Page 24 of The Nook for Brooks (Mulligan’s Mill #6)

CODY

I turned up at the Nook with basket in hand.

To be honest I was expecting a lot more kickback from Brooks about the picnic.

I thought for sure he’d have changed his mind or would come up with a hundred excuses why picnicking should be considered an extreme sport.

But he was surprisingly accepting of his fate.

He locked the door behind us, smoothed his bow tie, and eyed the sky in case the weather might provide a valid excuse to pass.

It didn’t.

The sun was shining and patchy clouds provided occasional shade. The day was, in fact, perfect.

“It’s not going to rain,” I said. “Nothing’s going to spoil this.”

“That’s a shame.”

I laughed. “Stop acting like you don’t wanna do this. I know deep down—under that perfectly pressed shirt and immaculate bow tie—you’re just busting to try one of my cucumber sandwiches.”

He softened a little. “They’re actually my favorite. How did you know?”

“Look at you… cool, crisp, and keeping all the good stuff on the inside. You’re practically a cucumber in human form.”

He couldn’t help but laugh at that.

I grinned and took his hand. “Come on. I’ve already found the perfect spot.”

We cut along the footpath by the bridge, and I led him to a level patch under a tree, where the river rounded the park and the reeds swayed in the breeze.

I shook out the blankets and Brooks lowered himself like he was getting into a canoe.

“See?” I said, dropping beside him. “Not a single ant.”

“I’ll reserve judgment,” he said, but the corner of his mouth tipped into the tiniest smile.

I pulled out my phone and tapped the speaker. Art Garfunkel’s “ Bright Eyes ” drifted into the air—soft, clear, a little heartbreaking. The gentle sound of the river acted as a background chorus.

“Isn’t this from Watership Down ?” Brooks identified almost immediately.

“Uh-huh. I think I love the movie almost as much as I love the book.”

“You do know this story was written simply to make us all cry our eyes out. I still go a little tharn when I see a set of headlights coming toward me.”

“I can totally see that happening,” I said, teasing him.

I stretched out on the blanket. “But it’s so much more than a sad story about a bunch of cute rabbits.

It’s about leaving safety behind when you don’t really want to, because the ground under you isn’t safe anymore.

It’s about finding a place where you can breathe, even if you don’t know what it looks like until you stumble onto it.

When I read it as a boy, I thought it was a kids’ adventure story.

But when I came back to it later, I realized it was about your found family.

About the people—well, rabbits—who make it possible to keep going.

Not the heroes at the front of the pack, but the quiet ones, the stubborn ones, the ones who refuse to leave anyone behind.

That’s what makes it different from every other book I’ve ever read.

It teaches you the world can be brutal, but it doesn’t mean you stop hoping.

And it doesn’t mean you stop building something worth fighting for.

Even if you’re small, even if the world outside underestimates you, you still get to decide what kind of life you’ll have. You can always be true.”

I glanced at Brooks who was staring at me, a slight crinkle in his brow.

It made me chuckle. “What? Have I got grass in my hair already?”

He shook his head. “No. It’s nothing.”

“Then why are you looking at me like that?”

He paused. “Because… because you’re like nobody I’ve ever met before.”

I propped myself up on my elbows. “Neither are you.”

He leaned in a little.

I raised myself higher, closer, and kissed him—slow and tender.

His lips softened under mine.

The moment might have lasted, but my stomach had other ideas, growling loud enough to make us both laugh.

“Shall we eat?” I asked, chuckling my way out of the kiss. “I think maybe we should eat.”

Brooks nodded with a grin. “I think we should definitely eat.”

I lifted the basket lid. “Breadsticks. Camembert. Prosciutto. Sliced pears, grapes, and gloriously briny cornichons… all as promised. Not to mention walnuts, a selection of dried figs and apricots, and Brooks Beresford’s favorite cucumber sandwiches.

And because I’m not a monster, a packet of wipes so you don’t perish from sticky fingers. ”

“Progress,” he said, accepting a plate. “If you start listing items alphabetically, I may faint.”

“One step at a time, handsome.”

We ate.

He critiqued the pears for being overripe and then ate three.

I pretended not to see him refold a napkin that was already folded.

Between bites, I decided I deserved another shot at the game we’d played at Aunt Bea’s. “Right-o. Round two of Guess Brooks’s Favorite Book.”

“Must we?”

