by Liv Rancourt
Dad drew his brows together, then reached for the cookie. “Please.”
Mom and Jon both stared at him as he brought the cookie to his lips and gave it a nibble, favoring the right side of his mouth. “What?” Dad snapped, and they both jumped.
Bo, of course, laughed. “You two are giving the guy a complex.” He was close enough to Mom to put a hand on her arm. “Show him the stocking you finished.” Shooting Jon a glance, he tipped his head toward the microwave. “You fix his tea.”
The first-grade teacher had taken charge.
Jon couldn’t remember if cookies were on Dad’s approved food list but figured one wouldn’t hurt. With Bo’s help, Mom dragged the kitchen table close so Dad would have a place for his cup and his cookie, and they all scooted their stools to the other side of the counter island, so no one had their back to Dad.
Jon picked up his chalk pencil and set the cookie cutter on an unmarked piece of felt, while Mom and Bo murmured over design ideas.
“What about some music?”
Dad’s request caught Jon in midsnip. He set the teddy down and shifted in his seat. “I could play.” Unless it would upset the current state of peace.
“Oh, would you?” Bo grinned so brightly, Jon’s resistance faded.
He went to the living room, where the upright piano sat right inside the door. There was a book of carols stashed in the bench, and after running through some scales to warm up, he turned to page one.
If he craned his head, he could see Bo and Mom in the kitchen, and for a second, his fingers paused over the keys. He’d played in all sorts of venues, large and small, solo and part of a full orchestra, on some of the finest instruments in the world. He knew about nerves, and he had ways of managing stage fright so it wouldn’t interfere with his playing. Here in his mother’s living room, seated at the first instrument he’d ever played, he found a new sort of nervousness.
He wanted Bo to like his music. His mother would, his father likely wouldn’t, but Bo…. Bo was an unknown quantity.
He played then, fingers light on the keys, carols from the book interspersed with snippets of other stuff from memory.
“That always was my favorite.”
His father’s voice sent a thrill through Jon. What had he played? “O Little Town of Bethlehem?”
“No, son. ‘The Star-Spangled Banner.’” His father went from gruff to annoyed, and Jon snorted a silent laugh. At least Dad was consistently grumpy.
“Any other favorites?” Jon asked.
Mom paused, glue gun in hand. “Play ‘Silent Night.’”
At his father’s irritable snort, Jon stifled a grin. He played through one verse, picking the melody from memory, but Dad interrupted him.
“I’ve got a bit of a headache. Maybe you could play more later.”
“Sure.” After closing the lid to the piano, Jon returned to the kitchen, a little stunned at the sight of both his parents smiling—almost like a real family.
Bo caught him before he crossed the threshold. “Can you come here with me for a second?” Bo’s smile was tight, and his eyes were glassy.
“Um.” Jon cleared his throat. Now what? “Sure.”
Bo got a grip on his arm and half dragged him back to the living room. Jon had turned off the lamp by the piano, so for a moment they stood in darkness.
“Everything okay?”
Releasing his grip, Bo patted along the wall until he found the light switch. “What is with you people and sitting around in the dark?”
He sounded so genuinely put out, Jon had to stifle a laugh. “I’m… sorry?”
“It’s okay.” Bo faced him, taking hold of both his hands. “I wanted—” He tipped his chin toward the ceiling. “—that was gorgeous. So, so… lovely.”
“Oh, no, I—”
“You hush, is what you do, and you stand there and take a compliment.”
Jon shifted his grip so he could interlace his fingers with Bo’s. “Okay, then. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
They grinned at each other.
“I’m, uh, really glad you liked it.”
“I did.”
“Because, uh, I might have fantasized about playing for you, back in the day.”
Bo’s lashes fluttered, both exaggerated and utterly sincere. “You’re killing me,” he whispered.
“I’d rather be fucking you.” Jon whispered too.
Bo sort of softened, leaning like Jon’s body was his only source of support. “Aw, talk dirty to me, darling.”
Pulling him closer, Jon brought his lips to Bo’s ear. “Someday soon, Bo Barone. Someday soon.”
