Derek
I CHANNEL surf idly through what looks like a bunch of mediocre TV shows as the clock ticks slowly—so slowly—closer to eleven. Truthfully, there are probably some good shows in there that would normally interest me, but right now nothing can hold my attention. All I want is to talk to Trav again.
It’s been a long time since I’ve felt this way, this adolescent giddiness and desperate longing for contact with my crush—in fact, I don’t think I’ve reacted like this to a guy since college. All my relationships since then—not that there have been so many—have been much more adult and reasonable and… boring. No, that’s not true. Well, not entirely. But while they had attraction and lust and mutual liking and respect, they were all lacking that incendiary spark, that feeling that I must see/speak to/be with him as often as possible. To be honest, I always thought it was just that I’d grown up, that the volcano of feelings and hormones I experienced in my teens—and right now with Trav—was just a teenage thing, and that adult relationships were less emotional and volatile.
Turns out, I was just dating the wrong people. Now I’m thirty-seven years old and I feel like a teenager again. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about Trav all day. Even when I was focused on work, he was always at the back of my mind, ready to step forward and consume my thoughts if I gave him the chance.
And I love it.
I love feeling this strongly. I love that every time he pops into my head, I grin. I love that Dimi and Gina have already started chuckling at me when I get that stupid, besotted grin on my face.
Okay, that last bit probably confuses you. It started when Trav texted me the details for our date tomorrow. Dimi, Gina, and I were having a lunch meeting—which basically means eating sandwiches in my office while we review whatever it is that needs it—when my phone went off with the tone I assigned for Trav’s texts. Yes, I assigned him a special tone. That’s what you do when you’re being all adolescent. Most importantly, it means that no matter what I’m doing or who I’m talking to, I know the text is from him. So I stopped talking pretty much midsentence, put down my sandwich, and pulled out my phone.
And of course, I was already grinning like an idiot before I even opened the text.
Lunch tomorrow, 1.00pm, the Gator Gate Café. Want me to come and pick you up?
Before I could type a reply, another message popped up.
Oh, you should know there’s going to be gossip about us. When I booked, I told them I was eating with you but they were NOT to apply your discount.
My grin got wider, which in retrospect I’m surprised was possible. I texted back quickly.
There’s already gossip about us. Lots of it. You’ve just fueled the fire. Pick me up, I want to feel pampered ;-)
I looked up from my phone. Dimi and Gina are staring at me with mouths agape. “What?” I asked.
Gina pointed accusingly at my phone. “Who is it? Who’s the person who makes you look like a drooling idiot?”
Seriously, she said that. She called me a drooling idiot. I admit I spent a second rethinking my plan to promote her.
“It’s Trav, isn’t it?” Dimi interrupted. “The rumors are true?”
“What have you heard?” I knew people were talking about us, what with our date last night and the coffee break this morning, but I wasn’t sure how far it went. My phone buzzed in my hand with a new message, and I couldn’t resist looking down at it.
Really? People are already gossiping about us? We haven’t even been dating 24 hours!
“There it is again!” Gina exclaimed. I raised my head in time to see her turn to Dimi appealingly. “You see it, right? He looks like he belongs in a lunatic asylum!”
Ahhh, the love my subordinates feel for me. Heartwarming, isn’t it?
“I think it’s sweet,” Dimi defended me, but his lips were twitching. “So, is it Trav? Because I haven’t gotten in on the betting pool yet, but if it’s true I’m going to.”
That’s right, folks. The loving and supportive Joy Universe family is betting on my love life.
“What’s the pool?” I asked, partly because I was actually curious and partly because it would make a great story to tell Trav. And then I texted him.
We closed down a restaurant last night, had coffee this morning, I lent you a car, you booked another date. That’s enough for them to have us married with three kids and a condo at the beach. They’ve even set up a betting pool.
“Bets are on whether you and Trav are dating or just friendly. Then there’s a bet that you knew each other in New York, and the reason he was hostile on Monday was because of your bad breakup. There’s also a side bet on whether one of you cheated, and who it was. And then there’s a ton of bets about what happens next. So… you’re dating Trav, then?”
“Someone bet that I cheated on my hypothetical ex-boyfriend? Charming.” I made up my mind as my phone buzzed again. I didn’t mind some gossip, but this sounded like it was getting out of control. “Hold on.”
