by Anyta Sunday
“What’re you staring at?”
Karl jerked at Paul’s voice. “Daydreaming.” Which wasn’t exactly a lie; there were a few modifications Karl had in his mind . . . Shit, he really should get his head out of the gutter.
“Right, well, give me a hand with this stuff.”
Karl loaded himself with a couple of large boxes, and followed Paul to the lifts, watching the guy’s muscles flex with each step. He really did have a fine ass.
Karl shut his eyes on the images playing out in his head. Jesus. What’d gotten into him? He’d never had quite such thoughts about Paul until last night. That kiss was quite literally screwing with his thoughts. He frowned at Paul in the lift mirror. What did he think about the little incident? And more importantly, would he acknowledge it—whatever curiosity he had—anytime soon?
His gaze slid downward once more, Paul had one foot raised, resting boxes on his thick, long thigh. Sooner would be better. Paul was hot, and he really wanted to . . .
Head. Out. Of. Gutter.
“Say,” Paul said, as they packed the last of the presents, “what would I have to do to convince you to let me drive us back?”
Karl laughed. “Good one.” When there was no response, only Paul’s blank face, his mouth dropped. He wasn’t serious? He’d never let anyone else drive this car. Not even Will, and they were together a while.
He looked at his keys, feeling the jagged side as he rubbed it against his thumb. And yet the idea of Paul driving didn’t seem totally out of the question. He could feel a part of him—a small part, granted, but a part nevertheless—inclined to say ‘sure, go for it.’
Karl frowned, then shook his head—No. Quickly, he slunk into the front seat, in case Paul had any playful tendencies to jump in the driver’s seat.
Paul clicked his belt. “Why not? I’m a good driver. Sort of.”
“Okay, well, ignoring that last comment: because you’re hung-over. You’ve got to be at your best before I let you behind the wheel.”
“So, that’s a maybe? Sometime soon?” Paul waggled his brows, and Karl strained to hide a smirk.
“Not if you don’t respect her.”
“Whatdoyoumean?” He reached out and patted the dashboard.
“If you cared at all, you wouldn’t have pulled a sickie and made me park down here.”
Paul fell back into his seat, laughing. “Busted.” He checked the time as Karl started the ignition. “How on earth is it five already?”
“Doesn’t surprise me. You were almost impossible to lure out of your room this morning.”
Paul glared at him. “Yeah, well, ripping the comforter off worked.”
Karl shook the image of him spread-eagled across the bed from his head. “If only I’d thought of it from the start.”
“The bacon also worked a treat.”
“Wouldn’t have had to bother with that if I’d hidden the comforter properly.”
They continued to grumble the entire drive back, only Karl had the feeling neither of them were really annoyed. And, come on, who was he kidding? He totally would’ve made the bacon anyway.
Once inside, Karl collapsed on the couch.
“Gonna shower,” Paul said, brightly. “Get me ready for this date.” He almost sprinted from the room.
Date. The word sounded somewhat sour in Karl’s head. It wasn’t that he was jealous—well, maybe a bit. His lack of social circle was more than a touch depressing. No, mainly it just confused him. In particular the amount of spring in Paul’s step just then, like he really was excited about the evening.
Maybe he should just confront him about the kiss. Ask him what it was about, and if he wanted to do it again. Hell, he could just kiss the guy and see where it went.
Yeah, great idea, because that’s not going to scare him off. His inner voice sounded a lot like his father, a Mr. Wise Guy drunk on sarcasm. No, if Paul was only drunkenly acknowledging his curiosity, he probably had a few other issues to contend with. He should just wait and see. Subtly watch for signs.
Karl filled himself a large glass of water, and gulped it down. He was lifting the second refill to his lips when Paul waltzed into the room wearing nothing but a towel around his waist, water still clinging to him from his shower. His wet hair, now darker, matted to his head and chest. Karl took a careful sip, still eyeing his defined pectoral muscles.
“Do you have any shaving cream? I could’ve sworn mine was full a few days ago.”