“It’s our picnic. We must.” I crunched down on a walnut. “First guess… Great Expectations .”

He gave me that patient look people give to enthusiastic dogs.

“Hear me out,” I said quickly. “You love a story where order fights chaos. A kid who starts off small and overlooked, then gets reshaped by ambition, etiquette, society rules. Plus, you respect a title that promises something and delivers it in spades. Admit it, you’ve got a little Miss Havisham in you. ”

“Reasonable argument,” he said. “Yet incorrect.”

“Not even in your top five?”

Silence, which was worse than a “no.”

“Fine. Second guess… The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo. ”

That made him tilt his head.

“Think about it. It’s unexpectedly perfect for you.

Evelyn spends her whole life building this image—flawless, untouchable, larger than life—but behind it all she’s protecting a love the world isn’t ready to see.

Tell me that doesn’t ring a few bells. You with your bow ties and your tower and your routines?

That’s your Hollywood gown. Everyone thinks they know you, but only a very few ever get past the costume.

That’s why you’d love her. Not because she’s scandal and sequins, but because she’s the definition of conviction.

She knows who she is and who she loves, even if the rest of the world doesn’t deserve the truth. ”

“Flattering,” he said. “But unfortunately, also wrong.”

“Damn it.” I considered him carefully over a cucumber sandwich. “Third guess… American Pscyho. ”

He actually laughed, soft and surprised. “I beg your pardon?”

“I’m serious. You’d never admit it, but it’s got you written all over it.

The obsessive lists, the endless cataloging of shirts and suits and ties—tell me that doesn’t sound like you reorganizing the Biography section on a slow Tuesday.

Bateman hides a monster under all that polish, but you?

You’ve got your own sexual deviant lurking in the shadows somewhere.

I know! I’ve met him… in the best possible ways. Don’t even try to deny it.”

Brooks eyed me in open disbelief. “Are you suggesting that my favorite book is a novel about a homicidal maniac? Have you seen the little turret I live in? I couldn’t swing a cat in there, let alone an axe.”

“So, am I right?”

“No! Absolutely not!”

I flopped back on the blanket. “You’re impossible.”

“And that’s news to you?”

“Come on. Give me a hint.”

“No.”

“An era?”

“No.”

“Genre?”

He simply shook his head, positively gleeful in denial.

We ate a little more, then at some point we lay back, shoulder to shoulder, looking up through the canopy of leaves above us.

The river continued endlessly on its quiet journey.

He folded one hand over his stomach and let the other relax against the edge of the blanket, fingers brushing against mine.

“You know I’m not here forever,” I said. “I mean—obviously. That’s the job.”

“I’m aware.”

“But I…” I paused a moment, unsure where I was going in this unrehearsed moment. “I like this.”

He was silent long enough for me to regret saying it. Then he said, “So do I.”

I turned my head. “I could come back, you know.”

“That implies leaving,” he said.

“It does,” I admitted. “But it also implies returning.”

He considered that, no doubt the same way he considered what to do with a category of books that had run out of shelf space. “We’ll see,” he said, which in Brooks was almost reckless optimism. He looked at his watch. “I have to get back. Customers will be waiting.”

And so we packed up our picnic—me tossing things into the basket any which way, him refolding the blanket with military precision.

When we were done, he brushed an invisible crease from his shirt. “Thank you. For… all of this.”

I grinned. “Don’t thank me yet. I’ve still got half a dozen wrong guesses about your favorite book locked and loaded.”

That earned me the smallest smile, but it was real. “I think I’d like you to stay with me tonight. In my little tower. Is that a notion you’d… entertain?”

I grinned. “I would love to entertain that notion.”

He held out his hand and I took it.

We started back toward the bridge, side by side, steps syncing without us trying.

That night, Brooks’s tower glowed.

I followed him up the spiral staircase, his fingers entwined with mine.

When I stepped into his small apartment, I stopped short.

Candles glowed on the shelves, their light turning the book spines into little bars of gold.

A decanter of wine and two glasses waited on the table, and a scatter of cushions softened the room.

It was romantic in a way I hadn’t expected from him—careful, yes, but warmer, looser, as if he’d set order aside just enough to let me in.

He took my jacket, hung it neatly, then fussed with his bow tie like he wasn’t sure what to do with his hands. “I don’t usually… entertain,” he said, almost apologetic.

“You could’ve fooled me,” I said, stepping closer. “This looks like you hired the set designer from a romance movie.”

