On hearing the men, especially his father, admit that Ethan was better at something—or at least more adaptable than Tucker and Quinn, it made him feel better. A little childish maybe. But Ethan would take any accomplishment no matter how small.
“The secret is in taking shallow breaths,” Ethan teased. “Every city dweller knows that.”
“Funny,” Tucker began, “same goes in the cow barn. Think you would’ve figured that one out by now.” Tucker reached and tousled Ethan’s hair, the impulsive and intimate gesture making him feel like a boy again, catching him off guard.
Tucker stepped into the shed and began to survey the guys’ handiwork. “Who knew this junky old place could ever look this good? It really is pretty amazing when you think what it looked like a week or two ago.”
“I knew,” Ethan stated. He followed Tucker’s gaze. “The bones are solid, the roof miraculously still in good condition after withstanding many winters. It’ll shape up in no time at all.”
Tucker rubbed his chin, eyes narrowed. “What’s next after this?”
Quinn answered. “I thought we could clear out the spring house. I did a quick run-through the other day. Some floorboards need to be replaced, a few stones reset.”
“That would make an intimate gallery space,” Ethan shared.
“I was thinking the exact same thing,” Quinn answered excitedly.
“Of course we would have to run the electric down there, design some suitable lighting. I can do that if we can get a recommendation for a talented electrician.”
"That’s easy,” Tucker piped up. “Frank is an incredible electrician. He helped his father who was an electrician when he was young. Isn’t that right, Quinn?”
“Yes,” Quinn answered. “But that was a long time ago.”
“He helped me out of a few jams over the years, and it wasn’t that long ago.”
“I don’t know, Tucker,” Quinn responded, his voice sounding worried. “He’s not himself, not what he once was.”
“Nonsense,” Tucker returned. “I have the utmost faith that he can do it. And it’ll give him something to focus on, a sense of purpose.”
“Okay,” Quinn said. “I’ll have a word with him later.”
“No, let me,” Tucker said. “I insist. Might come better from a friend than a son who worries too much.”
“I can’t help it. He’s all I got.”
Tucker lifted his hand, palms out. “I’m not passing judgment, just an observation.”
“I’ll take that into consideration,” Quinn said. “And maybe you’re right, so ask and then let us know what he says.”
Tucker placed his hands firmly on his waist, feet grounded to the floor. “What part can I play in all of this?” His eyes narrowed, lines forming around his crystal blue eyes. “I must be able to do something.”
Here it comes, Ethan thought. Any second now, Tucker would have what he was searching for, and his idea would be set in stone. When he got his mind set on doing something, he was like a dog with a bone, saying that the man was persistent was an understatement.
“I got it.” He clapped his hands, a gleeful smile stretched across his lips. “I can sell my world famous chili. When the word gets out, we’ll have people lined up for miles.” Tucker took a step farther into the barn, then another.” Maybe I can get a show on that cable food channel. That’ll get people’s attention.”
“World famous chili?” Ethan eyed his father. “Don’t you mean locally famous? And when I say local, I really mean the neighboring farms and no farther.”
“Don’t be a pessimist, son. You have to think big, have your own little Donald Trump in here.” He stabbed at his chest. “To believe in yourself.”
“Oh I believe,” Ethan assured. “I also believe that your world famous chili recipe was in fact Mom’s recipe. I also remember that the last time you attempted to make it, you almost burned the house down.”
“Now hold on, that was not my fault,” Tucker defended. “I got a phone call and had to step away for a minute or two.”
Ethan scoffed. “Try thirty minutes.” He looked at Quinn. “Do you realize how much smoke damage can be done in a half an hour?”
“Don’t listen to him, Quinn,” Tucker interrupted. “After we wiped down the walls, it was hardly noticeable.”
“The part of the story he’s leaving out is we had to replace the stove and Mom’s favorite pot. She banned him from the kitchen for months after that.”
“I learned a very valuable lesson that evening,” Tucker mused.
“What’s that?” Quinn asked, obviously amused judging by the crooked smile on his mouth.
“Ignore all phone calls until you’re finished cooking.”
Ethan and Quinn laughed. “Words to live by,” Quinn said.