OMG! They’re BETTING on us? Suddenly a lot of things make sense. I think the pool has already spread to the performers at the village, because people here are being super weird.
I cast my mind over the events of the morning. Some of the people I’d spoken to had acted a little oddly. I did think it was because they’d heard the gossip about me dating Trav, but I was a bit creeped out they might think I cheated on my boyfriend… who never existed.
Same. Listen, I’ve gotta go, but I’ll talk to you tonight. If anyone asks if I cheated on you before I moved here, ignore them.
I set my phone aside just as a return text appeared.
???????!!!!!!!
It made me grin, but I ignored it for the time being and looked squarely at Dimi and Gina. “I don’t care if you guys want to bet, but I don’t like that it’s casting aspersions on my and Trav’s characters. So here’s the deal: I will give you some information to take back to everyone and close down some of those bets, and then you can bet however you like on anything relating to the future. How’s that sound?”
“Like a plan,” Dimi affirmed. “Spill.”
Gina leaned forward, her phone in her hand. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she started taking notes or live-texting everything I said.
“Trav and I met for the first time on Monday. I reminded him of someone he dislikes, and that’s why he was terse at first.” Nobody needed to know more than that. “We had a date last night, and we have another tomorrow. This morning we had coffee when he brought back my garage opener—which I gave him so he could borrow my car, Dimi. So far things are going well, but obviously it’s very early days. And that’s it.” I made my tone firm because I know what the gossip mill is like at JU, and if I gave them an opening, they’d ask all kinds of personal questions.
In fact, Gina looked like she had a list of them ready to go, but after a glance at my face, she closed her mouth and just nodded.
“Thanks, boss,” Dimi said jauntily. “Don’t worry, we’ll spread the word.”
Huh. Fancy that. I was supposed to be pleased that people were spreading gossip about me.
My phone chimed with Trav’s tone, and I glanced at it, the smile already forming in what was quickly becoming a Pavlovian reaction.
Can’t wait to talk to you later.
Dimi and Gina started to laugh.
“What?” I looked up.
Gina’s chuckles were too strong for her to answer, so Dimi did. “Every time you look at a text from him, you get that besotted expression. We can tell who’s texting you just from your face.”
I was torn between mild embarrassment and not caring because I felt so good. “Did you really just use ‘besotted’ in a sentence?” I heckled, but Dimi just grinned.
The alarm on my phone brings me back to the present. Yes, I set an alarm to alert me when eleven o’clock rolled around—just in case I wasn’t staring at the clock. Lucky, huh, since I was off in a daydream.
I snatch up my phone and silence the really annoying alarm. It’s time to call Trav.
That stupid grin spreads across my face.
AS I drive to work, singing along to the radio as usual, I’m barely able to contain my enthusiasm for this gorgeous Monday morning.
Exactly a week ago I had no idea what the universe (the regular one, not JU—although everything did happen at JU, so….) had in store for me. I had no idea that I’d spend my morning dealing with a murder and a staffing crisis, and that I’d meet a man who, just seven short days later, is already a pivotal part of my life.
Trav.
I always smiled tolerantly at those people who told me that when you meet “the one,” you just know. I’m still not convinced it’s true for everyone. And to be honest, I don’t think that just meeting “the one” is enough—sometimes it won’t work out even if they are “the one,” because life can be a real bitch. But after only a week with Trav in my life, I just know that he’s meant to be there, and that I’ll work damn hard to keep it that way.
Our second date was just as great as our first—in fact, I lost track of time and ended up being late for a meeting. Lucky for me Dimi is as amazing as he is and had the foresight—once he learned about our date from the gossip mill—to reschedule the meeting for half an hour later than originally planned, so I was only fifteen minutes late, not forty-five.
I really have to do something about finding another job for Dimi. He’s ready for more than just an assistant’s role, even if being assistant to a JU AD is a demanding and prestigious job.
Since that second date, I’ve seen Trav three times. We sneak in quick meals and coffee breaks, and of course we text pretty much all day long and talk on the phone at least once a day. Total adolescence, right?
