No Saint (Wild Men 6)

Despite knowing he is unsure of himself, too, that he doesn’t think I’d want him.

The world is a strange place, time changing everything, reversing roles like it’s a child’s game, turning in circles—and where we once were enemies locked in an endless fight, now we’re holding hands.

Does he know he’s holding my beating heart in his palm?

As we walk, he pulls me to the side of the street, making me stumble, then catching me around the waist and twirling me around. He startles a laugh out of me, and he turns me around again, smiling down at me.

“You know what?” He mutters, leaning down to kiss me. “I could get used to this.”

“God, me, too.”

“We could go down to the river,” he says, voice growing husky. “Nobody will see us. I’ll get you naked and have my wicked way with you.”

This time my laugh is breathless. It does sound good. “And the surprise?”

“God, you don’t give up, do you?” he snickers. “It’s stupid. I cooked for you.”

“That’s not stupid.” I grin at him, my heart leaping. “What did you make?”

“Don’t get your hopes up. I can’t cook to save my life. But Dad taught me this, at least, and it should be edible. Come see.”

He drags me to the front of the house, and we stand staring down at a hole in the ground filled with rocks and burning coals, several objects wrapped in aluminum foil mixed with them.

“Oh wow, it’s just like camping,” I say and turn in a circle, taking in the trees, the house, the lantern he’s left swinging on the porch, the glow from the coals. “I love it.”

“Cool.” He seems pleased with my reaction. “Here are potatoes and onions and I’ll throw in the sausages now you’re here. I hope you eat this stuff.”

“It’s great,” I insist, touched and not sure why. Or maybe I do know: he’s trying to please me, take care of me in his turn. He’s showing me facets of himself I didn’t know before. Allowing me closer.

He goes into the house and comes out with sausages on a grill pan. Crouching down, he lays it over the coals and stones and pokes at the wrapped veggies with a stripped branch. He has an afghan laid in front of the pit, with two flat cushions of questionable cleanness—not that I mind. He’s thought this out, I realize, spent time digging out the pit and setting the whole thing up.

He probably had to go and buy the coals, and I wonder where he got the sausages and potatoes and all that if the grocer won’t sell to him. Wonder if Stacy is back and let him inside the store. There are people who like him in the town, who see past who he used to be.

The only thing missing is string lights hanging on the porch, but instead we have the stars. The clouds have cleared since this morning and the milky way streams over us, a mirror to the waterway below, the stars sparkling like fireflies.

“You ever done this before?” he asks, shooting me a sideways glance, mouth quirking in a crooked grin, and I shake my head. “I thought that living with two guys you’d be camping all the time.”

“Nah. Dad’s not like that.”

“Like what?”

“I mean, he likes cooking. His breakfast staples are fried green tomatoes and gooey butter cake. He makes a mean roast, and amazing deep pan pizza. He likes his home, his kitchen, his TV and his couch.” I grin back at him. “And Josh... he wouldn’t be caught dead in a place without electricity and internet. He’s a hardcore gamer.”

“A place with no electricity isn’t good, huh? Yeah, he probably wouldn’t like it here.” His eyes are back on the fire pit, and I just stand there and watch him, overcome with such a wave of tenderness it takes my breath away.

“I like it here,” I whisper.

My boy. My man. When did he become that? So much more than a crush, so much deeper than a Summer fling.

And we’ve sure been through some intense times this Summer, that’s for certain. He came so close to dying, and he stood up for me, he showed me the workings of his mind, the powers behind the cogs and levers of his thoughts and actions, and it made me fall all the harder for him.

I crouch down beside him, watching the flames play across his face, then he gives me the stick and I take my turn poking at stuff, not knowing what I am doing. He laughs and puts his hand over mine, and together we shove the potatoes and onions further under the hot stones, covering them up.

And then he takes the stick away from me, lays it down, and tugs on me until we’re sitting on the afghan and the dirty cushions, his arms around me, and there’s nowhere else in the world I’d rather be. No palace can compare to this overgrown yard as night falls, with the glow of the fire and the rustling of the trees, with the feel of his strong body pressed to mine.

Later, as we eat the cooling sausages, potatoes and onions with our fingers, he cocks his head at me, putting down his fare on the grill pan, a thoughtful expression entering his gaze.

“You know... my dad wasn’t all bad.”