Page 4 of Tropical Vice (Private Encounters #18)

FOUR

AFTER THE HEAT

Blake opened his eyes to a fine lattice of wood above him, the ceiling faintly bowed, each seam darkened by years of heat and rain. The hush of morning held steady against the walls, pierced only by the soft clatter of movement in the kitchen.

When he sat up, the futon creaked beneath him. A light blanket slithered down his back. The air had cooled but carried a closeness from the night before, as though some part of it had not quite ended.

His shirt, neatly folded, lay across a stool, and his trousers hung from a bamboo hook by the shuttered window. He dressed without sound, each motion careful, and paused at the door before stepping into the narrow passage that led to the café.

The scent of herbs met him first, sharp and bright. Kit’s back was to him, sleeves rolled high, arms bare. He moved without hesitation, lifting a colander from the sink, shaking it once. He did not turn.

“Coffee’s on the counter.”

His voice was dry, level, not cold. Just finished.

Blake stepped forward, taking the mug without comment. The cup was full, unsweetened, almost scalding. The bitter steam bit at his throat. He murmured thanks, and Kit said nothing.

The café’s chairs were still stacked from the night before.

Blake lifted one and set it straight, then moved to the next.

His body remembered the space easily now.

Kit said nothing as he continued sorting the morning’s vegetables, his focus absolute.

He separated shallots from lemongrass, rinsed the sprigs, tapped the knife in short steady bursts.

The silence was functional, but too deliberate. Blake moved beside him, wordless, and began washing bowls.

At the end of the counter, their arms touched. Just once, a grazing contact that was almost too light to be real. Neither turned, but the air caught between them, suspended, alert. Kit’s hand stilled for a moment, then resumed its rhythm, fractionally slower.

Blake lingered there, shoulder angled close.

“Do you do this often?” he asked. He kept his voice low, uninflected.

Kit’s knife paused on the board. “Do what often?”

Blake looked down at the herbs, then back to Kit’s hands. “Have one-night stands with tourists.”

The words dropped like small stones. There was no echo, just the slow fade of sound. Kit’s spine stayed straight. He placed the knife aside, reached for a towel, and dried his hands with precision. When he spoke, it was quiet.

“If you think that’s what happened,” he said, “then you can go.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“You did.” Kit turned then, fully, his gaze sharp but not angry. “Or you wouldn’t have asked.”

Blake faltered. “I...” but the rest was gone.

He was suddenly aware of how little he understood. The room felt smaller. The rhythm of the kitchen had stopped, and with it the unspoken permission to stay.

Kit picked up a tray of spoons and moved them to the drawer. “You should eat something,” he said. “You look pale. I’ll make some breakfast when I’m done with inventory.”

Blake didn’t move. He suddenly remembered a comment from a client he had a few months back, about how her mother would shrug arguments off by offering food as an olive branch. His fingers hovered above the colander. “I didn’t mean it cruelly.”

Kit shut the drawer and leaned against the counter, arms folded. “You don’t know me. You think you do, because we had one night, but you don’t.”

There was no accusation in the words, only clarity.

Blake stood helpless in the middle of the room, surrounded by the gentle mess of morning, and felt every detail conspire against him.

He had never seen Kit angry. Even now, he wasn’t.

But it was as if the dust had settled around them, and neither knew if they liked what had been revealed.

The radio played faintly from the shelves behind them. Blake heard a woman’s voice crooning words in Thai he couldn’t understand. The sink dripped, and the smell of cut lime was too strong.

Blake left the kitchen before he could say something worse.

Outside, the café grounds were bathed in uneven light. The sun had already passed overhead, leaving the flagstones hot beneath his sandals.

He spent an hour sweeping puddles and rain-soaked leaves away from the main path before he heard the sound of footsteps.

By the dog enclosure, Kit knelt with a sack of dry feed.

Geng and Miso circled him eagerly, tails wagging, tongues lolling in the heat.

Chili lay sprawled in the shade, uninterested in anything but sleep.

Mango waited patiently under the cool shade of a tree beside Dusty, and Chokdee was nowhere to be found.

Blake crouched beside the low bench and reached for an empty bowl. “Let me take that one,” he said.

Kit did not respond, but he let him. Blake poured the food carefully, then adjusted the bowl so it wouldn’t tip against the gravel. Geng pressed a damp nose to his knee before retreating. Miso pawed the dust twice and dropped her chin to the rim.

The dogs gave him something to focus on. A pace. A ritual. He welcomed it.

“I said something stupid,” he began.

Kit was still kneeling. He wiped his hands on his shorts and stared at the patch of ground between them.

“Yeah.”

“I thought it might feel safer to push,” Blake said after a long pause. “That if I was the one to frame it that way, I’d be in control of what it meant.”

Kit stood, brushing dirt from his thighs. “Is that what you want it to mean?”

“No.”

Kit picked up the empty sack, shook it once, then folded it. “Then why say it?”

Blake rose slowly. “Because it scared me. That it wasn’t casual. That maybe it mattered.”

Kit looked at him now. Not guardedly, not even cautiously, just tired. “You don’t get to panic and throw it back at me when it stops being convenient for you.”

“I know.”

“I’ve done that before,” Kit added, quieter. “Years ago. Let someone in, then made them feel small for it. I won’t do it again.”

The silence stretched between them. Blake shifted his weight, then looked down at the dogs. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Kit nodded, though the gesture was slow, ambiguous. He turned toward the steps and called to the dogs. “Inside. Come on.”

Miso and Mango bounded ahead. Geng hesitated, then trotted after her. Dusty remained where he sat under the tree. Chili rose grudgingly and followed last, joints cracking. Kit watched them all pass through the door before stepping in himself.

Blake remained outside. The bowl in his hand was still warm. He stood a long time in the golden hush of dusk, the air thick with the coming rain, and wondered whether he would be let in again.