Crap. He’d forgotten to replace it after the last Charlie-shaving-cream escapade. “Sure. It’s in the bathroom cupboard.” Silently, he added, the bathroom you never use, even though it’s right next to your room. That little fact had surprised Karl. It was for his privacy, no doubt. But even drunk and hung-over, he’d crawled down the other end of the apartment.
Paul left Karl with a casual ‘great, thanks’.
After a quick adjustment, Karl moved back to the lounge and tried to concentrate on one of his favorite cooking channels. But for the most part, he stared at the screen without actually seeing what was on it. His thoughts kept drifting, his mind unfocused. Two things were to blame: Paul and the hangover.
On the way to the kitchen to see what it was he could make himself for dinner, he met a suited-up Paul (jacket hanging over one arm), pulling at his tie with almost a pout.
Karl laughed. “You don’t like them,”—he pointed to the dark green material—“so why?”
Paul dropped his hand. “I could do without them—”
“Just ditch it, then. Go casual. Be yourself and all that.”
“—but the restaurant I picked wouldn’t appreciate it.”
Karl shrugged. “Where’re you going?”
“Rapunzelle.”
Karl actually froze. He felt his muscles go rigid. “You got seats at the Rapunzelle? The Rapunzelle?”
“Is there another? Yes, The.”
A half-squeak-groan sound—a mixture of shock and envy—erupted from his mouth. That was the most reputed restaurant in the city, hell, maybe the state. He’d only ever dreamed of going there. Some dream, too. And here ‘boiled potatoes, fish, and a vegetable will do’ Paul was about to experience it instead of him. Him and some chica he might not see again. Life.
It doled out shit for luck.
Paul was watching him as he fumbled around the knot in his tie. Karl forced down the jealously, though it didn’t go away completely. He opened the pantry cupboard, Paul in his peripheral vision.
“Dammit.” Paul chucked the jacket onto a dining table chair next to the game shelf. He took off the tie and re-did it. “Better.” He touched his head. “Think I’d better take a couple of pain killers.”
Karl reached for the box of medicines Paul kept in the pantry, up on the top shelf. He pulled it down, opened it and fished for the pack, preparing two white pills and a glass of water as Paul slid into his jacket.
Paul knocked them back, his Adam’s apple rising up and down as he gulped the water. The glass clattered on the bench. Karl averted his gaze, only to return it when Paul said a soft, “Thanks.”
Their eyes connected. Paul’s were smiling, warm. There was something Karl found fond about the way Paul’s cheeks rose, and skin around the eyes crinkled.
“No probs,” he breathed, not sure if Paul would be able to hear it. Karl’s gaze dropped to his jacket. White dust was smeared in a stripe across the sleeve. He looked back at Paul’s face, the smile had faded somewhat, a small etch of a frown in its place, but he continued to stare. Karl leaned over the counter toward him, reaching out to wipe off what was probably some of Charlie’s chalk. Only, as he touched Paul’s arm, Paul jerked back, his frown deepening.
Karl pulled away again. What the hell? “You got some chalk on you,” he explained, though he heard the annoyed edge in his voice.
Paul rubbed the spot, his face turned toward the floor. Quickly, he spun and charged toward the door. “Gotta be on my way, or I’ll be late.”
Karl watched the back of Paul
’s jacket, until it was out of sight. He shoved the medicine box back into its rightful spot. Then eyed the glass sitting on the counter.
Slowly, he picked it up, just holding it in his hand. Paul’s reaction to his touch made his stomach feel a little hollow. It wasn’t like they didn’t touch. Paul had happily dragged him out of Culinary Heaven. Karl glanced at his arm, as if he could still feel the pressure. So why the jerk?
Karl dropped the glass into the dishwasher, closing it with a sigh. He knew the answer: it was that look. The intensity of it before Karl had leaned toward him. Maybe Paul thought it meant something else.
And maybe the thought had briefly crossed his mind as well.
Man, he was definitely confused.
8
Apricot Mango
KARL PUT THE finishing touches on the cake, carefully printing Charlie’s name in chocolate. He chewed on his bottom lip in concentration, not to ruin the apricot-mango frosting. Taking a step back, he eyed his work. “Humpf.” Maybe he could cook, but his handwriting was shocking. But who cared, really? Most of the kids couldn’t read.
