Chapter Four

“I DON’T LIKE him,” Miranda said the minute Trey disappeared to use the half bath off the living room.

Connor’s smile vanished as he looked away from Trey’s retreating figure and into the face of his daughter. “What? Why? You barely know him.” His brows furrowed in confusion. “How can you say that?”

Miranda’s gaze shifted toward the powder room, as though Trey was not inside, but standing there, right in front of them. “I wish I could put my finger on it. Something’s off. I’ve learned to trust my gut, just like you taught me.”

“Ah.” Connor waved away her impression. “You’re just being protective of your old dad.” He leaned close and squeezed her arm. “And I do love you for it.”

Miranda’s face looked as though she was trying out a new expression, groping for plausibility. She shrugged. “You’re probably right.” She took a sip of her white wine and turned her head to gaze out the floor-to-ceiling living room windows where the sky was a stunning mix of color and clouds—gray, tangerine, lavender. Soon it would vanish into the dark, but for now it was breathtaking. Across the steely dark waters of Lake Union, the Eastlake neighborhood rose up, and behind it, silhouettes of the Cascades.

“I never get tired of this view,” she said softly and took another sip of wine. Connor followed her gaze and watched as a seaplane splashed down. The engine noise reached them dimly.

“Me neither.” He recalled when he’d first entered the small condo with his realtor, now two decades ago, just before he’d met Steve and flush with his first six-figure advance. He’d gotten the home for a ridiculously low price in a depressed market. It was now worth well over a million dollars, even though it was small—two bedrooms, two and a half baths, and a little over fourteen hundred square feet. He could afford something else, something more extravagant, but this was home. He adored it, especially because of the ever-changing city, lake, and mountain views. Just to the left was a tip of land where Gas Work Park sat, and it always looked to Connor like some rusting steampunk castle.

“It’s certainly a million-dollar view,” Trey said.

Connor hadn’t heard him come back and judging by the way Miranda jumped at the sound of his velvety, raspy voice, neither had she.

Connor watched him move to the sliders and then step out on the small balcony. He gripped the wrought-iron railing, taking in the panorama. As he stood there, the night sky encroached and the dusky lightshow receded, leaving in its wake the warm yellow lights of homes across and in the water—houseboats. In the distance, traffic moved sluggishly on I-5, their lights like insect eyes. A fingernail of moon, yellow gold, rose behind the craggy mountain range.

“I should go,” Miranda said. “It’s getting late and I have a short story to finish for my creative writing class.” She stood.

“Really? Do you have to?” Connor asked. He glanced over at Trey, who seemed unaware of their conversation.

“Don’t you want me to?” She smiled. “You guys have plans. I don’t want to be a third wheel.”

Connor realized, and was surprised, that he wanted her to stay. His daughter was his security blanket. She filled in the gaps in conversation. Although she was more than two decades younger, Connor felt she had the more level head. He’d always been the dreamer—impulsive, willing to ignore looking before he leapt. Sometimes, most of the time really, this approach to life worked out. But he’d also learned that intuition and impulsiveness weren’t always the same thing.

But when his impulsiveness didn’t work, it failed spectacularly. He shrugged. “Have one more drink with us. Then we do have to skedaddle.”

“Dad, no one says that anymore.”

“What?”

“Skedaddle.” She chuckled.

“Well then, that’s all the more reason to use it. Colorful.” He cocked his head. “Sure I can’t pour you just one more glass?”

“Nah. You always taught me to write sober and edit drunk.”

They both cracked up over that one. “Well, I think Hemingway actually had it the other way around.”

“Okay, but I’m not Hemingway. Peons like me need to do both sober,” Miranda said. She pulled on her denim jacket and grabbed her purse. “Call me tomorrow and let me know how it went.” She bent down and kissed his cheek. She pulled away a little and whispered, “I hope I’m wrong about him. I really do.”

Connor pushed away his belief that one’s intuition is seldom wrong. “Well, I do too.” He patted her face and watched as she left. Just as the front door closed behind her, the sliders slid open.

Trey walked in. Connor had to admit he was a little disappointed in how he’d dressed for their first date. Normally, it wouldn’t matter, but Joule was a smart place, trendy, and he wondered if they’d fit in. Trey had worn gray sweatpants, running shoes, and a University of Washington purple hoodie. Now, he did look good. The man would have looked good in a burlap bag, but still.

Connor grinned. “You know what? How about we try someplace more casual?”

“Oh? What did you have in mind?”

“The Pacific Inn is just as close.” The restaurant was a divey joint near Lake Union at the end of Stone Way. It was small, with just a few booths and a bar. In the summer, their outdoor patio was lively, but right now, summer was a dream, a mirage.