“I’ve got a great idea.”
“Not another,” Ethan groaned teasingly.
“Tonight I’ll make chili for dinner. Show you how good I’ve gotten at making it.”
“Sounds like a great idea,” Quinn voiced his approval. “And I’ll make the cornbread and maybe some green beans to go along with it.”
Tucker’s eyes widened. “We can sell cornbread, too. What’s chili without homemade cornbread? People will eat it up.”
“Quite literally,” Ethan said.
“Sounds like a great idea.” Tucker looked at both men, his gaze coming to rest on his son waiting to hear his approval.
Ethan shrugged his shoulders. “Who knew my dad was the next Paula Deen?”
“I’m prettier than she is.”
Ethan smiled. “I’m looking forward to dinner tonight, but if you don’t mind, I have to finish painting this wall because there are quite a few more to get around to.” He turned and started to paint again. “By the way, Dad,” Ethan said over his shoulder, “how’s your painting?”
“I’ll stick to cooking and chasing cows, that’s enough for a man my age.”
“How come I knew you’d say that,” Ethan said under his breath.
Quinn cleared his throat, calling Ethan and Tucker’s attention. “Have you seen my father? He doesn’t mind grunt work.”
“Yep,” Tucker said. “He rode into town. Said he had a few errands to take care of.”
“Good, good,” Quinn said twice. He grabbed a handkerchief draped on the rung of a nearby ladder propped against the barn’s wall.
“Not that it’s any of business,” Tucker began, “but do you know what those errands are? Is it something I can help him with?”
Ethan knew what his father was referring to.
Ever since Frank had moved in, a steady stream of mail stuffed Tucker’s post office box daily, envelopes with little windows from law firms from all over the country. Some Frank opened, but there were days he grabbed a random stack and pitched them in the trash while mumbling a few choice words under his breath. The foreclosure of his farm had been swift, but the personal bankruptcy dragged on, creditors wanting what was due. No wonder the man drinks, Ethan figured. He lost his wife, his home, sold his worldly possessions to pay off debts, and whatever self-respect he still had dangled precariously over a whiskey bottle. Ethan wondered what he would do if he found himself in Frank’s situation, but it was always easy to contemplate these types of situations when it wasn’t actually happening to you. He couldn’t fault Frank for drowning his troubles with drink. Didn’t Ethan do just that last night?
“When Judith died, I had to make revisions to my will,” Tucker stated, continuing. “I never thought she would go first. Curtis Foster’s my lawyer and he’s a good guy, one of us. A townie. He cares what happens to us folks. If you think I wouldn’t be overstepping my boundaries, I could make a suggestion to Frank, gently of course.”
Quinn wadded up the handkerchief and shoved it in his back pocket. He nodded. “He might fight you for a while, saying he’s dealing with too many lawyers as it is, but since Mister Foster is from Jefferson and you recommend him, he might give him a try. It’s certainly worth a shot.�
��
Tucker returned the nod, and Quinn said something that Ethan wasn’t expecting. “Next Wednesday is the anniversary of Mom’s death. I suspect he visits her grave when he goes on his errands.”
Ethan and Tucker remained silent, Ethan unsure how or if to respond. He wanted to say so many things, to comfort Quinn, but he remained paralyzed, unable to muster the courage it took to do what he wanted to do.
Thankfully, Quinn broke the uncomfortable silence. “I really should ride out to the cemetery with him.” It sounded as if Quinn was trying to convince himself.
“That’s a great idea,” Tucker said almost too enthusiastically. “He’d probably enjoy it.”
“He doesn’t enjoy much these days,” Quinn returned.
“That’ll change,” Tucker assured. “We’ll get him working on the springhouse, and things will get better, you’ll see. Keeping busy is the only thing that keeps me…” Tucker’s words trailed off, his voice strained with emotion. He swallowed, dropping his gaze to the floor. “It’ll get better.”
“He’s right,” Ethan agreed. “Just wait.”
Quinn scuffed the heels of his boots against the wood floor covered in a thin layer of dust. “I wish I shared in your optimism.”