“When will they be here?” he heard Charlie in the background, followed by the closing of the front door.
“Soon. You can open one of your presents if you like, buddy.” The humor in Paul’s voice stilled Karl for a moment. He’d barely heard that tone all week. Not that there was much of a chance to. Paul kept a noticeable distance between them. The evenings lacked their former easiness, the air between them thick and awkward.
He did catch Paul staring at him sometimes, but the frown on his face suggested whatever thoughts went with it, they weren’t good.
Quickly, he slid the cake into the fridge. A surprise for Charlie and his friends. Though Paul had bought a cake already. Could there ever be enough at a party? As he shut the door, Paul came into the kitchen. They looked at each other a moment before Karl stepped back, giving Paul more space to pass him. Paul cast his reddened, puffy eyes downward, and shuffled past. “Thanks.”
Yep, awkward.
And frustrating as hell.
Karl cleared his throat. “I set up a table of snacks.”
Paul finished pouring a glass of water. “You didn’t have to. It’s the weekend, I don’t expect you to—”
“Come on. It’s Charlie’s birthday. I did it because I wanted to.”
Paul swallowed and nodded, still not looking at him. “Right. That’s kind of you.” He paused a moment, then asked, “So, what did you make?”
“Some avocado salsa and brochette. Some cheese dips, and a sundried tomato pesto.”
Now Paul looked at him, but with his face all scrunched up, one corner of his mouth curled in amusement. What? “They aren’t going to eat that. They need kiddie food. Some sausages and chips. Junk food.”
Karl frowned. “Well, I put the salsa on animal shaped crackers. And there’s a bowl full of sour-cream, too.”
Paul’s expression morphed into a smile. For a moment he stared at Karl, and then snapped his gaze away. “Maybe we should add some chips and cocktail sausages.”
The doorbell buzzed before Karl could respond. He’d tried to make the food simple, yet with a bit of good taste added in there. He rolled his tongue over the chip on his front tooth. Paul had a point, though. When he was a boy he’d never had fancy food on his birthday. It was sweets and as much soda as he liked.
In the background, he heard Paul welcoming one of Charlie’s friends. A peal of feminine laughter curled its way into the kitchen. The sound only made him grind his teeth. He yanked open the fridge and glanced at the cake. Apricot and mango.
What was he thinking? He would’ve had chocolate or vanilla or something as a kid. Stupid! He gently shut the fridge, almost jumping when he saw Charlie right behind the door with Nathan from pre-school.
“Karly!”
He suppressed a retort. It was the kid’s birthday, he could call him whatever he wanted. Today.
“I saw an elephant at the zoo, and millions of monkeys. I missed you, why didn’t you come?”
Karl crouched to his level. “Sorry, I was busy. Next time, okay?” Of course, he hadn’t been busy, but he’d sensed Paul wanted some quality family time. More than that: grieving time. Sympathy filled him thick and fast; he swept the boy into a hug, wondering how often Paul had done the same thing. How hard it must be for him to celebrate on this day. Yet, other than the telltale rings around Paul’s eyes, he kept his humor. For Charlie’s sake.
He squeezed the boy tight, then laughed, “Happy birthday, Charlina.”
“Hey!” Charlie stepped back and poked his tongue at him.
Okay, seemed he couldn’t hold the retort in after all. He’d make a terrible father.
Pulling on Nathan’s arm, Charlie led him out the room. Karl stretched out of his crouch. A couple more kids zoomed by. Karl grabbed some packets of chips from the pantry and a large bowl.
He passed behind Paul at the door and stopped. Jenny’s mother had a hand on Paul’s arm, head cocked slightly to the side. She laughed. God, how blatant could flirting get? Karl noticed Paul rocking on the back of his heels and glancing to the side, as if trying to find an excuse to leave.
Not knowing why he had a sudden urge to help the man, he found himself moving toward them. “Uh, Paul,” he interrupted, “Charlie has something he wants to show you in the kitchen.” Ah, kids, they made for great excuses. He flashed an insincere apologetic look to Mrs. Kits, who thankfully dropped her arm and rushed a goodbye.