That got the smallest laugh. It stopped when I leaned in and kissed him.

Slow. Patient. Certain.

There was no storm outside, no rattling bath plug, no chaos this time. Just candles, quiet, and the steady beat of his heart under my palm.

He fussed with his bow tie again, and I leaned in, tugged it loose with my teeth, and he made a sound I’d never heard from him before—half laugh, half gasp.

“Improper,” he whispered.

“Exactly,” I murmured, the bow tie dangling from my teeth.

That’s when we undressed each other—different than before.

Not frantic, but curious. Every button undone, every slip of fabric revealed something new.

He folded his clothes into a tidy pile on the chair.

I stripped fast and tossed mine in the corner.

He frowned at that, then surprised me by letting them stay where they landed.

“Progress,” I teased.

“Don’t push your luck.”

I laughed and pulled him onto the bed, kissing him until words disappeared. He clutched at me with surprising strength, his legs wrapping around my hips, his mouth greedy now, no hesitation.

I slid my hand between us and wrapped it around his cock. He gasped, hips jerking up, and a moment later his hand was on my dick too, stroking slow and deliberate, like he wanted to memorize every reaction.

“You drive me crazy,” I muttered against his neck.

“And you love it,” he said, breathless.

I exhaled against his skin. “Yes… I do.”

I kissed my way down his chest, his stomach, and took his shaft into my mouth. His sharp inhale filled the room. His fingers tightened in my hair, and he breathed my name like it was the only word he had left.

I worked his cock with my mouth, slow at first, teasing the head with my tongue, dragging it over the slit until he was shuddering. Then I went deeper, bobbing my head, hollowing my cheeks, taking more of him each time. His hips jerked helplessly, hand pulling at my hair.

“Cody—fuck,” he gasped, voice breaking. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

I gripped the base of his shaft, stroking what I couldn’t swallow while I sucked him hard and fast. He was writhing now, sheets twisting under him, chest rising and falling like he couldn’t get enough air.

“You’re gonna make me come,” he panted, desperate. “I’m gonna—fuck—”

And then he erupted. His cock jerked in my mouth, and he spilled with a guttural moan, hot cum shooting straight down my throat in thick, salty spurts.

I swallowed as fast as I could, but he kept coming, pulse after pulse, so much I couldn’t take it all.

Cum overflowed, dripping down my chin, running over my hand and onto his stomach.

I kept sucking, milking him until he was a wrecked mess, gasping my name and tugging me back up.

When I lifted my head, his cum-slick cock slid from my lips and twitched against his stomach, glistening with spit and seed I hadn’t swallowed.

He grabbed my face and dragged me up his body. He kissed me like a man possessed, licking his own cum from my lips, moaning into my mouth like he couldn’t get enough of the taste.

He pulled me down on top of him, his cock still wet and pulsing against my stomach, smearing cum across my skin. I rubbed myself against him, my dick sliding against his.

The friction was hot, filthy, perfect. Our cocks pressed and ground together as he wrapped his legs tight around me.

“Jesus, Brooks,” I groaned, thrusting against him, our chests sticking with sweat and cum.

“More,” he gasped, rough and raw. “Don’t you dare stop.”

I spat in my hand and shoved it between us, fisting both our cocks together, squeezing tight, stroking fast. Our shafts slid side by side in my grip, heads leaking, every stroke spreading his cum over both of us.

He stared straight into my eyes, flushed and wrecked. “Look at me while you come.”

I did. And it nearly destroyed me.

He was beautiful like this—no bow tie, no distance, no restraint. Just wild, sweaty, needy. His cock throbbed in my fist, and then he broke, spurting again, hot cum striping our stomachs.

The sight, the sound of his moan, tipped me over. I slammed my hips forward, jerking hard into my own fist until I came too, shooting thick across his stomach, his chest, even up to his throat. Cum everywhere, dripping down both of us.

We collapsed in a sticky, tangled heap. His cum smeared across me, mine across him, our cocks still twitching between us, soaked and messy. We kissed again, mouths open, licking the taste of sweat and seed from each other until neither of us could breathe.

When I finally rolled to the side, he slapped his hand across my chest like he was anchoring himself there. The candles flickered low, the room smelling of wax and sex and… us.

“Wow,” he panted. “That was like a scene straight out of a Jane Austen novel. Just with more cum.”

We both burst out laughing, rolling against each other, losing our breath all over again.