This week has been a pretty good indicator of what a relationship between us would be like, though. I work (mostly) regular business hours. True, I rarely finish at five, but even if I did, Trav and I would only have a few snatched minutes together before he had to head off to work. His evenings are taken up, and he works on weekends too—which actually isn’t a problem for me, since I often find myself at Planet Joy or one of the resorts over the weekend.
The thing is, though, that even with such limited time available to us, we’ve managed to see and talk to each other more in five days than my previous boyfriend and I did in three weeks—and we were both working the same hours. What it comes down to is motivation, and when it comes to Trav, I have it in spades. He seems to feel the same. Even when I asked about the no-leading-roles thing and he fobbed me off with “let’s not talk about that now,” I got the impression that he’d tell me one day.
My head’s not in the sand. I know he leaves at the end of July. But we’ve only known each other a week—I think we can take some time to explore things before we start fretting about the future.
And tonight the exploration continues. It’s Trav’s day off, which means tonight he’s all mine, all night long. We have plans—you know the kind.
That’s right, we haven’t had sex yet. We could have, I guess—he could have come out to my place after work one night, or yesterday morning, when neither of us had any commitments, but honestly, that didn’t feel right. Most days he has two performances, and by the time he finishes for the night, he’s tired—and so am I, since I’m up by six every morning and put in a pretty full day myself. It seemed wrong that our first time together was going to be a halfhearted effort when we were both worn out. As for Sunday morning, we went to breakfast and then to Planet Joy. I know, that’s pretty much just what I do most days, but Trav said he hadn’t actually been to the park as a guest since he was a kid. He intended to while he’s here but hadn’t got round to it yet. So we went for a few hours before he had to do the matinee, and it was fun. Usually when I’m at the park, I’m all focused on work, or on assessing the guest experience, but I wanted Trav to have a good time so I closed my eyes to all the stuff I’d usually be paying attention to, and we just enjoyed ourselves.
It was especially cool—although if you tell anyone I said that, I’ll strangle you—when some of the impromptu performers recognized us both and went off-script to take us prisoner. The guests watching loved it so much that I think I’ll talk to Mandy and Pete about planting some of our performers as “guests” to be taken prisoner for all future shows.
In case you’re wondering if my district’s catastrophes from last week are all resolved, they mostly are. All performers were free from symptoms by Thursday, but at my insistence, they all had to come in and see medical to be cleared before they could return to work. Most started back over the weekend, and the last of them should be reporting for duty this morning. I also spoke with Maya yesterday, after Trav went to work. She ended up breaking down in tears, because she really wanted—in her words—to “get out of this damn house and get back to being useful,” but she didn’t want to ever have to go into a guest room again, and since she’s a housekeeper, she figured that would mean she’d have to quit.
Um, hell no.
I interrupted Link’s Sunday, and between the three of us, we found a back-of-house job that would suit her. She’s now going to be managing inventory, which was actually a huge relief for Link because the woman currently doing that job is going on maternity leave for six months at the end of the month, and the guy who was training to take the job decided he’d really rather move to the coast. That gives us six months to find something more permanent for Maya. I also told her that if she wanted to move to one of the other resorts, she had only to say the word, but for now she wants to stay at Tiki with all her friends. She comes back to work this morning too, and while I’ll be keeping an eye on things with her, she seems like a really strong woman, and I don’t think I need to worry.
As far as how the murder investigation is going… well, the police have officially charged Kylie Rutherford with the murder of her husband. A bail hearing has been postponed pending psychiatric assessment due to the way she behaved after the murder. The cops finished all their crime scene investigating late last week and advised us that the bungalow was no longer a restricted area. I’m still not letting anyone stay there yet, if ever. Link and I agreed that only senior staff are to have access to it, and we got a specialist cleaning team out from Jacksonville on Friday to scrub the place from top to bottom. This week I’m (reluctantly) allowing guests to use the bungalows on either side, although I insist that the guests be advised before they check in that their bungalow is next door to a murder scene and offered alternate accommodation if they prefer. I need to decide soon if I’m going to bulldoze it.
So things are pretty much back on track. This week should be normal—the monthly status meeting is this morning, and that’s going to be a bit of a trial, since last week hit the budget hard, but we’re enough into the black that we can handle it. Then I also have to meet with Toby and Elise from evarketing about next year’s plan for the park. They seem to have been hard at work for the last week, so fingers crossed they’ll have something exciting to show me.