The Pacific Inn was unpretentious, coming from a time before Seattle was the gentrified, high-tech city it now was. It was the kind of place workers on fishing vessels would have ended up for beers and fish and chips. And those fish and chips were some of the best in the city. But at least there, Trey’s ensemble wouldn’t attract any undue attention.

“Never heard of it,” Trey said. “But I’ll try anything once.”

“You’ll love it.”

“As long as they have a bar, I’m in.” Trey plopped down in the leather chair near the window and put his feet up. Connor couldn’t help but notice the no-name brand of trainers he wore and how tired-looking they were. You’d think a successful attorney would be wearing ASICS or Nikes, or maybe even something more luxurious. He then chided himself for thinking like a snob. And then he said, “I’ll be right back. Help yourself to another bourbon, if you want.”

He left Trey in the living room. In his bedroom, he slipped out of the khakis and Ralph Lauren polo he had on. He pulled out a pair of faded Levi’s and a fleece pullover instead. He slid out of his loafers and found his old Puma sneakers in the back of the closet.

 

THE PACIFIC INN was a good choice, Connor thought. Maybe better than Joule, especially for a first date. The Friday night crowd was lively, but he and Trey were able to snag one of the booths just as two women stood to leave.

The table was littered with stocky cocktail glasses, rumpled napkins, and wicker food trays. He smiled at Trey as he sat across from him. “I know it’s not morning or anywhere close to brunch, but they make a wonderful Bloody Mary here.”

A young guy in jeans and black-and-red flannel came over to clear the table. He wiped it with a rag. “What can I get you boys tonight?”

Connor looked to Trey. “You want to try the Bloody?”

“If you recommend it, I gotta see what the fuss is.”

“Two bloodies, please.” He looked again to Trey. “Spicy okay?”

Trey looked at their waiter, a gorgeous blond-bearded hipster, and winked. “The spicier the better.”

Connor also ordered the Cajun shrimp and a side of Tater Tots with tartar sauce.

“Tartar?” Trey asked as the waiter walked away.

“That’s how they do ’em here.” He smiled. “So here we are. I know a little about you from your profile, but why don’t you tell me what makes you tick. Who you are.”

“Oh my god,” Trey said. “Is this a job interview?”

“No, no. Just making conversation.”

Their drinks arrived, and Connor hoped he wasn’t getting off on the wrong foot.

“Maybe we don’t need the third degree, then.”

“I’m sorry.” Heat rose to Connor’s cheeks.

Trey sipped the Bloody and smacked his lips. “That is good.” He eyed Connor. “Hey, I was just fucking with you. I always want so much to get the first-date awkwardness out of the way, to just be three months in the future where we can be comfortable with each other.”

“Oh god, that’s exactly how I feel. I don’t do much socializing in my line of work, so I’ve kind of gotten rusty as how to act in a situation like this, to be honest. Add in that I am very newly single after almost twenty years, and you have a guy who is really operating on hope and a prayer. When I met my Steve, Internet dating was just heating up.”

Trey said, “It’s okay. Let’s just relax and see where the night takes us. Steve, huh?”

“Sorry. I promised myself and my daughter I would not bring him up tonight. I definitely didn’t want to be that guy, the one who goes on a date and then won’t shut up about his ex.” Connor sighed. “But it’s hard when someone has been such a big part of your life for so long. So apologies and excuses in advance.” He smiled. “I’m sure it’ll happen again.” This was so not where he wanted to take things, so he asked Trey to tell him about his work as an attorney. “That must be exciting. Remind me what kind of law you practice again.” Connor wasn’t sure it was in Trey’s profile, but at least the ‘remind me’ was a good way to cover if it had been.

“Actually, it’s duller than dishwater. I kind of regret my choice of profession, but what can I say? It pays the old mortgage.” Trey sipped his drink.

“Well, is it too late to do something else? You’re young enough to make a change. What don’t you like about it?” Connor asked. He was surprised when Trey abruptly changed the course of the conversation, throwing it back to him.

“Ah, I don’t want to talk about my dull job. You’ll die from boredom.” He rolled his eyes. “But you? Mr. Famous Author! That must be amazing. Making a living from telling lies.” He chuckled.

Connor wished Miranda hadn’t outed him as an author so quickly, but he hadn’t thought about warning her before Trey arrived. “Never really thought of it that way, but I suppose you’re right. People tend to think I have this glamorous life—all the fame and fortune, you know? But the truth is, it’s mostly me and a blank screen with a blinking cursor waiting for me to get started.”

“You obviously get started…again and again. How many bestsellers have you written?”

Connor often got questions like this, along with where he got his ideas. He thought the question was a little out of line, like asking what his income was, so he said, “You know what? Even I’ve lost count. A couple dozen books, I guess. I don’t kid myself. People enjoy them. People also enjoy Burger King and Taco Bell.”

“And they’ve all done well?”

