by John Inman
Milo followed along, and while Logan closed the door behind them, he stared into the apartment with a look of wonder on his face. “Wow,” Milo breathed. “This is beautiful. Built-in cabinets and bookshelves, fireplace, overhead fans, broad ceiling beams in—what is that, polished teak?—and flagstone floors. The rent must be astronomical.”
“Not as high as you might think,” Logan answered. “And it’s locked in for two years, so I don’t have to worry about it going up for a while.”
“Cool.” Milo stared at Logan’s leather sofa, then at the high-backed wing chairs and heavy wooden accent tables. He looked around the room, tapping his finger to his chin as if trying to figure out if he was pleased with the arrangement or not. He shot a mischievous glance at Logan’s worried countenance and grinned. “You did good. You’ve put everything in exactly the right place.”
Logan breathed an exaggerated sigh of relief. “Thank God. Since your call, I rearranged it three times and finally ended up putting everything back where it started.”
Milo gave a gleeful snort. “Boy, I must scare you to death.”
Logan’s ears began to burn, but for some reason he didn’t much care. He realized suddenly that Milo hadn’t been in his apartment more than a minute and a half, and he was already having a great time. Hopefully Milo was too.
“Let me get you a beer,” he said and rushed off into the kitchen. To his amusement, Milo followed along right behind him, exclaiming happily about everything he saw: the prints on the walls, the roomy dining area with a second tiny fireplace in the corner, the rounded ceilings, the vertical wooden blinds on the windows. The setting sun drenched the kitchen in orange light through a floor-to-ceiling window facing another jacaranda tree outside in the complex’s inner courtyard. Another ceiling fan hung above a cozy kitchen breakfast nook. A small pantry, like a back porch, led away from the kitchen to the rear.
“Is that a back door?” Milo asked in amazement.
Logan laughed. “Yeah. I don’t remember ever seeing an apartment with a back door before. Seems kind of homey, don’t you think?”
“I do indeed.” Milo smiled as he took the offered beer from Logan’s hand.
“And check this out,” Logan said, grinning. He pointed to a tiny oblong opening in the wall with a metal flap over it that stood beside the back door about a foot off the floor. “Ever see one of those?”
Milo stared at it, as if trying to figure out what it was. He finally gave up. “No. What is it?”
Proudly, Logan exclaimed, “That’s where the milkman used to deliver the milk!”
Both men laughed. “Wow!” Milo said. “This building is older than I thought it was.”
A companionable silence settled in while Milo continued to gaze around, taking everything in.
Logan pointed to the sofa in the other room. “Sit. Make yourself comfortable.”
Milo did as directed, patting the sofa cushion beside him as he sat. Still blushing, but hopefully not as much, Logan accepted the invitation. He dropped onto the sofa at Milo’s side and stretched his long legs out in front of him. Both men relaxed and sipped at their beers straight from the bottle.
After a short span of silence that Logan didn’t find unsettling at all, much to his surprise, he turned to Milo and said, “I really do appreciate you coming over. I haven’t done much socializing since, well, since everything happened with Jerry and all. If I start seeming awkward with my social interactions, don’t think it’s you. Just chalk it up to disuse.”
Milo smiled. “Don’t worry. I have a bad habit of interacting enough for everybody. I probably won’t even notice you’re there at all.”
Logan laughed. “Well, that makes me feel special. I’m more comfortable already.”
Milo barked out a chortle while his green eyes settled on Logan. “Good,” he said, still teasing, but a little more gently this time. Tucking his beer bottle between his legs, he looked away to gaze about the room again. “This really is a terrific apartment. I can’t imagine anybody in their right mind not being happy here.”
Logan shrugged, trying not to seem evasive but knowing he probably came off that way. “I guess we’ll see.” He cleared his throat and not so deftly changed the subject. “Are you ready to go walking?”
Milo gave him a lingering look that seemed to indicate he knew exactly what Logan was doing. Still, he dutifully poured the last of his beer down his throat and hopped to his feet. Reaching down, he took Logan’s hand and pulled him to his feet as well. They stood close, each man smiling at the other, Milo’s head tilted back, Logan’s tilted down.