And I need to sneak out and meet up with Trav as often as possible. Because I can.
I SETTLE into one of the comfy chairs around the conference table in the boardroom and reach for my coffee. These meetings are pretty dull. Anything that comes up that is out of the ordinary usually calls for a special meeting, so all we do at the monthly status meeting is review the budget and anything that might need to be tweaked in the operating plan—which most of us are aware of before the meeting. Not Ken, though, since he never reads any of the information we send him. Today should be no exception.
Grant sits beside me and leans over with a smirk on his face. “I’ve been hearing all sorts of interesting things about you,” he murmurs.
The stupid grin spreads across my face. I can’t help it; every time I even think about Trav, it blindsides me.
“What kind of things?” I stall for time. It’s not that I don’t want to talk to Grant about Trav, but first I need to make sure he’s not just trying to get fodder for the betting pool. And before you can judge him based on that—that’s what I’d do.
I mean, he’s not to know that things between me and Trav are more than casual. Why shouldn’t he think it’s all lighthearted and fun, and a great way to make some extra cash?
“Things like you have a hot dancer keeping you company.”
Yeah. That’s true.
“And that every time someone talks about him, you look like a drooling moron.”
“Hey!” Damn it, someone needs to gag Gina. Across the room where the assistants are talking—likely exchanging gossip—Dimi looks up and casts me a guilty glance.
Maybe not Gina, then.
“How much are you paying Dimi to feed you information?” I ask tartly, and Grant laughs.
“Please, like Dimi would tell me anything that wasn’t already public knowledge. I offered him a hundred bucks to tell me when your next date is, and he refused.”
Possibly because he doesn’t know. Trav and I have already moved beyond the initial stage of dating formally, and now we’re just spending all our free time together.
Fast, right?
“So this guy is something special?” Grant presses, and damn it, the grin is back. I’ve really gotta work on that.
“Yeah.”
Ken strolls in then, five minutes late as usual. He takes his seat at the head of the conference table as the assistants scurry to take their seats at the other end. Yeah, that’s right, Ken won’t let our assistants sit with us, even though that’s obviously where they’d be of most use. Just another douchey thing he does.
The meeting is as boring as I expected—until Ken turns to me and says, “Report on the events of last week, Derek.”
Lucky for me, I was prepared for him to ask, and luckier still, I’ve been thinking about this shit so much that I could talk about it in my sleep. I run down exactly what happened, what actions we took, how much it cost, and what the situation is at the moment. He’s actually got all of this information—remember, I was supposed to report to him until it was all resolved? I have been, of course, or rather Dimi’s been preparing the reports and I’ve been signing off on them. But I told you he never reads them.
It’s probably a good thing to let the other ADs know how I handled the situation, though, in the event that it comes up again and they find themselves in the same position. It’s always better to reuse a tried-and-true process than forge a new one by the seat of your pants. God knows I would have loved to be able to use someone else’s expertise when it all went down. I actually see Margo and Grant taking notes, which I appreciate.
“And what effect has this had on profit?” Ken asks sternly, as if I’ve done something wrong.
I grimace, making sure I look downcast even though I want to smirk. It’s not good news, but it kind of is. “I met with accounting late last week, and we are definitely going to take a substantial hit. The forecast we did in December indicated a 5 percent increase on profit for April over this time last year. We had, of course, hoped to substantially beat that, and all indications year to date were pointing in that direction, but accounting thinks, and I agree, that the month will likely only show a 2-3 percent increase in profit over last year.” I keep my face absolutely neutral as my words fall into the silence. That’s right, people; that’s how it’s done in my district. Casting a glance down the table, I see that Dimi is also resolutely straight-faced, while the other assistants look like someone just smacked them.
Grant clears his throat beside me. “Can I clarify, please… you had two major crises within a few hours, which led to a large amount of unplanned additional expenditure, blowing out your weekly budget by”—he glances at the notepad in front of him—“nearly 15 percent, but the result is that you’re not only still posting a profit, but an increase on last year’s profit?” He says it as though it’s the most normal thing in the world, as if I haven’t just pulled off the feat of the fucking century, but when I look at him there’s laughter in his eyes and a twitch at the corner of his mouth.