Connor thought, but didn’t say, that after the first couple books were out, his books had done spectacularly well. His quarterly royalty statements were often in the six figures. He invested and gave a lot of it away to local charities like Lifelong AIDS Alliance and Youthcare, which provided food, shelter, and job training to homeless youth, many of whom were in the position they were in because their families had thrown them out for being queer.

“They’ve done okay.” Connor was relieved when their waiter set their appetizers down. There was no question—the smell of deep-fried food was a little bit of heaven. It was also a great distraction.

Fortunately, Trey was ready to dig in and so was Connor, partially out of hunger (he’d skipped lunch) and partially because he wanted to steer the conversation away from his success.

But, after the appetizers were a memory and a second round of drinks was ordered, he was disappointed that Trey brought their conversation back to Connor’s success.

“So you must rake it in, then? Your girl said you’d been to the top of the New York Times bestseller list a bunch of times. You must have lots of fans. You get recognized at Pike Place Market? Do you travel the country on book tours when a new one comes out?”

“I used to. But these days, I just don’t think there’s a good return on investment for that sort of thing. And I always hated them anyway. I’m an introvert. INFJ, if that means anything to you. A book tour totally drains me. I have to spend lots of time in bed after the tours wind up, just to reclaim some of that massive energy suck.” He eyed Trey across the table and tried to suggest, as gently as he could, that they change the subject. It had always made Connor uncomfortable to talk about his work. He felt as though someone were shining a spotlight on him. And despite his fame, he wanted nothing more than to be the wallflower in the corner, barely noticed.

Trey relented, and they discussed lots of things for the next hour or so—favorite movies and books, where you’d find the best Pad Thai in town, ferry trips to the San Juan Islands, stuff like that. Things were going well enough that they decided to go ahead and order dinner and a couple more drinks—fish tacos for Trey and fish and chips for Connor.

When the bill came, Connor reached slowly for his wallet. He didn’t mind paying, not at all, especially since this was a pretty cheap dinner date, but he wanted to see if Trey would at least offer. But Trey seemed oblivious to the bill lying on the table between them, his gaze suddenly transferred to the TV screen above the bar, where a Seattle Seahawks game was being replayed.

“Let me get this,” Connor said, smiling.

Trey glanced down at the check, then back at the screen.

Just when Connor had given up on him making an offer, Trey turned his attention back to what was right in front of him. “You sure?”

“Yeah, it’s fine.” Connor gave him a tight-lipped smile.

Trey burst into laughter. “I have a confession to make. I left my wallet back at my place…totally by mistake. I was too embarrassed to say anything.” He winked. “I’ll get it next time, and I promise we’ll do better than this dump.”

Connor was a little taken aback. Trey seemed to enjoy both the food and the atmosphere. Still, he reminded himself that these were early days, and he didn’t really know Trey well at all. Their conversation had always come back to Connor, and the truth was, Connor had learned very little about the man sitting across from him.

And he could admit, if only to himself, he was swayed by the man’s looks—the powerful physique and broad shoulders, the shock of thick dark hair, sexily untamed, but most of all his gorgeous blue eyes, so pale they were almost ice. He particularly loved Trey’s lopsided smile.

He consoled himself thinking that he wasn’t the first man to fall for a pretty face—or body.

“Sounds like a plan,” Connor said, pulling out his wallet and laying four twenties on the table. “That should do it. Give our cute little waiter something extra.”

“Stop. He’s young enough to be your son,” Trey said, laughing.

Connor sighed. “I was going to suggest we walk home, maybe have a nightcap at my place.” He crossed his arms. “But I think I just changed my mind.”

“Oh, come on. I was kidding. He’s cute.”

“And I was kidding you.” Connor stood. “Now, let’s go before I decide it’s too far, or too cold, or too drizzly, to walk.”

Once outside, Trey asked if Connor was sure that he wanted to walk. “It’s starting to rain,” he said. “We could summon an Uber and it would be here in, like, five minutes.”

“We could. But it’s hardly raining. This is typical for Seattle. You know that. We don’t let a little drizzle stop us.” He stepped out farther onto the street. What was falling was almost a mist—the kind of precipitation long-termers and natives weren’t deterred by. He gestured with his head and Trey followed.

They walked along Northlake Way, so they could be beside Lake Union’s dark waters until they came to Fremont Avenue. When they got to the blue bridge that spanned the Fremont Cut, they had to stop because the bridge was up. Connor pointed out the neon sculpture of Rapunzel affixed to the guard tower.

Silently, a sailboat with strands of white lights glided under the bridge. Brenda Lee singing, “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree,” reached them faintly. Connor felt suddenly relaxed. The cold night air, the mist that felt like a kiss, and the stars shining above them—all seemed like portents telling him this was good; it was right.

And yet a voice in the back of his mind chided: Honey, are you sure you’re not just trying to force something to be right so you don’t have to go through the rigors of dating again? So you can show Steve how stupid he was to leave you? And even better, how you can still attract a hot man?