Suddenly embarrassed, Logan pried his eyes away and plucked the empty bottle from Milo’s fingers. Downing the last of his own beer, he set both bottles on the coffee table.
“Let’s go, then,” he said. “I’ll let you lead the way.”
“Slob,” Milo chided, and scooping up the empty bottles, he carried them to the kitchen where, after a quick search, he dropped them into a trash can he found under the sink.
“Uh-oh,” Logan said. “You’ve got me pegged already.”
IT WAS a pleasant thirty-minute stroll from Logan’s front door to Seaport Village, a touristy shopping mecca situated on the southwestern rim of the city at land’s end, snugly abutting the San Diego Bay. With more than seventy freestanding shops, built in varying styles of architecture from Victorian to Mexican to Tudor, it offered a panoramic view of the waterfront. Milo and Logan weaved in and out among the storefronts, window-shopping here, stopping for an ice cream cone there, eyeing the easy blend of tourists and locals, each looking just as contentedly at home as the other. Not too far in the distance they could see the Coronado Bridge arching over the water, connecting the mainland to the city of Coronado, where Logan and Milo had first met.
They ambled along the cobblestone path at the water’s edge and stared out as a Navy destroyer rumbled past, heading into port, the flume in its wake churning up orange sparks as the setting sun painted the water fiery red. Stopping to watch the ship sail majestically by, the sound of its great engines thrumming across the water, Milo was more than aware of Logan’s physical presence beside him. His height. The way his hands moved when he talked. The easy way he strode along, the relaxed way he rested a hip on the concrete railing as he lost himself in the beauty before him. When he muttered, “Wow,” under his breath as he stared out at the water, Milo was pleased.
“Gorgeous, isn’t it?” Milo asked, feeling proud and more than a little proprietary, since this was one of his favorite spots in the city.
Logan nodded, clearly impressed with the broad bay laid out before him, drenched with the flaming light of sunset, and the cawing of seagulls swooping overhead, their wings burnished gold by the dying sun. He lifted his hand as if in greeting to the sailors in their dress blues neatly manning the destroyer’s railing off in the distance, standing at parade rest, their crisp uniforms flapping in the wind as they floated past. If they saw him, they didn’t show it.
Even Milo found himself wondering about the sailors. Were they as enamored of their calling as they appeared, or was it all just a job to them, this pomp and circumstance of returning to port after God knows how long at sea? A day, two months, a year? Were they as proud of their ship as they appeared, or were they simply eager to get their feet on solid ground again and hustle off to get laid, or drunk, or spend time with the people who had hopefully missed them while they were deployed, off sailing the seven seas for God and country?
Logan spoke softly while his hair thrashed around in the gusting wind rolling in off the water. “In New York, the beauty of the bay gets lost in the bustle and filth and chaos of the city. Barges, tugboats, gray skies, dirty water, floating trash, sirens forever screaming in the distance. Here the water is peaceful and blue, the way it should be. You can hear the terns. The air is clear.” He turned his eyes to Milo and smiled. “You have a beautiful city here. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Milo fought the urge to get lost
in Logan’s dreamy hazel eyes. “So you think an uprooted New Yorker can be happy here?”
Without hesitation, Logan nodded. “Yes. I think I can. After all, there was really nothing for me back in New York. Not anymore. I needed a change. And if a person wants to change, this looks like a perfect place to do it. Now that I’ve actually seen it, I know I’ve chosen wisely. Somehow San Diego feels like home already.”
“I’m glad,” Milo said. He companionably rested a hand on Logan’s shoulder, and silently they both stared out at the water. The destroyer was almost out of sight now, ducking beneath the vast, arching bridge that connected the mainland to Coronado, headed for the Navy moorings deeper in the harbor. In the gray of dusk, as the setting sun dipped below the horizon, the ship’s fiery wake turned back to white. Around them, darkness at last began to fall and streetlights sprang to life, chasing away the shadows.
