by Anyta Sunday
“Like Piglet?”
Karl wiped his hands on the apron he’d found in the bottom drawer of the oven. How could he get out of this conversation? “Um . . . no, not like Piglet. That’s Pooh’s friend. Hey,” he grabbed two plates, a white china one for Paul, and a sturdier plastic one for the boy, “put those on the table.”
Charlie slid off the stool and took them to the table, carefully setting them opposite each other. Thank God for short attention spans, he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to be telling him.
Now if only Paul would get back and take over. He checked his watch for the tenth time. Quarter past seven. Probably held up with something important. Maybe he’d better start feeding the kid.
Grabbing a plate for himself—why not?—he dished out two portions. Another watch check. Seven-thirty. “All right, eat up.”
Charlie eyed his dinner plate. “What about Papa?”
“He’ll be here soon.” Karl decided to help himself, and started with a taste of pesto. Not bad, maybe needed a bit more parmesan, but okay.
Something wet and slimy hit his face. What the—
Charlie giggled, dropping the incriminating spoon still half covered in sweet potato puree.
The rascal! “You don’t want to do that,” Karl said in a level tone—doing his best to not to laugh.
“Why?”
“It’s naughty.”
“It’s fun.”
Charlie flicked more puree. Nope, so not happening. Karl grabbed the spoon off him, and the boy started to pout. He tried to think of something a parent might say. “It’s not how to act at the dinner table.” Unless there are siblings annoying the crap out of you.
The glob of puree Charlie had managed to land on his forehead slid down over his eye. Charlie started to laugh. Karl picked up the spoon, nice and calm did it. “You know another reason you shouldn’t do it?”
He aimed at him and grinned. “It’s not nice if it happens back to you.”
Charlie jumped up as the puree hit him. “Ew. Ick. It’s slimy. It’s in my hair. Get it out. Get it out.”
Karl cracked up, grabbing the boy and chucking him over his shoulder, ready to head for the bathroom. “She-sha! She-sha!”
Exactly that moment, Paul came into the room. Karl’s laughter died. “Didn’t hear the front door.”
Great, first day and he not only had to deal with a food fight. He’d participated. He gave Paul an embarrassed smile and dropped Charlie to the floor.
“Papa! My magic works!”
Paul tousled his hair as Charlie threw his arms around him, but his gaze roamed the dining table and came back to Karl’s face. He cocked a brow. Damn.
“Yeah, we got a little carried away.”
* * *
While Paul put Charlie to bed, Karl stacked the dishwasher and wiped up the remainder of the puree play from under the table. He righted himself out of a crouch and aimed the cloth at the sink.
“Shot.”
Paul’s voice startled him. Karl glanced at him standing in the doorway. No, strike that, leaning on the doorframe, arms crossed, his tie and jacket removed and shirtsleeves rolled up. How long had he been there? Shit, he was watching how well he cleaned up. Jesus. Anal retentive, much?
Karl moved toward the hall. Paul stepped forward at the same time, unintentionally blocking him. Maybe. “I’ll be right out of your way,” Karl said, stepping to the side.
At the same time as Paul.
They looked at each other. The side of Paul’s lip quirked into a grin. “You don’t have to disappear for my sake, you know. In fact, before you go anywhere, how was the day with Charlie?”
Paul’s eyes seemed to glitter in amusement. What had the boy told him? Karl shrugged and gave his boss a run-down of the day. During which, Paul snuck into the kitchen and pulled a couple of beers from the fridge. He handed him one.
Before he knew it, they were both flopped on the sofa, bantering in the living room. However it’d transitioned to that, he was grateful. It sure beat spending an evening alone in his room. Or worse, going out into the city on his lonesome. Shit, he really needed to make some friends.
“You want another?”
Paul grabbed Karl’s empty bottle as he nodded. “Sure.”
While Paul was gone, Karl sprung up out of the sofa and admired the night view of the city. He tried to make out where exactly he’d dropped Charlie off this morning. Before he found it, he noticed Paul standing a bit behind him, reflected in the window. He couldn’t be a hundred percent sure exactly what he was looking at, but he continued to stare without making a sound.