He told that inner voice to shut the hell up, even though the obvious truth of it stung.

When the bridge came back down, they proceeded across its grated surface, Connor gazing down between the metal at the dark water. On the other side, they stopped for a moment to admire the houseboats on Lake Union, festooned with colored holiday lights and then headed up the hill, in darkness and silence, to Connor’s condo.

Trey gently touched his hand, as though by accident, and then, when he encountered no resistance from Connor, intertwined his fingers in Connor’s. And for just a moment, Connor imagined they were an older couple, long together, walking themselves home after a simple supper out. The feeling and the image was so homey it lifted his heart.

Back at the condo, Connor got Trey a bourbon and poured himself a ginger ale. Trey slipped out again onto the balcony. “Do you get to see the Christmas lights parade from here?”

“Yup. With the finale at Gas Works, the lighted boats all end up right in front of my building. I like to imagine it’s a command performance, just for me.” He chuckled. “Then I reel myself back to reality. It is magical though. It brings out the kid in me.” He moved back toward the sliders. “I’m gonna excuse myself for a minute. Be right back.”

He took himself into the little powder room and had a quick pee, then washed his hands and splashed his face with cold water. The evening, the date, however he wanted to label it, had had its ups and downs, but overall, it was going all right. Trey had an air of mystery, and that wasn’t a bad thing. Plus, he was sexy as hell, which never hurt. All in all, it looked like there might be some potential for more.

Maybe.

He was happy he’d be able to tell Miranda in the morning that the date had been a qualified success. And he hoped that he could also let her know that a second date was lined up, in the very near future.

Perhaps he could have both Trey and Miranda over for the Christmas Boats finale and dinner?

He opened the door and looked immediately to the balcony, where he expected to find Trey still sightseeing and sipping his bourbon.

But he was gone.

“Uh, Trey?”

He wasn’t in the living room. Nor was he in the kitchen.

Connor wandered down the hallway. The guest room slash office was empty, although Trey had obviously switched on the desk lamp because Connor didn’t recall having done that. There’d been no reason to.

He came to his own bedroom, which was suffused with a warm glow from a small lamp on his dresser.

On his bed, Trey lay, hands behind his head. He was wearing only a pair of black boxer briefs.

“This feels so good.” He stroked the faux fur throw that Connor had placed across the bed. “Come on.” He patted the bed beside him.

Connor froze. He didn’t know what to do. Butterflies took wing in his gut. This was not where he wanted to go, even if Trey was sexy and even sexier nearly naked. His body was tight, muscular, and saved from boring perfection by a pinkish scar that ran down the center of his abs.

But this was too fast.

Connor’s only intention in bringing Trey home was to have a drink and maybe talk a little more. He hadn’t been in a relationship so long, nor was he too old to remember that most gay men were quick to hop into bed together. But he needed to take things slowly; about that much Miranda had been right. He’d never been promiscuous, even back in the days before HIV. He’d always been a softie, a romantic at heart.

This gay man is not ready for that.

The sting of being dumped still clung to him. He loved Steve, despite that love no longer being reciprocated. He’d wake some mornings and reach for him, his head still clouded with sleep. When he wasn’t there, the disappointment arose, like some dark cloud.

Would the loss never get easier?

Trey lifted his head and cocked it. “You gonna join me?”

Part of Connor, the insufferably polite, nonconfrontational portion, debated for a moment whether he should just hop on the bed with Trey…to simply not rock the boat and be a good host.

Then he reminded himself that was a lousy way to view himself. So, even though he hated to do it, he said, “Uh, I really just want to have a drink out in the living room. I hope I didn’t give you the wrong idea.” He attempted what he hoped was his most winning, conciliatory smile.

And a darkness fell over Trey. His smile, so warm and inviting, vanished, morphing into something Connor could only identify as a glower. He turned his back to Connor and groped on the floor on the opposite side of the bed for his clothes. He dressed quickly, his back to Connor. When dressed, he stooped to tie his shoes and then stood. He glared at Connor, his eyes gone dark.

Wordlessly, he brushed by Connor, almost knocking him out of the way, heading for the front door.

Connor was stunned.

“Hey, hey. Don’t be like this. I’m just not ready…” The words were thick on Connor’s tongue as he watched Trey open the door, exit, and slam it behind him.

“What the fuck?” Connor whispered.

Later, Connor’s very soul felt black as he climbed into bed. Sleep would be elusive.

He propped the pillows up against the headboard and grabbed his iPad off the nightstand, intending to immerse himself in a chapter or two from Harlan Coben’s latest thriller, simply to escape.

But he couldn’t stay away from Facebook. And the moment he looked down at his feed, he got a shock and immediately regretted it.

He’d be up all night.