Paul started toward the kitchen as Mrs. Kits strutted to the elevators. Karl shut the door. “Paul. I made it up. Charlie’s fine playing with his friends.”
“Oh.” Paul turned back around, following Karl into the lounge swamped with balloons, which he’d blown up himself. Should have bought a pump or something.
Karl opened the chips and poured them into the bowl, not missing Paul’s sigh. “Thanks for that. She’s quite clingy, that one.”
Karl chuckled. “Must do wonders for your ego, though.”
A grin cracked Paul’s face. “Maybe.” He popped one of the salsa crackers into his mouth. Chewed. “Hey, that’s not too bad.”
“Not too bad?” Karl shook his head. “It’s fantastic. Some of the best I’ve made, I reckon.”
Paul threw a smirk. “You might want to tone down your ego.”
Karl blinked in surprise at Paul’s sudden willingness to banter with him. This was the way they were meant to interact. Much more natural. His mind edged at the frustration he’d had over the last week, missing this easiness. Yet, now it was here, he couldn’t help but wonder how long it would last.
The doorbell buzzed, and this time, Karl took the liberty of opening. He recognized the boy, Jackson, but it was the first time he’d met the mother. He smiled. “You must be Mrs. Sonn.”
Paul sidled up to him, reaching out to shake her hand. Jackson darted inside, and Mrs. Sonn glanced at him. Then at Paul and Karl. She reluctantly shook Paul’s hand, her gaze continuing to skip between the two of them. Karl clenched his teeth at her look. Similar to one he’d seen before. It could almost be his mom’s top lip pushed up in disgust.
“And who is he?” She threw a finger in his direction. A silent blow. Karl’s hand gripped the open door, squeezing.
Paul looked fazed by the question. Or maybe the directness of it (or perhaps indirectness, was more accurate).
Karl reined in the rising swirl of anger he felt inside, stopping himself from slamming the door in her face. He kept his tone level. Forced a smile. “I’m Charlie’s nanny.” There was no way he was going to say Girl Friday. Especially to this woman.
Mrs. Sonn visibly relaxed, relief transparent on her ugly-ass face. He didn’t like her at all.
As if Paul only just registered what was clear to Karl the woman was thinking, he shifted, creating more space between the two of them. As he did, Karl’s anger faded, turning bitter. With a wisp of politeness, he left the two, stalking back to the kitchen.
There, he opened and closed the fridge for no reason whatsoever, except that something nagged at him and he couldn’t grasp it. It hovered between a reminder of how badly his parents had acted towards him, and disappointment. Did Paul really have to slide away from him like that?
Karl grabbed a pot and filled it with water for something to do. Maybe cook up those cocktail wieners.
Charlie and his friends burst into the room, zigzagging through it. “We’re hungry!”
“Food’s in the lounge. Go for it.”
The kids swarmed out of the room. In the distance, a balloon popped. Wails followed. He checked around the corner to make sure nobody was broken, but Paul was already there, cooing softly to Jenny. She wiped her eyes and smiled at him.
Karl felt himself smile, too. It was just . . . nice. To see a dad really caring and not just dismissing it like his would have. Did.
Paul caught sight of him and beckoned him over. “Come join the . . . fun.” Karl could see in his expression he was crying for help. He wasn’t surprised; just one kid did him in. How did teachers manage?
Karl ducked into the kitchen, turned off the elements, then headed back to . . . save Paul.
* * *
When the last kid left, Karl dropped onto a sofa still covered in gift wrapping, and what he hoped were flecks of raspberry juice. In a word, he was shagged. In two: Never again. This was worse than the hangover. Paul collapsed on the other sofa, similarly drained.
“Next year we are hiring a bunch of babysitters to help out.”
Karl stilled, the word ‘we’ replaying in his head. ‘We’ as in Paul and Charlie, he must have meant.
Which was fine. Good even. Because of course he didn’t still want to be a Girl Friday in a year’s time. He picked himself up off the sofa and started snatching the gift paper and scrunching it into balls. A rubbish bag lay by the window; he stuffed it in there.