Karl watched Paul’s ghost in the window. When he moved slightly to the left, the quality was better. Broad shoulders tapered into a thin mid-section, and his shirt had, sometime in the last half-hour, become untucked. If the guy turned just a bit, he’d get a nice profile of his ass. Karl’s mouth suddenly felt dry. And there was a definite explanatory twitch below that came with it. He bit the inside of his mouth and re-focused on the city.
In control again, Karl rubbed the back of his neck, giving Paul some indication he was about to turn.
Paul hastened toward the sofa, beer bottles clinking, reddening as if he’d been busted.
Taking one of the beers, Karl resumed his spot on the sofa. Instead of sitting next to him like before, Paul lounged himself on the leather three-seater at right angles to him, the coffee table a yard of buffer zone between them.
“So, I’ve been told,” Karl started, feeling a little mischievous and genuinely curious, “you’re quite the ladies man.”
Paul dropped into the back of the sofa, visibly relaxing. He shrugged. “I don’t know about that.”
“From what I hear, you go out with one once or twice a week. That’s . . . something.”
Paul snorted. “Twice a week is an exaggeration.”
Karl raised a brow.
Paul, realizing his admission, hurried into an explanation, “I’m not a player or anything. I don’t ever promise them anything—I make that clear right from the start.”
“It’s okay, man. I’m not judging.”
There was a short pause, then, “Not judging because you’re a player, or . . . ?”
Karl blew out his breath, making the top of the bottle whistle. “I’m not into casual sex if that’s what you mean. And”—He placed his bottle on the coffee table—“I’ve been too busy to date much anyway.” Karl kept his gaze on the bottle, watching it jump as he shut one eye and then the other.
Paul’s knee started to bounce as he, thankfully, changed subject. “So, why’d you move to the city?”
“Needed a job, there isn’t much back home.”
“Okay, Karl, I have to ask, why do you need a job so desperately? That Lamborghini of yours makes me think you come from some pretty serious money.”
“Used to come from, before the folks cut me off . . . The car’s all I’ve got.”
“They disowned you? Cold.” Paul hesitated. “Why? No, never mind. Shouldn’t have asked that.”
They both swigged at the same time, then caught each other’s eye. Paul quickly dropped it again. “You know,” he said, “you could—”
“Nope. Not selling the car.”
Paul looked puzzled at this. Karl guessed he couldn’t blame him. He let out a heavy breath. “Look, it’s the only thing I have left of my grandpa.”
Karl felt his anger rise, remembering how his parents had taken all of pop’s ashes, refusing him any access. His hand gripped the bottle, and he wanted to squeeze so hard it’d break.
Paul stood up, plucked it from him, and rested it next to his own on the coffee table. He sat next to him, perhaps a half-yard apart, swiveled in his direction. With a quick jerk, Paul shoved a wrist into his view. “I get that you wouldn’t want to sell it. This watch was the last thing my wife gave me. I’m going to be buried in this. And possibly one of my Armani suits, because damn they’re comfy.”
Karl forced a laugh at his attempt to humor him. Somewhere along th
e way, it became genuine. Weren’t they just a couple of screwed up men, eh? He met Paul’s gaze directly. Thanks for that.
The dishwasher beeped in the background. Back to the present. Karl went to stand up, but Paul stopped him, a hand at his shoulder. “You don’t have to do all the cleaning. I’m able to put away some dishes. Flick on the TV, relax. I’ll bring out another beer when I’m done.”
And that was that. The beginning of a beautiful friendship.
Karl chuckled and lunged for the remote.
6
Among Other Things
THE NEXT THREE weeks played out much the same as day one. That is, he was thoroughly wiped out at the end of each day, and was secretly (or sometimes bluntly) relieved the little one had gone to bed. He’d also made a habit of finding some excuse or other to hang out in the living room or kitchen and not his bedroom, which almost always lead to shooting the shit with Paul. Karl smiled just thinking about it. Fuck, he couldn’t remember really what they’d said, but there’d been beer, they’d laughed. And it felt comfortable.
