Grimacing, I rinsed off and stood there under the spray for a few more minutes, delaying the inevitable. This would be the most uncomfortable conversation I’d ever had. Fucking brutal. But at the very least, maybe it would deter me from ever giving in to those feelings again.
I got out of the shower, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, and brushed my teeth. In the mirror, I noticed my eyes were bloodshot, and the circles beneath them were dark. I put some drops in them, but told myself I deserved to look like shit after what I’d done. Then I took a few deep breaths, pushed my shoulders back, and opened my bedroom door.
The guest room door was open too, but I didn’t hear anything downstairs. Slowly, I made my way down the steps and into the kitchen, bracing myself to find him there.
But he wasn’t. And I saw no evidence that he’d been there at all—no coffee made, no dishes in the sink, no smell of breakfast lingering. Confused, I checked the back hall and noticed his shoes weren’t there. What the fuck? Had he just left? How? He didn’t have a car or any means to get a cab. Had Ellen picked him up? From the corner of my eye, I caught movement in the yard. I pushed open the back door and went outside in my bare feet.
He had lined up my potted plants on the driveway and was standing over them with the hose.
“Morning,” I said, walking over to him.
“Morning.” He glanced at me but returned his focus to the plants a second later. His expression was unreadable.
I shoved my hands in my pockets. “Sleep okay?”
“Great. You?”
Shrugging, I made some noncommittal answer, something between a grunt and a murmur.
“I think I finally beat the jet lag. I woke up around eight and had all this energy, so I came out here to finish up what I didn’t get to yesterday.”
I surveyed the yard and realized how much he’d done—the beds had been weeded and watered, the roses had been deadheaded and cut back, the patio had been swept. “Wow. Thanks.”
“I enjoyed it.”
I studied him again, my insides tightening. He wore my jeans again, and one of my shirts. He hadn’t shaved since he’d been here, and his stubble was growing in slightly darker than the hair on his head. No gray in sight, of course. And under that shirt I knew his skin was perfectly smooth. Abs perfectly taut. He was so young—and I was old enough to know better. Here I’d lectured him about actions and consequences, and it had been me who’d gotten carried away by my feelings. Who hadn’t thought before he acted. Who sincerely regretted what he’d done, even if it had led to the best orgasm of my life.
Don’t think about that. Do what you came out here to do and move on.
“Maxim, I owe you an apology.”
“No, you don’t.” He didn’t look at me.
“Yeah, I do. I don’t know what the fuck I was thinking.”
No reaction.
“I’ve never done anything like that before in my life.” It wasn’t even a lie. But the next part was. “It must have been the whiskey.”
Finally, he met my eyes. Studied my face. “Okay.”
“Because I’m straight. I’m not into guys at all. I just—lost control for a minute there.” I concentrated on not blinking, not looking away, not surrendering anything. The defensive walls were up and they were going to stay up.
He nodded slowly.
“But it didn’t mean anything. And it won’t happen again.” I said it firmly and meant it.
He focused on the plants again, his face impassive.
Jesus, Maxim. Could you please be a little less Russian right now and let me know what you’re thinking? Are you mad? Insulted? Fine with this? Do you even give a fuck?
“So let’s forget it happened. That work for you?” I asked, crossing my arms over my chest.
He moved to the next plant. “Of course.”
“Good.”
An awkward pause.
“So…you about done out here? Have you eaten yet? Thought maybe I could make us some lunch and then we can look online for some options for apartments.” The more normal I could make this, the better. I’d thought about asking him to leave, or even paying for him to stay at a hotel, but decided that would be worse. That would be acknowledging outwardly that he had affected me, and I couldn’t do that. The only way to pass the test I’d failed last night was to try again.
“That would be great, thanks.”
“Okay. I’ll get something going and give you a shout when it’s ready.”
“Sounds good.”
I walked back into the house, feeling his eyes on me the entire time. Once I was inside, the door closed behind me, I exhaled and tried to feel relieved. That had gone well, hadn’t it? So why did I still feel so uneasy? It wasn’t like his reaction had been upsetting. On the contrary, he’d barely seemed to care. Why was that?
I found myself getting unreasonably grumpy about it as I made sandwiches for lunch. Had our interlude in the kitchen not affected him at all? How could he be so cool about it? Had he not enjoyed it as much as I had?
Why didn’t he appear to want me anymore? He’d certainly been all over me last night.
Christ Almighty, have you gone insane? Are you even listening to yourself? He reacted exactly how you wanted him to! How you needed him to! You can’t have him living here for two more weeks, coming on to you all the time. You’ll lose your mind! This is the best possible outcome from your stupid mistake.
Don’t fuck with it.
Sixteen
MAXIM
It wasn’t the damn whiskey.
He was lying. About some of it, at least. I could hear it in the tone of his voice, defensive and insistent, and see it in his face—a carefully controlled mask.
But why?
As I finished watering the flowers, I went over his remarks again in my head. I owe you an apology. I don’t know what the fuck I was thinking. I’ve never done anything like that before. It must have been the whiskey. I’m not into guys at all. It didn’t mean anything. Forget it happened.
Even though I’d been prepared for it, I didn’t like it.
I didn’t want his apology—I wanted his body, his attention, his permission to feel this way. I wanted to be invited in. Just…more of him. I wanted more of him.
And it was fucking terrible and greedy and selfish of me to want more than he was willing to give. He was being so generous, and I certainly didn’t feel like I deserved any of it, but I couldn’t help feeling that way. I didn’t even really understand it. I’d never been the guy who wanted more. Give me no-strings sex without the complications of more any day of the week.
But this felt different. He was special to me. I wanted to be special to him.
The more I thought about his words, the more bothered I became. Maybe it was true that he’d never done anything like that before, but he hadn’t done it because he was drunk. If he hadn’t said yes when I asked permission, if he hadn’t been so hard in my hand, if he hadn’t come so hard and so fast and so long in my mouth it nearly choked me, then maybe I’d believe it was the whiskey.