On any other day, and in the company of anyone else, Milo might have regretted seeing those shadows flee. He might have enjoyed the anonymity they offered. Although he fought back continually at the ever-present social anxiety that had plagued his life since high school, somehow with Logan it didn’t bother him much. Turning now to Logan in the harsh yellow glare of the streetlight over their heads, and with everything laid bare in the unforgiving light, Milo decided he was content. He didn’t miss the shadows at all. Perhaps it was the ease he felt in Logan’s company and the fact that there was something about Logan Hunter that he instinctively trusted. It wasn’t only that Logan was handsome and tall and sexy as hell. There was also a generosity about him that Milo liked. He was generous with his time, with his gentilesse. And above it all was an inherent kindness in Logan that Milo admired greatly. The fact that Logan appeared to genuinely like him back didn’t hurt. That perhaps more than anything made it possible for Milo to relax in Logan’s presence.
Of course, when he was at peace and when his neuroses were kept at bay, Milo could also be intractably nosy. He let the cool evening breeze blow over him for a moment, and in his enjoyment of the ocean scents that flooded his senses, Milo’s inquisitiveness blossomed. Damn. He was afraid it would do that.
“I’ve been reading some of your past reviews,” he said, casually enough. “You have a good eye for fiction. What makes it work and what doesn’t.”
Logan eyed him suspiciously but with a smirk tweaking the corner of his mouth. “Is this going somewhere? Are you about to tell me I really don’t know anything about reviewing books? It wouldn’t be the first time, you know.” As he uttered the last sentence, his smirk stretched into a grin.
“No!” Milo made the effort to look properly appalled. “No, you seem to really love what you do, and I was wondering how you keep your energy and optimism up. One lousy book can put me in a funk for days. I love to read too, but only what I choose. It seems to me a reviewer has to read everything, whether they particularly like the genre or not. Isn’t that right?”
Logan laughed. “Okay, then. You win. Let’s talk shop. There’s nothing I love more.” As if he couldn’t engage in such discourse without being completely comfortable, he tugged his shirttail out of his pants and let it fan out around him. With that out of the way, he folded his arms across his chest and settled his ass against the railing at the edge of the cobblestone path. “There. I don’t have to hold in my belly any longer.”
Milo looked dubious. “The last thing you have to do is hold in your belly. I get the feeling there’s a pretty good six-pack under there.”
Logan flapped his hand through the air. “Oh please.” He beetled his brows. “Now where were we? Oh yes. You were wondering if I really like my job or not.”
Milo blinked. “No, that wasn’t what I—”
Logan tutted him to silence. “The answer is no. I don’t like it. I love it. And yes, I’ll admit there are certain genres I prefer over others, but it’s the craft of the writing I concentrate on when I review a book. That’s what I base my opinions on. Not my own personal likes and dislikes. You have to be fair as a reviewer. You can’t let your own preferences get in the way.”
“I wish all reviewers felt that way.”
For the first time since Milo had knocked on Logan’s door, Logan frowned. “Yes,” he said. “So do I. A lot of reviewers out there are, shall we say, less than kind. Being a critic gives some people the mistaken notion they can be vicious beyond the parameters of civilized behavior. What they wouldn’t dream of saying to your face, they’ll turn around and blabber to the world on any forum they feel protects them. I suppose we have the internet to thank for that.”
“Still,” Milo said, practically arguing with himself, “if a book sucks, the reviewer should say so, right?”
“Yes,” Logan said. “But they don’t have to be cruel about it. Someone put a lot of effort into writing the book they are trashing, and there’s no sense in ripping the author’s heart out just because a reviewer doesn’t like the way it was written. There is also the point to be made that just because you’re a reviewer, it doesn’t mean you’re always right. Leave a little leeway in your assessment. Give the writer the benefit of the doubt, and don’t bash him by trying to turn off future readers. Put simply, be kind.”
Milo jumped. “Exactly! Be kind! I’m glad to hear somebody else say that about reviewers besides a writer. We’re not all overly sensitive weenies, although we sound like it sometimes. Some of us can accept horrific reviews if they don’t go for the jugular, or if the reviewer isn’t simply trying to toot his own horn by being catty and clever and snippily Truman Capote-ish with his insults.”