He kept waiting for the day when Paul would ask him to babysit, so he could take out one of the crowds of women Natasha had talked about. But maybe he wanted to wait to go out nights until after the trial period. “Which is today,” he murmured under his breath as he parked outside the pre-school.
As quickly as he could, Karl had Charlie buckled in his seat. He intended to whip something extra special up tonight. Something to tip the balance in case a decision hadn’t been made. But surely it’d be a yes. Better be.
A minute later they were cruising toward home.
“So, what’d you learn at school today?”
Charlie kicked his legs about as he answered, “All about soup-armies.”
Soup armies? Like, what did they teach kids at this school? He’d hate to think how much Paul was paying for this.
“It’s scary. I don’t like soup-armies.”
Was this kid play? Did they have bread soldiers or something and make games with their lunch? “Um . . . what don’t you like about them?”
“All that water crashing onto houses and dragging them into the sea.”
Karl chuckled. “Oh, you mean tsunamis.”
“Yep, that’s what I said. Souparmies.”
And he couldn’t hold it back. The laugh erupted out of him. The funny little bugger. But more than that, the truth was—not that’d he’d be admitting it to anyone anytime—he had a soft spot for the kid. A none too small one, either. Shit. He drummed his fingers over the steering wheel as they waited at a light. Let this go without a hitch.
* * *
The top of the crème brûlée cracked beautifully, the creamy, smooth base silky to swallow. He couldn’t have made it better, if he could say so himself. Just watching Paul’s eyes momentarily close as he slid the spoon out of his mouth was, oh God yeah, payment enough.
The smacking of lips broke the small pause in their conversation. It was strange not having Charlie yapping at dinner and even stranger eating alone, just him and Paul. With a night view of the city, and without any plastic plates or cups on the table, and—shoot, the lighting was dim.
“You’re awfully quiet,” Paul said, a small frown cutting into his forehead.
“If I’d known Charlie’s grandparents were picking him up for the weekend and this is your night off from family dinners, I wouldn’t have cooked.”
Paul feigned a hurt expression. “You wouldn’t have done this just for me?”
Karl didn’t say anything for fear of blurting out, perhaps a little too passionately, that hell yeah he would have. He shrugged. “Maybe you had other plans for your child-free evening.”
Paul, who’d changed out of his suit and into jeans and a T-shirt the moment Laura’s folks left, leaned back in his chair and rested a hand on his flat stomach. “I’m meeting a couple of friends later, I’d thought of grabbing something on the way. This trumps that big time.” He turned his head to the side and gazed out the windows. “I’ve wanted to ask this for a while, and don’t take it the wrong way, but, why aren’t you working in the food industry? A restaurant or something?”
Karl joined him looking out onto the city. “I will someday. In the meantime, at least I can practice on you and Charlie. Though, the fact your kid doesn’t like artichoke heart pesto makes me worry.”
Paul laughed, shaking his head, and got up and cleared the table. Then started on the pots. “Where did all these come from?” He shook his head, but humor tinged his tone. “Did you abuse the household account?”
Karl dropped the wooden board he’d brought into the kitchen onto the bench. Paul gave a startled jump at the slamming sound.
“Shit, Paul,” he probably shouldn’t have sworn in this moment when he was talking to his boss, but the anger swept over him so suddenly, “I know I’ve done some crappy things in my life, but I don’t, haven’t and won’t steal.” He heeled out of the kitchen toward his room. “I got them with my own money.”
Well that’d gone smoothly. Karl washed off the—actually, it was more hurt than anger—in the shower. For a while now, it’d been so easy to forget what their roles were. Actually, okay, he’d kind of hoped—thought?—they were friends.
He crushed the bar of soap to the shape of his hand. Just the thought that Paul possibly didn’t trust him stung. Granted, they’d only known each other three weeks, but it’d felt like they were getting closer. Maybe that was all in his head and Paul was just waiting for him to slip up. Or maybe he was getting way too worked up over this.
After he dried and changed, a rat-a-tap-tap came at his door. Karl walked over and opened.
