“meatbal s.” I smiled and al owed my fingers to slip into his hair, feeling the soft silk tousled on my pil ow.
God, he gave good meatball.
As I stroked his hair, my mind wandered to a place where meatbal s flowed endlessly and there was pie for days. I giggled to myself as
sleepiness began to return, and I nestled back down into the nook. As I felt the comfort that only warm boy arms could provide, a little alarm went off
in my head, warning me not to get too close. I had to be careful.
Clearly we were both divinely attracted to each other, and in another space and time, the sex would have been ringing out across the land and
around the clock. But he had his harem, and I had my hiatus, not to mention that I did not have my O. So friends we would remain.
Friends who meatbal . Friends who nook. Friends who were headed to Tahoe very soon.
I pictured Simon soaking in a hot tub with Lake Tahoe spread out in al its glory behind him. Which sight was actual y more glorious remained
to be seen. I settled back to sleep, rousing only slightly when Simon snuggled me a little closer.
And even though it was barely above a whisper, I heard it. He sighed my name.
I smiled as I slipped back to sleep.
The next morning I felt a persistent poking at my left shoulder. I brushed it away, but it continued.
“Clive, stop it, you asshole,” I moaned, hiding my head under the covers. I knew he wouldn’t stop until I fed him. Ruled by his stomach, that one.
Then I heard a distinctly human laugh—quiet and definitely not Clive.
My eyes sprang open, and the night before came back to me in a rush: the horror, the pie, the nook. I reached backward with my right foot,
sliding it along the bed until I felt it stop against something warm and hairy. Although I was now more sure than ever it wasn’t Clive, I poked with my
toe, inching my way higher until I heard another chuckle.
“Wal banger?” I whispered, not wanting to flip over. True to form, I was spread-eagled diagonal y across the entire bed, head on one side, feet
practical y on the other.
“The one and only,” a delicious voice whispered in my ear.
My toes and Lower Caroline curled. “Shit.” I rol ed onto my back to take in the damage. He was huddled in the one corner my body had al owed
him. My bed-sharing habits had not improved at al .
“You sure can fil a bed,” he noted, smiling at me from under the little bit of afghan I’d left him. “If we’re going to do this again there’l have to be
some ground rules.”
“This won’t be happening again. This was in response to a terrible movie you inflicted on both of us. No more nooking,” I stated firmly,
wondering how dreadful my morning breath was. I cupped my hand in front of my face, breathed, and gave a quick sniff.
“Roses?” he asked.
“Obviously.” I smirked.
I looked at him, exquisitely rumpled and in my bed. He smiled that smile, and I sighed. I al owed myself a moment to indulge in a fantasy where I
was then quickly flipped and ravaged to within an inch of my life, but I wisely got control of my inner whore.
“What if you get scared tonight?” he asked as I sat up and stretched.
“I won’t,” I threw back over my shoulder.
“What if I get scared?”
“Grow up, pretty boy. Let’s make coffee, and then I have to get to work.” I whacked him with my pil ow.
He slid out from under the afghan, taking care to fold it, and carried it with him into the kitchen where he set it gently on the table. I smiled,
thinking of him saying my name in the night. What I wouldn’t give to know what was running through his mind.
We moved about the kitchen with quiet economy, grinding beans, measuring coffee, pouring water. I put the sugar and cream on the counter
while he peeled and sliced a banana. I poured granola, he milked and banana-ed the bowls for us. Within a few minutes we were seated next to
each other on barstools, eating breakfast as though we’d been doing so for years. Our simple ease intrigued me. And worried me.
“Plans for the day?” I asked, digging into my bowl.
“I need to stop by the Chronicle office.”
“Are you working on something for the paper?” I asked, surprised at the level of interest even I could hear in my voice. Would he be in town for
a while? Why did I care? Oh boy.
“I’m spending a few days on a piece about quick getaways in the Bay Area—weekend drives kind of thing,” he answered through a mouthful of
banana.
“When are you going to do that?” I asked, examining the raisins in my bowl and trying not to look too interested in his answer.
“Next week. I leave on Tuesday,” he replied and my stomach was instantly queasy. Next week we were supposed to go to Tahoe. Why the hel