to really know you for a while to appreciate all that quiet strength and loyalty. That stuff is harder to see, but it matters more than a fun night in a bar. Whoever she was, she didn’t stick around long enough to watch how hard you work. Or see you step up for your nephew and forgive your dad.”

I’m still holding my spoon, but I forget to put it in my mouth.

“But maybe that’s okay,” he continues, “because you wouldn’t have been happy with style over substance anyway.”

Our gazes hold, and my heart does some kind of tumbling trick that I’ve never felt before.

Jesus . Even when I was a twenty-two year old fuckup, Clay saw me more clearly than anyone else in my life. That’s a rare thing in this world. And I didn’t even realize what I had.

The oven timer dings.

Clay reacts immediately, getting up to cross the kitchen. He takes our last dozen cupcakes out of the oven and sets them on the counter into the silence between us.

“Thank you for doing this tonight,” I say quietly.

His cool eyes flip up to mine. “You’re welcome. I’m sure you’re exhausted, but these have to cool a few minutes before we can get them out of the pan.”

I swallow the last bite of my chili. “Let’s eat a cupcake. For quality control.”

“ Quality control .” He smirks. “But then there won’t be three dozen. And I promised.”

“Toby won’t count them. And besides, we deserve this.” I lean over the kitchen island toward the steaming pan. I grab one of the cupcakes by my fingertips, but it’s hot. “Ouch. Dammit.”

He snorts. “You could have taken one from an earlier batch.”

“I don’t like to follow rules. Now get over here, we’re splitting this.”

Clay takes a knife out of the drawer and circles to hand it to me. I make a clean cut across the cupcake’s center, and steam rises from the molten chocolatey crumb, which is shot through with a swirl of cream cheese and chocolate chips. The scent of warm chocolate is intoxicating.

I set the knife down and reach for one of the halves. But Clay—fast as lightning—grabs my hand. “It’s too hot. You’re going to burn your mouth.”

“So?” I say, even though all my attention is now focused on how he’s holding my hand. I always liked his hands. And the way he used them to try to pin me down on the mattress…

“You were warned,” he says, releasing me. “If you want a singed tongue, go right ahead.”

My body temperature jumps as our gazes lock, which is probably why I say, “You seem pretty concerned about my tongue.”

His blue eyes instantly heat, and I’m not the only one on the struggle bus, here.

He drops his gaze, breaks off a little piece of my half, and shoves it in his mouth.

“ Dude .” My voice is gravel. “Help yourself.”

He gives me a hot smile. “Quality control is so important. You’d better taste it.”

Then I do, only not the way he means. I grab the front of his shirt and brush his mouth with mine. Immediately, I’m swamped with memories. The scrape of his stubble against my lips and the scent of his woodsy shampoo.

He goes absolutely still, but it doesn’t even slow me down. I tilt my head and kiss him softly. Somehow, it’s a full-body experience. My skin prickles with awareness, and my pulse kicks in my throat.

Clay Powers is the only man I’ve ever kissed. Until this moment I never asked myself why, but I think I’ve always known the answer. I find plenty of men attractive, but none of them are him . What would even be the point?

Whatever my reasons, I still crave this. And now Clay craves it, too. His mouth softens against mine, and his lips part. He tastes like chocolate and my misspent youth.

Clay groans, snaking one hand around my waist. His other hand slides up my arm, clamping my biceps before skimming up into my hair.

I step in closer, still kissing him as my body flashes with heat. Our chests bump, and my heart beats a steady rhythm of more, more, more .

God . Our tongues tangle, and my body’s a jet on the runway, engines humming and ready for takeoff. The only sounds are the glug of my heart and his fevered gasp as I inadvertently bump my thickening cock against his.

More, more, more . I let my hands wander down his back and onto his firm ass. The next kiss becomes a dirty grind. I run my hands under his shirt, in search of skin. I want to get him out of these clothes. We’re going to end up on his couch, maybe.

Or not. Because suddenly it’s over.

Clay wrenches himself away, and the warmth from his body is replaced with cool air. My eyes flip open to see him step back. He puts both hands on the stone countertop and drops his head.

“Fuck,” he says, between rapid breaths. “No. I can’t, Jethro. We can’t. Hell. It’s just…a terrible idea.”

My body feels otherwise.

“Sorry,” I mumble, not knowing what else to say. And, yeah, I didn’t mean to go there, but for a minute he liked the idea. A lot.

I pick up my half of the cupcake and shove it into my mouth. The taste of warm chocolate explodes against my tongue.

I have no idea what just happened here, or what to do about it. But right now, I’d trade the best cupcake in America for another taste of Clay.