Logan settled himself more comfortably against the railing, studying Milo’s face. “I can’t imagine you get too many horrific reviews.”
Milo grunted. “I’ve had my share. We all have. It goes with the territory. I’ve never seen you give one, though. Not to play the devil’s advocate or anything, but do you think that’s fair? There really are some pretty rotten books out there.”
Logan shrugged. “True, but I have a rule. I don’t give one-star reviews unless I can legitimately explain what went wrong with the writing. Even then, I won’t take a harsh, belittling tone. I love writers. Even the not-so-talented ones. The best of writers sometimes publish works that might better have been left buried under a pile of Macy’s fliers on their desk than be thrust into the light of day. I also know that for someone to sit down and write a book, which is no small endeavor—”
“No kidding.”
“—then that book, no matter how poorly it is presented, probably means a lot to them. Why should I try to spoil that? It would be mean-spirited and petty.”
“Not all reviewers would agree with you.”
“Of course not. That’s why we’re not the most popular people on the planet.” Still smiling, Logan stretched out a huge fist and chucked Milo delicately on the chin. “I’m thirsty,” he said. “Let’s have a drink, and while we’re drinking you can tell me about the book you’re working on.”
Milo peered around, his eyes following the arc of the cobblestoned path as if trying to remember what lay ahead. “There,” he said. “Around the corner. There’s a seafood restaurant and bar perched over the water. We can have a drink there. Dinner too, if you’re hungry. I’m buying.”
“I won’t say no to that.” Logan smiled. “Lead the way.”
While they strode toward the building Milo had pointed to, Logan laid his hand on Milo’s back, obediently following along. The hand was broad and warm, and as they walked, Logan caressed Milo’s shoulder blade gently.
By the time they reached the restaurant, Milo was harboring serious thoughts of jumping Logan’s bones. If not all of them, then most certainly one of them. Not that he hadn’t been ready to jump it anyway.
IT WAS the best seafood Logan had ever eaten. Seared scallops and lobster mashed potatoes, topped off by lemon sherbet and several rounds of a delicious IPA brewed not a mile and a half up the street, or so Milo told him. They had both finished dining and settled back in t
heir seats, nearly comatose from all they’d consumed.
“You look stuffed,” Milo said, grinning from across the table. He was sitting with his back to the wall of glass that looked out over the water. Not five feet from Milo’s head, on a piling outside, a fat pelican sat preening its feathers with its spoonlike beak. The fact that Milo had given up the view so Logan could face the water was not lost on Logan one little bit.
Logan gazed down at the empty plate before him. It couldn’t have been any more spotless if he had picked it up and licked it clean.
“It doesn’t seem fair,” he said, surreptitiously loosening his belt under the table. “I bought you a cheeseburger, you buy me drinks and a feast with a view.”
Milo eyed him with amusement. There was a white smudge of beer foam on Milo’s upper lip that Logan thought might be fun to kiss away. Then he wondered where the hell that thought had come from.
“Maybe it’s an investment,” Milo said around a sneaky grin.
Logan grinned back. “Investment in what?”
“Investment in you. I have a feeling I’ve made a new friend. To keep you in my life, I’ll have to keep you fed and happy.”
There was a teasing light in Milo’s eyes, and Logan became a little lost staring into them. He wondered if he was getting drunk. The IPAs were pretty strong. He decided to do a little teasing back.
“Are you sure it’s a friend you want, or are you more intent on ensuring a good review for your next book when it comes out?”
“Why, I never!” Milo exclaimed, slapping his hand to his chest as if pierced through the heart by such a suggestion. “I hold far too much respect for the noble art of book reviewing to ever attempt such a despicable act!” Elbows on the table, he leaned in closer and added, deadpan, “But if you feel you absolutely have to give me five stars, don’t let me hold you back.”
“Oh believe me, I won’t.” Logan laughed, and after a couple of beats, Milo laughed along with him. Simultaneously, the pelican flapped his great wings and sailed off into the darkness as if even he were appalled by the very idea of buying a good review with a meal and a couple of beers.