This is why Grant and I get along so well. It would look really dickish for me to make a big deal about this, so he’s going to rub it in everyone’s faces for me.
“That’s right,” I say simply, restraining myself from jumping up on the table and doing a victory dance. However, I can’t help adding, “It’s not an ideal result, but it’s better than some of the alternatives.” I keep my smile under wraps. Not an ideal result, my ass. I know for a fact that at least one of the other districts will be barely posting a profit this month, much less an improvement on last year’s, and things have been all smooth sailing for them.
“It’s an outstanding result,” Ken says, and I turn my head so fast that my neck cracks and I swear I give myself whiplash. If everyone was surprised before, there’s no word to describe the level of stunned they are now. Ken doesn’t give compliments. Not ever. If he says “good job,” it’s the equivalent of any other boss getting down on their knees and worshipping you. My “not ideal, but better than alternatives” comment was taken from something he said in a past meeting where the situation was a hell of a lot better than what happened last week.
I literally do not know what to think. Is he drunk? Or maybe he’s having a stroke? That causes unusual behavior, right? Should I do one of those FAST tests?
I suddenly realize he’s looking at me expectantly. Right, I haven’t said anything. I should say something. Humble and appreciative, Derek. You can do it. Then maybe ask medical to check on him.
“Thank you, Ken. The team worked hard to make it happen. This is a real credit to them.” I mentally pat myself on the back. Perfect.
“And to you,” he says, and really, is he a doppelganger? Did aliens land over the weekend and do something to him? “As you know, one of our primary focuses here at Joy Universe is the guest experience. We spend a lot of money on things that bring no direct revenue”—he’s right about that, the nightly fireworks display being a great example—“purely because they add to the overall guest experience. Derek’s expenditure last week was so large it frankly would have sent some of the other districts well into the red for the month, but PR sent me the customer satisfaction index, and in Derek’s district, it dropped only one point. That is so unexpected as to be shocking.”
While I’m sitting there with my mouth hanging open—although the small inner part of me that’s still able to function is doing a jig, because I was scared to look at the CSI this morning, just in case all my effort was for nothing—he picks up his tablet and taps the screen.
“One of the guests who checked out of Tiki over the weekend left this comment on their feedback survey: ‘My sister called and told me there had been a murder in my hotel. I didn’t know. The staff obviously did a brilliant job of making sure it didn’t affect us. Good job, Tiki Island Resort and Joy Universe—we came here to get away from the real world, and you made sure that happened.’” He taps the screen again while I make a mental note to find that survey and ensure it gets to Link and his team. “PR also got an email from a woman who visited Planet Joy last Monday. ‘We were disappointed when we found out the Joy versus the Asteroid Monster show had been canceled for the morning. Our day had been planned very carefully, and that ruined it. Linnie at Information helped us rearrange our schedule so we still did everything we wanted to. It was also really nice to get free refreshments as an apology without even having to make a complaint—it shows that Planet Joy actually does care whether we have a good time, and not just that we paid for our tickets.’”
I actually know who Linnie is—Don has her earmarked for a managerial position as soon as she gets a bit more experience under her belt. It’s great to have our confidence in her reinforced.
I’m pretty sure I need to say something again, but I’m kind of at a loss. Ken’s never done this—not just the compliment, but passing on positive feedback. Normally if customer feedback is shared in this meeting, it’s of the “how do we keep this person from suing” type.
“I’ll pass that on,” I say finally. “The staff worked really hard to keep things operating smoothly, and they’ll be thrilled to know how successful they were.” There. That sounded reasonably intelligent.
“I spoke with corporate this morning,” Ken went on, because he’s still not done. What the hell is going on? “They’re very pleased that things have turned out so well. Of course, it’s not good that JU has been linked to a murder, but I suppose you can’t be blamed for that.”
And he’s back. That’s right, Ken, I can’t be blamed for the murder. Around the table, there’s a slight shift, a sense of relief and relaxation. I don’t think I was the only one completely thrown by Ken’s weird personality shift.
“They also said”—oh, he’s not done. Really? When will this end?—“that they’d like a full analysis report submitted to them. They’re keen to see how your process can be applied to future crises across the business.”
