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KARL SWIRLED THE glass of merlot, surreptitiously eyeing Paul’s shirt to his right. The way Paul sat back in the chair, relaxed now that Charlie was in bed, the material taut against his chest, a little peek of chest hair at his opened collar . . . Just how expensive was that shirt? He glanced back to the red wine, wishing now he’d opted for a chardonnay.
Almost three weeks of making-out and copping feels through pants was slowly making him insane. Fantasies spiraled in his head, sometimes lavish, sometimes simple—but they were all that much more frequent.
With a little more vigor, he twisted the stem of the wine glass, imagining a perfect arc of liquid splattering over the light gray shirt. He’d help clean up. For sure.
“What are you thinking?” Paul asked, an amused tint to his voice.
“Nothing.”
Paul sat up straighter. “What?”
Karl rested a hand on Paul’s knee under the table. Squeezed. “Just . . . the shirt. Looks good on you.” Though much better off you, on the floor, and . . . Jesus, he needed to focus on something other than sex. All this channeling was enough to make him feel slutty. He needed to keep it together. Paul wasn’t ready to go further, and that was that.
The wine called to him again. Except maybe if it were an accident. . . .
Karl jumped off the chair, packing up their takeaway containers and stuffing them into the trash. Rice stuck to his fingers. He rinsed.
Paul shuffled into the kitchen behind him. “Hey, let me help clean up.”
“No. You paid for dinner.” Had paid for most of their meals since his failed interview. Karl pushed the thoughts that came with that to the back of his mind. “You can put on a movie if you like. I’ll be right in.”
A hand touched Karl’s elbow, urging him to turn around. He complied. Paul’s eyes smiled at him. Twinkled. Yeah, he liked that look. “I don’t want to watch a movie.”
Karl’s breath caught. Oh fuck it. He pressed himself into Paul, pushing him back against the counter, and met Paul’s lips with foray. Karl’s hands flew to Paul’s shirt, fumbling to open it. A nervous chuckle shuddered through Paul’s chest.
Karl pulled back. “Too much?”
He shook his head. “No.” But Karl could see a slither of anxiety cross Paul’s face. Paul must have known Karl recognized it, because he sighed. “A little. But I want . . . ” He stopped. Slipped off his watch. Then hooked a hand around Karl’s wrist and led him out of the kitchen, down the hall, and into his bedroom.
This was the first time Paul had invited him in here. In their current ‘see where this goes’ status, that was. Karl took in the large, neatly-made bed. He needed to be clear right from the start how far this was allowed to go. “Are you sure about this?” he managed in a croak.
Paul looked down. Karl would have guessed him coy or shy, except that Paul was picking at his buttons. He finished the last one, leaving a large stripe of bare skin down his middle. Chest hair and treasure trail over defined muscles. Paul met his gaze, his expression careful, serious. “I want to be naked with you.” He closed the scant distance between them. Held his hands to Karl’s T-shirt. “See all of you.”
The heat of Paul’s palms soaked though. Karl felt each of his fingers as they skimmed to the hem. The action burned in his groin. He helped Paul peel the T-shirt over his head. Laid a cortege of kisses from Paul’s mouth, across stubble, down his neck. Bringing his hands up to Paul’s collar, he pushed the shirt over his shoulders.
Finally, it was on the floor.
Awkward hopping followed as they struggled out of their pants to their briefs. The hardwood floor could have been jelly the way Karl trembled. Why was he this nervous all of a sudden? He grabbed Paul and edged him to the bed, fighting for the confidence he usually had in the bedroom. But there was something about this that made him feel like he didn’t have a clue what to do next.
He shouldn’t be thinking so much. But it was hard not to when he could see Paul doing the same. In a moment of faux courage, he made quick work of the little material they shared between them, and lightly gripped Paul.
Paul ‘hmm-ed’ between kisses. The sound cracked through Karl’s front, and he let go.
“Hmm, what?”
A stream of light from the windows outlined Paul’s profile. Karl watched the man swallow hard. “Nothing. I just th-thought.” Paul risked looking Karl in the eye for a short moment. “You’re the only person other than Laura to see me like this.”
“Oh.” How was he supposed to take that? Was Paul upset? Should they stop? Karl shifted.
Paul snatched his arm. “Hey, um, sorry, that was a stupid thing to bring up now.”
“It’s on your mind. I guess maybe it says you’re still not quite ready for this?”
Paul shifted. Took Karl’s hand and lowered it on himself again with a slow stroke. “No, it’s okay. Actually, it feels right that it’s you.” Paul let go, leaving Karl to continue, and tentatively reached out. Karl hissed at the pleasant touch, thoughts—and the strange-prickly feeling Paul’s last words had brought—melting with it.
Karl slipped out of the room once Paul had fallen asleep. God could the guy snore. He shook his head. A part of him longed to dive under his bedcovers and sleep off the buzz that still circulated through him, but a bigger part couldn’t relax. Karl paced the length of his bedroom. Back. Forth. Trying to grapple with something, although he wasn’t quite sure what it was.
