Geekspeak: Liquid Layout

Definition: Web layout that can adjust based on browser window size, even if the size changes within the same session.

Who’d have ever imagined that he, Gideon Wallace, who never willingly touched any hardware component less fully assembled than a keyboard, could totally rock a network and hardware installation? True, he hadn’t exactly done it single-handedly, but damn it, the Luddite and the Clueless Consultant could line up to kiss his ass.

Because by end of day on Monday, this project would be D-O-N-E, despite the curse of October-the-sequel and the holiday-he-dare-not-speak.

Screw that. He allowed himself to think it. Allowed himself to say it. Thanksgiving. Thanksgiving-Thanksgiving-Thanksgiving. And what do you know? No sky fell. No garments were rent. No teeth were gnashed. Ha!

The vengeful cosmos could join the ass-kissing line, because here he was, grocery shopping with his man. It was so . . . so domestic. It ought to make him run screaming for the nearest club, but instead he had to suppress the urge to break into song. He compromised by humming “A Whole New World” as he studied the shopping list Ruth had prepared for them.

God, the days since their storage-room sex had been endless, with Alex tied up with his dad or extra preholiday shifts, and Gideon in a desperate push to get the servers ready to bring online by Cyber Monday. They hadn’t even crossed paths at work more than twice, when normally Alex cruised by the server room like clockwork—much to the detriment of Gideon’s concentration. If Gideon didn’t know better, he’d think Alex had been avoiding him.

But now, here they were, together again, although not exactly alone. Piloting their cart in Gideon’s wake, Alex seemed preoccupied, a skosh distant. But then they could hardly make out in the produce section, not without causing a riot.

Gideon dodged another crazed day-before-T-Day shopper intent on playing bumper cars in the Fred Meyer aisles. He brandished the list. “God, Alex. How did your mother manage to cook this volume of food by herself? And how the hell did four people manage to eat it all?” He cast a glance at Alex from under his eyelashes. “I can understand how a strapping specimen like you might handle it, but Lindsay and your mom are just little bits.”

Alex pulled the cart to the side of the aisle to let a wild-eyed woman with a wailing baby get by. “We always had people over. Folks Mom knew from the hospital or guys from Dad’s crews. All the orphans. The ones without another place to go.”

Gideon stopped in front of a display of canned pumpkin and premade pie crusts. “Now I know what made Lindsay the nurturing sweetheart that she is. Your parents, your family. You’re special.” He tossed two large cans of pumpkin in the cart. “When was the last time you hosted?”

“The year after Dad was diagnosed. Four years ago now.”

God, Gideon wasn’t the only one with Thanksgiving baggage to unload. He placed his hand over Alex’s on the cart handle. “This year will be one for the books. We’ll break my damn Thanksgiving curse and give your family something to remember. It’ll be good. I promise.”

Alex stared at Gideon’s hand on his. No longer bandaged, although the scars from his run-in with the box knife were dark-pink slashes across his pale fingers. How was Alex supposed to resist the random touches, the flirty grins, the sly glances? You can’t. Why bother to try?

His mom had always said eavesdropping was its own punishment, and she was right, as usual. Alex had spent the days since he’d heard Gideon make a date with Haynes feeling like a piano was about to drop on his head.

“Hey.” Gideon patted his hand. “Having a moment, are we? Don’t tell me—you’re one of those guys who gets freaked out by crowds. Whoops.” He scooted closer to Alex to let another shopper by.

“Nah, I’m okay.” Alex made an effort to smile. Don’t waste the time you’ve got. You don’t know when it’ll end. “For a guy who claims to hate Thanksgiving, you’re really getting into this.”

“I know. What can I say? Surprised the hell out of me too, but in my book, anything worth doing is worth overdoing well.”

Alex studied their cart. “I’d never guess.”

“Oops. I forgot the champagne. Meet me by the cucurbits.”

“The what?”

Gideon grinned. “The gourds of many colors and suggestive shapes.” He darted away through the crowd.

Alex pushed the cart through the aisles toward the produce section. He was pretty sure the champagne wasn’t on his mom’s list. They’d never served it, mostly because some of the folks they’d invited for dinner had been in recovery and she hadn’t wanted to be insensitive to them.

Wouldn’t hurt to have a little alcoholic bubbly on ice this year though. Not like they’d serve any to Ned, but the more Gideon seemed to open up, the more Alex felt like he might have something to celebrate.

If Gideon would only come clean about his conversation with Haynes . . .

“Whew!” Gideon wedged two bottles of champagne into the cart. “It’s like armed combat in here. Thank goodness I have my own personal juggernaut.” He hip-checked Alex and zoomed off toward the bins of squash.

Alex shook his head, grinning. Give up, Henning. You’re fucking toast. He followed and pulled up next to Gideon, who was studying the vegetables through his sparkly blue glasses.

“What do you think, Alex?” He hefted a long striped squash about the thickness of Alex’s wrist. “Cock?” He winked and picked up a roundish, ribbed, green specimen in the other hand. “Or giant mutant balls?”

Alex laughed. “I don’t think those are the official names, babe.”

“Sadly, no. Delicata or acorn, what’s your”—he fluttered his eyelashes—“pleasure?”

Alex shrugged. “Never heard of delicata.”

“Trust me, you’ll love it.” He slipped a couple of the “cocks” into a plastic bag and set them on top of their already overflowing cart. “But why not do both? We shall fully embrace the T-day spirit of excess.” He picked up an acorn squash in each hand. “How many people are we expecting again?”

“Only the family and you. Six.”

Gideon’s brows drew together. “Wait. Is your aunt coming? The one who treats Lindsay like she’s about as bright as a box of hair?”

“Jesus, no. Dad banned her from holidays years ago because her visits always ended with Lin in tears and me in time-out for trying to punch her or her SOB son. The other person’s Toshiko.”

“Toshiko.” Why did Gideon’s mouth turn down like that? Wasn’t Toshiko one of his friends too? He shoved three acorn squash into a bag and mashed them into the cart on top of a bag of marshmallows. When he glanced up at Alex again, his smile was back, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Maybe the twenty-pound turkey was a little much. Oh well. Leftovers. That’s what Thanksgiving is all about, right?” He marched off toward the check-out line.

Leftovers. Alex could only hope that he wouldn’t be the one that got left.