I wait for a few seconds, but he finally seems to be finished. “Not a problem,” I tell him. It isn’t, since Dimi and I have been diligently documenting and reporting on everything for the past week—which Ken would know if he ever read the reports we send him. By the way, when he says “corporate,” he means Malcolm Joy and Seth Holder, the nephews of our late founder, Edwin Joy, and Joy Inc.’s CEO and CFO, respectively. Ken reports directly to Malcolm, although I’m pretty sure if Seth ever gave him an order, he wouldn’t say no. “I’ll have it on your desk by the end of the day.” It will mean rearranging some things and working through lunch—since there’s no way in hell I’m going to work late tonight—but since we have the bones of the analysis and all the information ready, it’s doable.
Ken nods curtly, and then gets up and strides out in his usual meeting dismissal. His assistant scurries after him, and the rest of us sit there for a moment trying to pull ourselves back together.
“Well,” Margo says finally. “That was the weirdest status meeting I’ve ever been to.” Since she’s been attending these meetings for about eight years, that’s really saying something. “Was he high, do you think?”
Grant, who was sipping from his water bottle, chokes while the rest of us laugh. I pound him on the back.
It’s a good day.
I MAKE it home about half an hour before Trav is due to come over. That’s a little later than I planned, but still gives me plenty of time to get dinner started. I thought about going out somewhere, but yesterday while we were having brunch, Trav said the food was almost as good as homemade, and then it came out that he misses home cooking. I’d never thought about it, but I guess the performers at the village do get the rough end of the stick in that regard—they have to live for months out of a hotel room with no kitchen. Sure, they get discounted meals at all the excellent JU restaurants and eateries, but eating out can become tiresome after a while.
So tonight I have plain, at-home food on the menu. Trav doesn’t eat heavy food except as the occasional treat, since he has to be in good shape for his job. Really good shape. Like, his abs are amazing. I tried to think of a meal that isn’t boring, but also isn’t complicated and fattening, and boy, it was hard. In the end I settled on lemon-pepper steak, roasted Mediterranean vegetables with brown rice, and salad. For dessert we’re having fresh fruit with Greek yogurt and honey. Simple and healthy, but pretty damn yum—well, I think so, anyway.
I hadn’t realized until now, but I’m actually nervous. How dumb is that? I just want everything to be perfect tonight. I want Trav to be delighted by the meal, even if it is nothing special. I want our first time together to be all moonlight and roses and that other romantic crap you see in Hollywood movies, many of which are made by Joy Inc. And I want this to be the beginning of something important.
Wow. That’s a bit intense. Sorry. I forget sometimes that people aren’t interested in hearing my innermost thoughts and feelings.
Anyway, I get started on dinner. The veg needs the longest to cook, while the steak doesn’t need to go on until Trav arrives. I open a bottle of wine too. Trav doesn’t drink a lot, but he mentioned the other night that he’s particularly partial to several reds. Maybe I went out and bought one of his favorites. It’s a special night, after all.
By the time the doorbell rings, I’m back in control of myself and my runaway emotions and fears. I’ll bet you’re glad—I know I am. I open the door, and that stupid smile pops out. I can’t help it—Trav looks edible. Normally when I see him, he’s in sweats and a T-shirt—after all, he spends a lot of time either rehearsing or in costume. Otherwise, his “uniform” seems to be jeans and—you guessed it—a T-shirt. Tonight, though, he must have dug into the bottom of his suitcase, because he’s wearing chinos and a collared shirt, open at the neck and with the sleeves rolled up. It’s a mint-green color that really flatters his eyes. I wonder if that’s why he chose it. Probably, right? I mean, that’s why I chose the shirt I’m wearing.
I hope he notices that the cornflower-blue cotton makes my eyes look awesome.
“Hey.” I lean forward and kiss him, partly because I’ve really missed him over the past thirtyish hours and partly just because his lips are right there, looking all soft and pink and inviting.
“Hi,” he says when we finally pull back from the kiss. I had intended for it to be just a light hello peck, but you know what they say about good intentions and the road to hell. Trav’s face is slightly flushed now, just the way I like it. I smile at him—thankfully not that stupid goofball smile—and step back, gesturing for him to come in.
