Hard For My Boss

When I sweep open the front door, Trevor stands there in a crisp, plaid red-and-blue button-up shirt, the sleeves folded up to the elbows. His light pair of jeans have a tiny slit cut at the bottom on either hem, giving them a boot-cut appearance to allow for his high-top red Converse. His hair, appearing slightly darker than its usual blond due to him having just fixed it up, is swept to the side, only one or two cowlicks defying him in the back. A bag hangs over his shoulder with a store logo I don’t recognize pasted on the side. His eyes are bright and eager, and before I’ve even had a chance to say anything, he’s already blushing like the very act of being here makes him shy.

And he carries before him, held close to his chest, one single red rose.

Oh. Maybe that’s why he’s red-faced already.

“Hey,” he murmurs meekly, then extends the rose to me. “I, uh, just thought, like, maybe …”

I pull him against me and kiss him right there, shutting up all the rest of the words he probably spent the whole elevator ride planning in his head to say. He tastes so sweet, like some sugary fruit, which is all the more fitting. Trevor is, after all, something like my forbidden fruit—a forbidden fruit I can’t stop tasting.

I let go of him so as not to suffocate the poor guy, then pull open my door the rest of the way. “Welcome,” I greet him, moving aside to let him in.

He chuckles awkwardly, out of breath, then steps through the door. His bright eyes search around, as if he’s entering my place for the first time all over again. I love how curious and aware he is all the time. There’s something about him that always seems to be processing his environment, sorting his thoughts, calculating …

I’m getting addicted to just watching his brain work. Does that make me a sapiosexual?

“Right on time,” I note. “Impressive.”

He straightens his posture, still gripping the rose tightly like a microphone. “Can’t let down the boss,” he states smartly. “I dress to impress and work to …” His face wrinkles slightly, searching for the rhyme. “… also impress.”

I chuckle. He’s so damned adorable, even when he’s nervous and fidgety. “Have a seat,” I tell him. “Kick off your shoes. I have something decent on the TV tonight for a change.”

“Oh? No animals frolicking in the wild?”

“Nope. Just humans. On a boat.”

Trevor stands by the couch, observing the TV for a second. He smiles when he recognizes the movie. “Titanic. Aww. Jack and—Hey, Rose!” he says with a cheery lift of the rose he’s still holding. He tries to make some kind of connection between the two as he stutters through a few words, his face reddening more in the effort, and then he gives up, returning his attention to the TV.

I still can’t believe he brought me a damned rose. I’ve never been the flowers and chocolate, make-a-guy-swoon, wooing kind of man, even when I was his age. But the gesture softens my heart a bit, admittedly. Maybe I’ve never been that kind of guy because I’ve never met anyone who’s been that way toward me.

Trevor’s the first.

“It’s a nice movie,” I state with a shrug. “Kind of timeless, in a way. Especially for a 1997 classic.”

“1997. Hey, I was just a baby then!” Trevor exclaims—and then immediately shrinks up, his face going red again. He returns all his attention back to the TV, as if pretending he never spoke.

I press my lips together to stifle a laugh. “I’ll … fetch a bud vase for the rose,” I tell him, turning toward the kitchen.

“Oh! I almost forgot.” He twists around suddenly and reaches inside the bag he was carrying, then pulls out a small wrapped package. The paper is silver and tied with a black ribbon.

I stare at it. “You … brought me a gift?”

“Open it.”

With a pinch of reluctance, I take it from his outstretched palm and pull the ribbon, which comes loose at once. The paper opens to reveal his gift, which I squint at, confused.

“A toy sword?” I say, lifting it up to my face to inspect it.

“It’s a dog toy,” he explains. “A squeaky sword. For your little knight of legend, Lancelot.”

I look up at Trevor’s face, surprised by his thoughtfulness. I mean, I shouldn’t be surprised; this seems exactly like something he would do. Yet still I find myself staring at him as if he’s a guy I just met for the first time, as if I don’t really know him.

“You’re smiling,” he observes, his face flushing slightly.

I didn’t realize I was. My expression hardens, then I brandish the sword before me as if it was real. “En garde.”

He chuckles once nervously, then lifts his hands in surrender. “I’m defenseless!”