Chapter Five
IT WAS only rigatoni. Bo still chuckled to think about how thrilled the Cunninghams had been when he’d offered to make dinner. Even Jon’s father had managed a few bites, something Bo took as the greatest compliment of all.
Because yes, he knew his way around a pan of pasta, but he still liked it when people appreciated his efforts.
They’d finished thirty-six ornaments and shared a bottle of wine over dinner, and afterward Jon decreed that Bo shouldn’t drive, so they’d spent the night curled up together in Jon’s twin bed. Their physical closeness was the result of both desire and by the notable sag in the center of the mattress. Bo didn’t care, even though when he woke up, his back felt twisted like a pretzel.
“Next time we’re sleeping at my apartment.” He nuzzled Jon’s ear. They’d stripped down to their boxers and tees, and though their dicks were clearly interested in a certain morning activity, the elder Cunninghams’ presence had a quelling effect.
“I should get up and see if Dad needs anything.” Jon gave a giant stretch, wrapping an arm around Bo and pulling him closer.
It was all Bo could do not to hump Jon’s thigh. “We should both get up because if we don’t, I won’t be held responsible for my actions.”
Jon pressed a kiss to his forehead and released him. “Right.”
Not quite ready to give in, Bo grabbed his glasses and climbed on top so they lay belly to belly. “Tonight’s Christmas Eve, and I’ve got family stuff.”
Dark hair flopped across Jon’s forehead and his eyes were sleepy. Rumpled, he was entirely too sexy. “Absolutely.”
“I’d invite you to join us, but—”
“I should stay here with Mom and Dad.”
Bo nodded. He’d known the answer before he posed the question. “And tomorrow too.”
Nodding, Jon occupied himself by tracing the line of Bo’s jaw with a delicate fingertip. He had the best hands.
“Stop it.” Bo eased down till his lips were a breath away from Jon’s, parts farther south rising to the occasion. Yesterday, Jon had shown a new side of himself, a vulnerable, eager-to-please version. Behind his aloof persona, there was a Jon who needed someone to take care of him.
And Bo absolutely wanted to be that guy.
Jon’s finger kept moving, and Bo drifted so close, their lips touched when he spoke. “I mean it.”
“Mm-hm.” Jon turned the word into a kiss, and after a moment of halfhearted resistance, Bo acquiesced.
Kissing Jon Cunningham had become his favorite thing ever. They melted together, as if they’d been born to find this time and place.
His body protesting, Bo ended the kiss with a reluctant sigh. “I should go.”
He slid off the bed and onto the floor. Jon chased him with one hand, entangling his fingers in Bo’s curls and tugging gently.
“You’re one of a kind, Bo Barone. I wish—”
Bouncing off the floor, Bo tackled Jon and gave him another kiss. He didn’t want to know what Jon wished, because if it was anything close to what Bo wished, they were in for some heartache.
Jon lived in New York. Bo lived in Seattle. Jon was a classical musician. Bo taught first grade. Jon traveled a lot.
Bo didn’t.
The differences were too big for anything to bridge.
Even love.
Well, isn�
��t that just a frightening thought? Bo disentangled himself, reaching for his clothes. Jon got as far as sitting on the edge of the bed, and after one more long kiss, Bo left.
He had a couple of busy days to get through, and he tried to feel grateful for the enforced separation.
That gratitude had him sending Jon a text message every time some weird idea popped into his head. As he loaded his car with baked goods to take to his mother’s house, it started to snow.
Reminds me of our walk the other night.
He followed the text with a line of snowflake emojis. Jon responded quickly.
Got a fire in the fireplace since you’re not here to take the chill off.
Bo snorted, laughed, and blushed all at once. He sent back a string of smiley faces.
The snow made navigating the hill between his apartment and his mother’s house an extra adventure, but it didn’t stop the whole damn family from showing up. Despite the crowd of relatives, the noise, the laughter, the kids running wild up and down the stairs, Bo found himself slipping away, sending texts and holding his breath till Jon responded.