Changing the subject, Quinn squared his shoulders and surveyed the room. “You know, this looks pretty damn good. You almost ready to move on, Mister Perfectionist?” He winked at Tucker, and Tucker smirked.
“Almost,” Ethan said, refusing to turn around. “Few more strokes and I’ll be finished.”
“Good,” Quinn said. “Because I’m going to need your help over here. How are you with a saw?”
“I still have all of my fingers,” Ethan joked. “But I wouldn’t stand too closely. I’d hate to make a fatal slip and chop something of yours off you might need for later.”
“I think I will be doing the sawing.”
Chuckling, Ethan turned to his father to ask him something, but when he saw the expression on Tucker’s face, the question was fleeting. Instead, in Tucker’s expression, he recognized a look of bewilderment, mild amusement, and most of all, confusion. Ethan opened his mouth to speak but that’s as far as he managed, unable to form a legible sentence.
The sound of tires against gravel came from outside, followed by the changing of gears. “That must be Dad,” Quinn said, walking toward the floor-to-ceiling sliding doors. “I’ll be right back.”
The smell of pine scented soap and sweat played across Ethan’s nose. Shivers raced down his spine as Ethan risked a look at Quinn’s retreating backside, thoughts of last night’s kiss spinning over in his mind.
“You like him.” Tucker’s words hung in the air between them.
“Quinn?”
That look passed over Tucker’s face once again. “Yes, Quinn,” he scoffed. “Who else? He’s a good boy.”
“He’s hardly a boy.”
“You’re right, but I can’t help but see you two as boys. I remember when you played in the backyard together.” He smiled with the memory.
“We did?” Ethan couldn’t believe what he was hearing; he had no recollection of ever playing with Quinn, teenage kissing aside.
“Maybe you were too young to remember?” Tucker mused. “Anyway, we bought you a swing set for your sixth birthday. You got tired of swinging by yourself so we invited Quinn over. At first, you two got along like oil and water.” Tucker inclined his chin. “You were quite the bossy kid.”
“Now that you’ve brought it up, I do remember that day but vaguely. I have a sense that it was a nice day, that I had fun.”
“Are you having fun now?”
“Yes,” Ethan answered, but not immediately. He had to stop and think about it, but the conclusion was that he was, in fact, having fun, even this morning’s activities, although smelly, weren’t as bad as many other things he had done in his life. And an hour of fragrant smelling cows was better than dealing with a rich bitch client who got her kicks by bossing him around because she had nothing else better to do, her nose in the air and her checkbook gripped firmly in her hand. He shuddered at the memory of his last complicated client who treated Ethan like her own personal plaything just because she could.
“Good,” Tucker responded. “I want you to have fun. Life can be serious so it’s good to remember to have fun along the way.”
“I do.”
“I had fun with your mother. Now I’m not saying it was always easy, but nothing is.” Tucker paused, wiped a bead of sweat from his brow. “Is your guy coming to visit?”
It was strange to hear Tucker mention Randall. They never discussed his personal life, and Ethan was fine with that, the intimate details of his life better left unsaid. Don’t ask. Don’t tell.
Ethan cleared his throat. “Maybe, but Randall’s very busy this time of year so don’t prepare the guest bedroom any time soon.”
Ethan realized that lying about his failing relationship was becoming too easy.
“I’m sorry to hear that. Not that you need my permission for a weekend pass but if you want to return to the city, please feel free to do so.”
“I know that, Dad. Thanks.”
Tucker turned to leave but stopped short. He turned back and angled his chin at Ethan. “I wouldn’t think any less of you if you said that things hadn’t worked out between you and Randall. Sometimes relationships don’t. I was lucky, but it doesn’t mean you’re a failure by any means.”
Heat flushed Ethan’s cheeks.
In a perfect world, he always dreamed of having conversations like this with his father, but on the rare occasion that it actually did occur, Ethan became incredibly uncomfortable to the point that he could feel every hair on his body bristle, his palms turn into two steady streams of sweat, and his temples begin to throb as his vision grew blurrier by the second. In Ethan’s imagination, a soul-baring conversation shared with Tucker resembled a scene from a Hallmark Channel movie where a happily ever after was guaranteed. But those movies were about straight people, and if his life ever made it to cable, it would undoubtedly be on Showtime.