Paul had a small, meek smile on his face. He hooked his thumbs into his pockets. “Sorry, Karl. I wouldn’t have actually cared. I was being a bit of a prick that afternoon I showed you around. I just saw you in the kitchen and, although I’d just given you the job, I sort of resented how happy you looked. If you’d been anyone else, I would’ve said you could buy whatever you needed. That stroke of stinginess came out of nowhere.” He took his hands out of his pockets, then, as if he couldn’t find a comfortable way to position them, stuffed them back in. “Look, I really don’t want you buying kitchen stuff with your pay. Let me reimburse you. And,” he took another breath, “again, sorry.”
Yep, too worked up. How was it Paul could erase his anger/hurt so effectively that he now felt on a semi-high? Still, he kept a scowl on his face. He didn’t want to show how easily he’d forgiven him. Though, dammit, it was become harder and harder to hold. In fact—shit—yep, he was smiling.
As if answering him, Paul’s expression morphed into a relieved state, his smile growing, too. “So, what are your plans for tonight?”
“Um . . . ” Karl searched for something to say, quick, so he didn’t look as pathetic as he was. Because the truth: he’d imagined the night just like all the others, tucked up on the sofa, chatting away with him. “I was thinking of”—he scratched the back of his neck—“um—”
Paul finished for him. “You’re coming with me. I think you need a night out in this city.”
“I don’t think—”
“Shut it.” He grinned. “You’re coming.”
* * *
Three rounds, and three bottoms-up into the evening, Karl had to admit two things. One: Paul had some decent friends. Two: the shirt he’d worn was a mistake. The stupid tag itched him something crazy. And only with an effort did he force himself to bear it. Though he really wanted to continue the conversation—hell the whole night—with one hand permanently stuffed down the back of his collar. Scratching.
Tirone and Gillian were laughs, and, like Paul, easy to get on with. They worked in the television industry and, he’d discovered when Paul left for the bathroom, they’d met through Laura—who also used to work in their unit, editing for a local documentary channel.
“He was in a funk for a long time after Laura,” Gillian told him, biting her bottom lip and smudging her teeth with lipstick. �
�Only in the last three quarters of a year he’s seemed to be regaining some sort of life balance. This is the first time in months we’ve met up to go out. And the first time since she died that he suggested it. I nearly fell off my chair when he rang.”
Tirone eyed Karl up, assessing rather than checking out, which was somewhat of a shame, because the guy was beautiful. Black, well-built, with endless legs, and a winning smile. Although right now he held a more serious expression. “Paul’s been through a lot. We’d hate to see anything more happen to him.”
Karl tried to digest the meaning of those words but couldn’t swallow past the feeling there was a warning in there. For him. But what was he? Just Paul’s Girl Friday. And Paul could fire his ass any time. Who knew, that might happen very soon yet.
The fourth round came just after Paul re-seated himself on the stool next to Karl. The waitress’s tray wobbled as she set down the first of the long-island black teas. At the same time, he and Paul reached up to steady it, each placing a hand on the opposite side. Their gazes met over the drinks, a grin playing at Paul’s lips. He really did have such smooth lips. They let go of the tray, but Karl couldn’t seem to glance away. And neither did Paul. Gillian’s voice broke the contact.
“Okay, being half all your sizes, I’m just going to sip this round.” She flipped her long dark hair as she spun to look at Tirone. “That does not mean I’m sober and will help drag your drunk-ass back to your apartment.”
“Hey-hey Ms. Pink Teeth,”—Tirone took the straw out of the glass and gulped—“I can handle my drink.”
Which was true for the next three bars.
In the fourth one, he lost the ability to control his tongue. Tirone slipped an arm around Gillian, kissing her cheek. “You’re so bootiful. All the guys are staring at you like they want some.” He threw his other arm over Karl. “’Cept him, of course.” He leaned over and pecked his cheek, effectively draining the blood from his face with it. And sobering the buzz in him right up. Shit.
Karl slunk out of Tirone’s grasp, mumbling something about ordering another drink. A much needed one. He didn’t dare look at Paul. Straight to the bar. “Scotch, dry.”