Gram asked me when I was getting married.
As soon as he hit Send on that one, he wanted to take it back. His grandmother always asked when he was going to get married. He didn’t want Jon to get the wrong idea.
Hmm… wonder if I could help with that.
Bo gave the mother of all gay gasps. Jon Cunningham was going to kill him. Dead.
I don’t accept proposals before the second date.
Jon sent a smiling emoji, and Bo figured he’d let that particular conversational thread fade. Then his phone chirped again.
So, tell me again when you’re free?
Bo adjusted his glasses.
Will Thursday work?
Someone from the party called his name. “Be right there, Aunt Lyd.” He didn’t move, never took his eyes off the phone.
Thursday would be great.
Bo had to get through tonight and Christmas Day. Two days. That was all. He plunged back into the family shenanigans. The kids all wanted to play with him, and his cousin Sharon wanted his opinion on her kitchen remodel—because the gays know all about decorating—and when his niece played “O Holy Night” on the piano, he couldn’t wipe the smile off his face.
He didn’t know what to call the thing between them that they shared, but Jon sure put an extra sparkle in his merry Christmas.
JON HUNG the repaired Christmas stockings from the mantel over the fireplace in the living room. Despite Bo’s best efforts at “zhooshing them up,” they remained simple: red velvet with gold cord trim and names spelled out in sequins. The closest thing to a decorative effect was the two colors of the sequins; the old ones were gold, the new were silver. There were two presents in Dad’s stocking, and one each in Jon’s and Mom’s.
Merry Christmas.
Once Dad woke up, Jon helped him walk to the living room, and Mom got him settled on the couch.
“Don’t do that.” Dad brushed Mom’s hands away. She’d tried to tuck a cloth napkin under his chin. “I don’t need a damned bib.”
She harrumphed; the napkin balled up in her hand. “We’re going to have breakfast out here, and I don’t want there to be a mess on the couch.”
Okay. Mom never got irritated. Jon inserted himself between his parents. “Let’s open presents.”
Mom folded the napkin in a perfect square and set it on the couch beside Dad. “Sure.”
Jon passed out the presents, and they made short work of opening them. Mom had bought him a gift card to Nordstrom’s with enough on it to buy a new suit.
“Thank you.” He gave his mother a quick hug. He’d give the card to Willy because she did a much better job picking out his clothes than he ever could.
She liked to shop, and he liked to look good. Their partnership worked.
Bo could probably help you shop too.
Jon squelched that line of thinking before it could really take hold. He had tasks: bring the breakfast—scrambled eggs and banana muffins from Whole Foods—out to the coffee table and refresh everyone’s coffee.
“So, what about that young man?”
Dad’s question interrupted his flow. “Young man?”
“Bo. The one who cooked us dinner.”
Jon had to mentally replay the statement, because understanding Dad’s poststroke language could be tricky. “Bo. Yeah. We went to school together.” And if I’m remembering right, he was my first crush.
Not that Jon would ever tell his parents that. They’d been cool when he came out to them before he left for Juilliard, but his family relied on secrets and silence to keep the peace.
“He was a lovely young man.” Mom’s irritation had passed, and her smile was warm and normal. “I hope we get to see him again.”
He stood between the couch and the door, his mouth flapping open. “Yeah, um—”
“First time you brought a guy home, that I can remember.” Dad drilled him with a hard stare. “I guess that must mean you like him.”
“Dad!” If he made a run for the stairs, neither would be able to stop him.
“He has a point,” Mom said.
Jon threw up his hands, laughing at them. “Just because I invited him over here doesn’t mean… doesn’t mean… anything.” Did it mean something? He was afraid to ask himself.
His parents shared a glance, back in sync with each other. They had the ability to hold entire nonverbal conversations, the result of living together for almost thirty years.
Jon would be lucky to find someone who’d put up with him for that long. And he deliberately did not think of Bo right then.
“Calm down.” The humor in Dad’s voice made him blush. “You didn’t finish your breakfast.”