The hand job had been . . . yes, good, but also . . . intense. And, crap, if he were being honest: He’d felt a little shy. And a little bit more. A really, very little bit.
Still, that was a little bit more than he’d felt before. With Will there’d certainly been passion, but rawer. He preferred it that way. It was more comfortable—something he knew. But this was probably only a first-time thing. He and Paul would get into the swing of things.
Karl started his laptop and, to keep his mind off the earlier moment, surfed for recipes and cooking tips. He landed on a site that advertised a culinary school.
At $15,000 a semester, there was no way he’d be able to support himself through it. If only he’d been devoted to cooking and learning before he was cut off. This wouldn’t be an issue. Even if he could afford it, what if he really wasn’t good enough? That was looking more and more likely with each day he couldn’t bring himself to create something. He closed the window and opened his email. Will’s message was still up top. Other than spam, nothing new had come in. Their last conversation replayed in his head. With it came the hurt and guilt again.
I fooled myself into believing you loved me as much as I loved you. The line wouldn’t leave him alone. This was the crux of his guilt.
Because it wasn’t Will’s fault. It was his.
There were reasons he’d never been in love. Up until he was seventeen, he was a bully and knew he didn’t deserve it. Until he met Will, he just hadn’t met anyone he cared for. Will was the closest thing to love he’d felt—but a lot of those feeling were . . . forced. He’d tried hard to make it happen, which might have been how he fooled Will into thinking he loved him. He’d wanted to fool himself, but couldn’t.
Karl shut the laptop, sat back in his chair and stared at it.
In the end, he was glad it hadn’t worked between them. He didn’t want love. No. It was messy. Even the unconditional stuff. The love a mother was supposed to have for her child. Bullshit. It didn’t exist. And he’d idolized his parents. Had spent time—energy—trying to show how much he cared for them. He’d not really seen how manipulative they’d been. How . . . cruel. His signature ‘love you’ had always been real.
But all that was chucked down the garbage disposal. Munched. That’s what it felt like. Like strong teeth ripping and crunching his insides.
Karl’s head pounded; he switched off the light and crawled into bed. But shutting his eyes did nothing to close off the array of feelings inside.
After an unsettled sleep, Karl rose at seven to a rather bright Saturday morning for mid-November. He padded down the hall, nice and soft, not to wake Paul or Charlie. The percolator was the first thing to come on. Just as he poured himself a cup, Charlie zoomed into the room. He gave Karl a puzzled look as, if surprised to see him. Then his eyes lit up.
“Karly! Yay, can you make hot chocolate?” He bounced on the balls of his feet.
Karl grinned. Something about seeing the boy made his issues seem insignificant. Charlie could always bring a smile to his face. “Sure. Some toast, too?”
“’kay!” Then he skipped to the lounge.
Karl set to preparing a mug of hot cocoa, pouring milk into a pot—hey, wait a sec—had the boy called him Karly? Tut-tut-tut. He’d better not be getting used to it. Ever.
A heavier set of steps entered the room. Paul raised a brow and—like father, like son—surprise lit his face as well. He settled his jeans-and-T-shirt clad self on a bar stool. “Didn’t think you would be up so early.”
“Hey, I get up early most of the week!”
“Not weekends you don’t. And usually you’re more cranky.”
“I am not.” He was but he hid it. Well.
“You should see yourself during the week. It ain’t pretty.”
Okay, maybe not as well as he’d thought. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He smirked. “I always keep it together.”
Paul laughed. “Okay, if you say so.”
“Right, I do.” He leaned over the counter and pecked the dimple in Paul’s cheek, then added cocoa to the milk. He caught sight of Paul’s still posture, wearing a small frown.
It took a moment, and then Karl felt like kicking himself. They did the hot and heavy together, not kisses like that. “Uh, that was weird, wasn’t it? Didn’t realize I was doing it.”
Paul’s frown faded, relief washing his face. “Yeah. I don’t know. It was nice. I just don’t want Charlie seeing us this way.” He reached for the watch he’d left on the counter last night. “Not ready for that.”
Karl shrugged and smiled, but it was more of an effort than he thought it would be. “Sure. Get it.” Besides, Charlie knowing Paul and him had a little something together just made things sticky. It’d be harder to explain when he left. No, Paul was totally right. He found himself nodding hard, affirming the thoughts.
Paul eyed the pot. “Are you making breakfast today?”
“No.”
They were silent a bit. Then Paul said, quietly, “I get something isn’t right, you know. That you feel depressed about not getting the chef job. But how is not cooking going to make it better?”
Paul’s words touched on a nerve. A really big one. “Okay, it’s too early in the morning for this conversation.”
“Don’t fob this off,” Paul said gently. “Talk to me about it.”
Karl slammed some bread into the toaster. “Look, I get it’s my job to make meals. So, I’ll make sure you get your potatoes, fish and side of vege.”
Paul folded his arms. “Don’t get defensive, Karl. I’m just telling you how I see it. I think you need to get past this set-back. I’ve seen how much cooking means to you. And you’re good. I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it. But you fall off a horse, you get back on it. That’s all I’m saying.”
