I chuckled.
I had to think back a little. Gideon and I had established a handful of routines during our short relationship, and they had evolved into something different over time. Usually when he grew bolder and opened up more.
“He’s been consistently dominant in the bedroom,” I answered. It was the easiest one to start with. “I kinda wanna believe that I’m more dominant the rest of the time, though. I love taking care of him and making sure he eats and sleeps properly. He’s my papito.”
Anthony hummed and lit up a smoke. “I’m not surprised. You’re a natural caregiver.”
“And he needs it, I think,” I said. “It isn’t a matter of what he’s capable of—the man has taken care of himself all this life. It’s just…with me, the leash isn’t as short.”
“What do you mean?”
“Like how he’s closed himself in,” I answered. “He created this box—to use his words—where everything was safe and running on a perfect schedule. He didn’t give himself any room to push boundaries and try new things.”
“Okay, I’m with you.” Anthony nodded. “You’re more like a doting mother, but you’re not afraid to shove the fears outta someone.”
“I’m not like a mother.” I slapped his arm.
He chuckled. “You fucking are, bambino. I know because I’m the same. I saw you fuss over him tonight. It’s cute.”
Fine, he had me there.
“That’s why I think you should put yourself out there,” he told me. “Tell him you want more. Fight for him. Lead the way like you’ve led the way so far. Maybe he needs it.” He tapped his temple. “Think about it. If he’s unsure, he could get stuck. Breaking patterns is hard on most of us, and we don’t gotta worry about anxiety.”
He had a point.
I chewed on the inside of my cheek.
“Tell him what a life with you could be like,” he finished.
What could a life with me be like?
“I gotta say, he brings out the best in you, little brother.”
I had to agree. Gideon centered me too. He calmed me down a little, and I liked it.
“Tonight, you were…” Anthony let out a whistle. “You reached a new level. Same with the recital.”
I smirked and drained my first beer. Yeah, tonight had been good.
“I can’t wait for Nashville,” I said. “It’ll be mad.”
“Mm.” He nodded slowly and took a swig. “I’ll be heading down a week before the festival, by the way.”
“Huh?” I looked to him, puzzled. We were gonna charter a bus and go all of us together.
For some reason, Anthony appeared uncomfortable. Not in a serious way, more like he was embarrassed by something.
“Don’t give me shit,” he warned me. “There’s a food festival I wanna go to, and I haven’t taken a vacation in years.”
I furrowed my brow. “Why would I give you shit for that?”
Hell, I was all for him taking some time off.
He cleared his throat. “I remember last time I took a cooking class…”
I started snickering. I couldn’t fucking help it. Leave it to my brother to fail at boiling spaghetti. He was a lousy Italian.
“Yeah, that’s what I’m talking about,” he grated. “Fuck you.”
I cracked up and reached for another beer.
Man, I needed that laugh.
“Okay, what, so there’re cooking classes at this festival?” I chuckled.
He nodded curtly. “I won a ticket from this chef I follow on Instagram.”
Sweet baby Jesus, I was so fucking torn. Part of me wanted to laugh my ass off, but the bigger part of me just found him adorable. It was Anthony in a nutshell. He followed old students on Insta to give them praise and encouragement, and I could picture him fawning over some chef too. In his own way. He wasn’t exactly fanboy material—he was too rough around the edges for that—but if he liked someone, in any way, he wanted to let them know. He always showed appreciation. It was sweet as hell.
I suppressed my amusement and tried to be less of a dick. “How did you win it?”
He shrugged, acting indifferent and bitchy. “There was a giveaway. He asked his followers to write in a comment the last thing we’d made for dinner. So I wrote ‘Oatmeal, because it’s the one thing I can’t mess up.’”
Le-fucking-git. Coincidentally, the times he’d tried to make pasta, it ended up looking like oatmeal.
“Here.” He trapped his beer between his knees and pulled out his phone. A few clicks later, and he was showing me the profile of this chef. “That’s him.”
And he had a Pride flag emoji in his bio; were we not gonna mention that?
“My hope is to leave Nashville with the ability to cook at least one good dinner,” he said.
“Hon, are you sure that’s your only hope?” I grabbed the phone and squinted at the profile photo. That Southern gentleman was easy on the eyes, so to speak. Charming smile, fair bit of gray in his hair, dimples, flannel, arms folded over his chest, and solid forearm game.