With another defensive chuckle, Jon dropped onto the overstuffed chair closest to the coffee table. When he looked up, Mom was smiling at him. “You’re fine, dear. I hope we do get to see Bo again. That’s all.”
Jon’s answering smile was more tentative. “Me too.”
Chapter Six
THE WAITING almost killed him. By the time Bo parked his car in front of Jon’s family home on Thursday night, he was a tangle of nerves and desire. He had their evening all planned out: dinner at a French bistro in a quiet neighborhood, then a nightcap at his apartment.
Because damn it, this time they’d do more than kiss good night.
Or at least Bo hoped they’d do more.
Maybe this whole thing was a fantasy he’d cooked up between batches of panettone. Yes, he remembered their past friendship, and yes, Jon’s touch sent sparks through Bo’s body. But for pity’s sake, a good hookup in a club could do that.
Right?
Bo flipped down the visor and checked on his hair. He tucked in a loose end, straightened his glasses, and opened the car door.
Jon stood on the front step, watching him. Bo nearly jumped out of his skin.
“Sorry.” Jon tried to cover his smile with his fist. “Dad didn’t have a great night, but he’s finally asleep, so….”
Bo didn’t stop walking until they were toe to toe. The step gave Jon another five or six inches in height, and Bo tipped his head to smile at him. “No problem, doll. I’ve been looking forward to seeing you all day long.”
Jon’s smile might have dimmed. Or did it? The sun had set over an hour ago, the sconce by the door was dim, and the change was subtle, the kind of thing Bo used to torture himself. He must be coming on too strong. He eased back a step and swept one hand toward the car. “Your chariot awaits.”
Sophisticated New Yorkers didn’t roll their eyes, but Jon came close. “You are the corniest cornball ever.”
Bo bit down on his lower lip so he wouldn’t laugh, but Jon’s smirk made him lose control. “Get in the car,” he managed to choke out between giggles. “I can’t believe you said that to me.”
“And I can’t believe you referred to your—” Jon gave the car a once-over. “—Mini as a chariot. It’s way c
ooler than that.”
He likes my car. Bo hit the key fob, and they both climbed in. Heading toward the Montlake Bridge, he broke the silence by promising Jon would like where they were going.
“I’m sure I will.” Jon gazed out the passenger window.
Something was… off. “Everything okay?” Bo had to ask.
“Sure.”
Jon’s smile was so unconvincing Bo almost stopped the car. “What? Is your dad okay?”
“Yeah.” Jon tossed the hair out of his eyes. “I mean, no, but he had an okay day. It’s… shit.”
Bo hit the blinker. He didn’t want to ruin a perfectly good dinner by spending the whole time trying to figure out what had upset Jon. At the next intersection, he took a right and pulled the Mini to a stop on a side street. With his hands in his lap and the parking brake set, he turned to Jon. “Tell me.”
Jon’s expression was remote enough to give Bo frostbite. “I got a message from Willy. The Othello Chamber Orchestra has a performance on New Year’s Eve, and the pianist they hired broke his hand. They want me to fill in.”
Bo tried to adjust his thinking to accommodate that information. “So, you’ll be leaving….”
“I have to decide by tomorrow, by tonight, really, and if I take the gig, I’ll have to fly out on the twenty-eighth.”
“Tomorrow’s the twenty-seventh.”
“Yeah, I guess it is.”
Bo shifted from Park to Drive. “So this may be our last hurrah.” Jon should spend his last night at home with his mom and dad and not messing around with a guy he’d never see again.
Though Bo really, really didn’t want tonight to be the end.
“Well, I haven’t talked with my parents yet.”
Pulling out into the road, Bo gave him what he hoped was a sympathetic grin. “That’ll be a hard conversation.”
“I mean, yes and no.” Jon clasped his hands in his lap, as if to steady himself. “They’re not going to be happy, but they understand the bigger picture.”
“Bigger picture?”
“Well, yeah. Gigs with the Othello Ensemble don’t just fall out of the sky. I’ve worked damned hard to get myself on their short list. I can’t turn them down.”