“So what? Who the f—who really cares if I don’t? Maybe it’s better to cut my losses now and move on.” Yes, he needed to come up with another way to identify himself. Because if he kept going and failed again, he might not be able to handle it.
“I think that’s stupid.” Paul’s voice grew quiet, so Karl only caught the last of his next words. “ . . . care.”
Karl turned off the element, leaned his side on the counter, and watched the wooden spoon he twirled in his hand. He waited until he could keep his voice under control, and said, “I want to cook. Every day I come in here and I decide on a recipe. And each time I begin, I just freeze. I stand there looking at the utensil in my hand and think: ‘Where will this ever go? How will I ever improve on my own when I can’t see the faults of my own creations?’ Then I guess I just get disheartened, and I’m in no mood to cook anymore.”
Paul nodded and offered him a comforting smile. “Does cooking make you happy? Or is it all about success at it?”
Karl breathed in deeply at the question. Then let it out with a self-deprecating laugh. “Put it that way, and I feel silly.” He fished out Charlie’s toast.
Paul reached out, drawing the knife from Karl’s hand. “Let me help you.”
Karl closed his eyes briefly, feeling torn between a smile and a frown. Paul wanted to help him.
Karl passed the crunchy peanut butter, and as Paul took it from him, he said, “Yeah, it does make me happy. But I also want a proper career—some security.”
He let go of the jar. Paul continued to hold it mid-air. “I think it’s great if it makes you happy. I guess I overlooked the last aspect.”
Karl gave a one-shouldered shrug. “But you’re right, too. I like to cook. It’s not all about becoming successful.” Paul slid a hand over the counter and picked up Karl’s coffee. He brought it to his lips and sipped. When he’d drained the cup, Karl refilled it with a grin. As he handed it over, Paul asked, “Do you have plans for Thanksgiving?”
Karl laughed. “Yeah, like I have family welcoming me over with open arms.”
“Sure you do, Karl. You’re having it with us. Okay, I’m going to preface this with a request . . . ” He took a sip of coffee, raising to his lips as if some kind of protection. “I’d like it if you cooked. It’d be us three, Tirone, Gillian, and Charlie’s grandparents: Sue and Timothy.”
Karl’s stomach had dropped to the floor and wasn’t coming back up. Request aside, or heck, even including it—that was the kindest thing anyone had ever said to him. Right now, he wanted to lean right over the counter again and kiss him, soft like the last time. Only this time knowingly. But he stuck to Paul’s wishes, smiling instead. “I’d like that.”
Karl picked up the hot-cocoa and toast and took it in to Charlie.
“Thanks!”
Karl ruffled his hair. “Sure thing. You want more, just shout. Actually, better not shout; just come ask me, okay?”
Charlie nodded, his eyes latched to the screen. Karl made his way back to Paul. He plucked the cup out of Paul’s hands and sat on a bar stool, one away from Paul. “So, what are your plans for the day?” He took a gulp of the now luke-warm liquid.
“Not really sure yet.” Paul got off the stool and snatched the cup back with the cutest grin Karl had seen. “I thought about going to the park and walking from there to the waterfront. Maybe eating a piece of cake in a café or something. I’ll ask Charlie what he’d like to do.” Paul glanced at his watch and when he spoke, his tone grew bitter. “And sooner the better. I hate to waste the only real time I have with him.”
Karl gauged Paul’s expression and risked asking, “The only real time?”
Paul raised a ‘don’t be stupid’ brow. “Dinner and putting him to bed hardly counts. And I don’t just want to be the one to discipline him. I want to be a real part of his growing up. The fun stuff, too.” Paul gave him a small smile. “I think you were right about it being too early for heavy discussions.” He shook off his sudden reflective mood.
Karl thumped a hand on his back. “Go on, then. Go. And good luck prying him from the television.”
Paul groaned. “Sometimes, I swear I hate the TV. Then, other times, it’s a life-saver.”
A long overdue yawn escaped Karl as he agreed with Paul. He stood up and stretched, catching Paul’s gaze on his torso. He extended the pose longer than he needed to—and with a wicked internal grin.
“What are your plans?” Paul quickly asked.
“Long shower.” Other than that, he wasn’t sure. He passed Paul, pausing at his stool, and whispered, “I’ll think of you.” Karl admired the red glow brightening Paul’s cheeks. He chuckled and continued down the hall.
“That’s no fair!” Paul called after him. He turned to see the guy coming toward him with a confidence Karl had lacked last night. He hid the surprise that Paul’s hushed next words gave him. “You can’t turn me on like that when I have to behave the entire day, while you get to—no. No shower. Clothes on, you’re coming with us.”
“What? But—”
“Quick-smart.”
Karl scowled as he pulled on some clothes, but the annoyance was barely surface deep. There was something hot about Paul’s demand—that they’d damn well enjoy the benefit of it later. And, actually, it felt nice to be invited on a family outing. Of course, he’d have to keep his distance, but spending time with both Charlie and Paul—he didn’t know how it got better than that.
Hmmm. Maybe he would cook tonight, too.