“My relationship is solid so please don’t worry about me, plus we have bigger things to worry about—for example, getting this place off the ground. It’s going to take a lot of time, effort, and energy on everyone’s part.”
“I hear what you’re saying, but don’t hide behind your work, it’s no replacement for the real thing.”
“The real thing?”
“Life.” Tucker winked at Ethan. “Take my ponderings with a grain of salt if you wish, but it’s a father’s prerogative to offer advice where he feels the need.”
“I’m glad you do.” This was an honest statement.
Tucker took a few steps backward and said, “I better start pulling together the ingredients for dinner. Get ready to eat the best damn chili in the state of Maryland.”
Ethan chuckled and rolled his eyes. “See ya,” he said and waved as Tucker turned and left.
He knew his father was right—that before Ethan knew what was happening, his life would be almost over. He didn’t want to be a bystander in his own life. He wanted to be the pilot. Ethan also had to accept that his relationship with Randall was finished. They had not worked together on any projects for months, hadn’t spoken in person or on the phone since Randall stopped in to collect his clothes with Ethan’s replacement smirking by his side. Randall didn’t even feel the need to send a simple text, but what did Ethan want him to say, that Randall wanted him back? That it was time to put his infidelities in the past and move on? Did Ethan want to do that?
“Fuck no,” Ethan said aloud, his jaw tightening. And fuck him.
* * * *
After working together the entire afternoon and into the evening, Quinn and Ethan had managed to finish painting the interior of the shed and cut a dozen pieces of wood that would be used for shelving in the future. Brackets had been leveled and hung, the rest of the assembling for the shelving left for tomorrow morning.
Ethan watche
d Quinn work, watched the neck of his T-shirt dampen with sweat and the underarms darken to a deeper shade as the perspiration saturated the thin cotton. Every time Quinn leaned over or squatted, the back of his pants would ride down to expose a contrasting tan line. It was the single most erotic vision Ethan had ever witnessed. The creamy white skin of his lower back that, in only a few inches, would become his muscular buttocks, had a definitive line, a sharp contrast to the golden glow of Quinn’s lower back that glistening with golden wetness.
Ethan had to fight the urge to walk right up to the man, rip the shirt off his sculpted torso, free him of his jeans to expose that cock Ethan had only imagined, and fill his mouth with that substantial dick, judging by the hefty bulge in Quinn’s pants. Ethan needed to feel like a man again, a desirable one who had urges, a man who acted on his sexual impulses. Being reserved and upright had its good points, but not when it came to sex. He wanted Quinn bad. But Ethan also didn’t want to feel Quinn’s large fist coming in contact with his nose if he refused Ethan’s advances. Ethan liked the way his nose looked and didn’t want to have it rearranged due to raging hormones after a long period of unintentional abstinence. And when Quinn used the hem of his T-shirt to wipe his face, exposing a set of washboard abs blanketed with the perfect amount of hair, Ethan almost risked his current nose for a new one. Ethan even went as far as taking two short, stumbling steps toward Quinn before the logical part of his brain begged him to stop causing Ethan to stand there, instead, like a dummy breathing through his mouth, eyes transfixed on that snaking trail of fur that fueled Ethan’s most intense fantasies. Even at dinner, steaming chili on the table, his hunger for Quinn outweighed any other hunger Ethan might have had, Tucker’s chili tasteless when the other diners moaned their approval through hardy mouthfuls.
Excusing himself from the dinner table, Ethan raced to his bedroom to jack off unable to withstand Quinn’s magnetic pull any longer. He couldn’t take Quinn’s hairy, tanned forearms, his creased brow that suggested so many things, those warm eyes that changed depending on what color shirt Quinn wore, the full lips that were shaped into a perpetual sexy smirk. Everything about the man was complete torture. Pure, sweet, exhaustive torture. And when Ethan released himself with only a few deft strokes, he immediately fell into a peaceful slumber, dreaming of the man who was only a few doors down the hall but yet, still so far away.
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