I close the door and turn around. He’s studying my house avidly—well, what he can see of it. He hasn’t been here yet, and I have to admit I feel a little thrill about getting to show it off. That’s why I spent most of yesterday afternoon cleaning. Not that it was dirty to begin with—I have a weekly cleaning lady—but I’d let it get a bit untidy since I didn’t spend much time at home last week.
There’s a gift bag hanging from one of his hands.
“What’s that?” I point. He blushes.
“Nothing, really. Just… my mom always made a big deal about not going to someone’s place for dinner empty-handed.” He hands me the bag while I fight back the urge to say “awwww.” He looks vaguely embarrassed and a little flustered as I take it and peer inside.
There’s a bottle of wine and a small box of gourmet chocolates, and I smile and start to thank him—but my eye is caught by something else. It’s mostly under the chocolates, but it looks like…. I reach into the bag and push the chocolates aside as Trav groans and mutters something. Excitement coils low in my abdomen, and my dick goes partly hard.
Because it’s a brand-new tube of lube.
It’s not that it’s a surprise, exactly. We both knew what the plans were for tonight—hell, I checked that I had supplies before I left for work this morning. But him buying lube and giving it to me as a gift feels like a declaration. It makes me feel special, like I’m worth the effort he went to.
Here I go again, talking about feelings. Sigh, right?
I look up. Trav’s biting his lip. It’s too much to resist, and I grab his hand, tug him closer, and kiss him.
I love the way he tastes. As his soft lips move against mine and our tongues tangle, we move closer together, body to body, and we fit perfectly, hard muscle against hard muscle. I love the warmth of him pressed against me. I’ve gone from semihard to pretty much all the way there, and so has he.
I wrap my arms around him and conk him in the back with the gift bag. He makes an oof sound, and we break apart, breathing heavily.
“The chocolates aren’t that nice,” he pants, and I laugh. How did I get this lucky?
“How hungry are you?” It’ll take me all of thirty seconds to turn off the oven. The vegetables should keep okay until later.
He grimaces. “I’d say ‘not very’ and tackle you to the floor right here in the entryway, but I’m afraid my growling stomach will give me away.”
You know that fight against the urge to say “awww”? Yeah, I lost. I lean over and plant a short kiss on his mouth. If you could see it, you’d understand why—it’s all puffy from our kiss, and I swear it’s calling me. “Come on.” I lead him toward the kitchen. “You can keep me company while I do the steaks.”
“Steak? Yum,” Trav declares.
DINNER’S EATEN (it was a hit, by the way), the dishes are loaded in the dishwasher (mostly because Trav insisted we not just leave them), and Trav and I are snuggled on the couch. Ostensibly we’re watching TV, but neither of us have so much as glanced at the screen for about an hour. We’re too busy tangling ourselves in each other. We both lost our shirts a while ago, and I managed to wiggle Trav’s pants down over his hips before I got distracted by his nipple. Sucking on that led to kissing my way back up his chest, to his mouth, and then I had to spend an appropriate amount of time worshipping it.
Trav pulls back, gasping slightly. “This is amazing, but it’s also heinous torture,” he says. “Here or the bedroom?”
Huh. I pause to consider, absently stroking his abs. He shudders.
“Here.” The couch is comfy enough, and I don’t want to let him go even long enough to get to the bedroom. But crap, we need supplies.
While I’m mentally calculating which would take less time, me dashing to the bathroom for condoms and then back, or Trav and me both going to the bedroom via the bathroom, Trav lies back on the couch, pushes down his pants and underwear, and starts stroking himself.
Breath seizes in my chest, and my jaw drops. I’ve seen a lot, but somehow this is sexier than anything.
His green eyes fix on me. “Condom?” he asks, and I start breathing again on a gasp. In seconds, I’m off the couch and on my way to the bathroom.
By the time I get back, Trav has stripped off his remaining clothes and is stretched out on my couch like an offering to some long-forgotten pagan god. If you’ve ever wondered, I can tell you that dancers are fucking ripped. All that lean, defined muscle covered by pale skin… ungh. I want to take a bite.
I toss the box of condoms—didn’t want to waste time getting one out—and the lube onto his chest and start pulling off my clothes. We’ve talked about sex before, so I know we’re both vers, but….
“You do me,” I tell him. He grins and grabs the condoms.