Sure, I’m just looking for shopping tips. I’m not looking because he’s got to be the cutest person on the planet. The guy was shorter than Brent, although that was true for 99 percent of the US male population. Maybe five eight? Five nine? He was wearing tight jeans and a subtly patterned button-down under a teal suede bomber jacket. Light brown hair in one of those trendy cuts—smooth and long on the top, short on the sides—that Brent, with his coarse waves, could never pull off. His ears stuck out a little, enough that he’d probably gotten teased as a kid, but Brent found them ridiculously adorable.
And his mouth. Oh my God. Full lips, the top one a little wider than the bottom, so that it curled up a little at the sides in a perpetual quarter-smile, as if he found something amusing even in sorting through heaps of imperfectly categorized clothing.
Stop ogling the cute guy instead of finding a freaking ugly sweater.
Brent tore his gaze away and focused on the job at hand. But as he tossed aside sweater after sweater, he was beginning to think the task was impossible.
“Why are these all so freaking small?”
“Probably because those are all children’s clothes.”
Brent’s head jerked up at the sound of Cute Guy’s voice from right behind his shoulder. “Children’s?”
Cute Guy reached past Brent’s arm, grazing the sleeve of his jacket, and tapped a sign on the side of the bin. Yep, the sign said Kids in letters as big as Brent’s head.
Brent buried his face in his hands. “God, I am so not cut out for this.”
Cute Guy chuckled. “Maybe I can help.” He held out a hand. “I’m Jonathan.”
Brent shook. “Brent.”
“Nice to meet you.” Jonathan gestured to the store. “What’s your objective here today?”
“Objective? You make it sound like a coding problem.”
“Believe it or not, while some people shop for recreation, others—such as yours truly—have specific goals in mind.”
Brent glanced at Jonathan’s cart. The contents could best be described as eclectic. “So what’s your objective?”
Jonathan followed the line of Brent’s gaze. “I’m in stockpiling mode.”
“So you like to hoard tights and T-shirts and—” Brent peered more closely at the basket’s contents. “—chenille bathrobes?”
Jonathan grinned—and if Brent had thought that mouth was lethal in a secret smile, in a full-on grin, it was enough to take out the entire gay population within a tristate area. “I’m a costumer. I work mainly with a local dance company, but I freelance for some other performing arts organizations too, including a couple of children’s theater troupes. There are some things that we always need—” He flicked a package of tights with his fingers. “—like tights and leggings. For the dance company, I’m always on the lookout for replacements for costumes that wear out or that need to be rebuilt because of cast changes.”
“Oh. That sounds really interesting.”
Jonathan chuckled. “Your words say one thing, but the tone of your voice says something else.”
Brent jerked, blinking. He could hardly say he’d gotten distracted by how pretty Jonathan’s eyes were—a smoky gray-blue, with incredibly long lashes that were darker than his hair. And was he wearing eyeliner? So hot. “No, it really does sound interesting, not to mention makes perfect sense. I’m a coder, so I’m always looking for repeatable patterns and opportunities for strategic code reuse.” Brent spread his hands and shrugged one shoulder. “Tell me that doesn’t sound soporific.”
“Not in the least. But let’s put our respective career choices aside for now and focus on your personal objective—which, by the way, you still haven’t stated.”
“Oh. Well.” Brent heaved a sigh. “I need an ugly holiday sweater.”
“Any particular holiday?”
Brent pointed to the tinsel swags festooning the walls. “Anything within the current festive season.”
“Ah. That could be tough, given how popular ugly sweater parties have gotten lately.”
“Tell me about it. But that’s not the worst part. I have to somehow turn it into pants. Er, swants.”
Jonathan’s gaze swept down Brent’s body. Twice. “I can see where that would be difficult. You’re definitely what my grandmother would call a tall drink of water.”
“Nobody has anything in my size. And even if I could find it…. Well, let’s say I’m terrific with a computer and a keyboard, but my skills with needle and thread leave something to be desired.”
“You’d need yarn for swants, not thread. Or not only thread.”
“Wait. You know what swants are?”
Jonathan waved Brent’s comment away. “Oh, honey. I outfitted the dance company in swants for a piece that’s part of our regular repertoire now.”
“Wait a minute. The piece where half of them are doing handstands?”
Jonathan’s smile bloomed again. “Yes. You mean, you’ve seen it?”
“I’ve seen a picture of it. My CEO has seen more. That’s why he decided to turn the company’s annual holiday party into a swants soiree.”
Jonathan bit his lip. “So what you’re saying is that this is my fault?”
Brent held up his hands, palms out. “No. I didn’t mean—That is, I wouldn’t ever say—”
“Maybe you wouldn’t say, but I’ll bet you’d think it.” Jonathan cast a glance at his cart, then shrugged. “Come out to my car with me.”
Brent blinked. “Um, why?”
“You’ll see.” Jonathan piloted his cart over to one of the salesclerks, with Brent stumbling along in his wake. “Hey, Leslie. Could you hold on to this for me for a sec? I’ll be right back.”
The woman smiled at him and took possession of the cart. “Sure thing, Jonathan.”
Brent hurried to keep up as the doors swooshed open in front of Jonathan’s determined march. “She knows your name?”
Jonathan glanced over his shoulder and fluttered his eyelashes. “Oh, honey. Everyone knows my name. I’m a regular.”
He led the way over to a navy blue Outback wagon and popped open the hatch. The rear seats were folded down, and the entire back of the car was full of plastic bins containing bags from pretty much every store Brent had been to in the past two days—and even a few that he hadn’t.
“Wow. You’re serious about this, aren’t you?”
“It’s my job.” The glance Jonathan shot at Brent this time was a tad irritated, as was his tone. “Of course I’m serious about it.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. But I’m so….” Brent waved a hand at the organized car. “Amazed? Impressed?”
“Appalled?”
Brent mock-glared. “Now you’re being insulting. We met like five minutes ago and already you think I’d lie to you.”
Jonathan laughed. “Fair point.” He reached for a bin a row from the bumper. “Dang.”
“Allow me. My orangutan arms are good for something.” Brent leaned in, grabbed the bin, and lifted it clear, then set it on the pavement by their feet. When he looked up, Jonathan’s expression was a bit shell-shocked. “I’m sorry. Did I overstep? I thought you wanted this one.”
Jonathan blinked and shook himself as if he was just emerging from underwater. “No. Sorry. I was, um…. Well, never mind. Let’s see what we’ve got here.” He hunkered down and started peering into bags, then lifting them aside to expose a layer of folded sweaters that had to be at least three deep.
“Wait a minute.” Brent peered into the bin. “You’ve got a box full of holiday sweaters in your car?”
Jonathan glanced up at him. “Dancers are incredibly hard on their costumes. I need to be prepared.”
“So my predicament really is your fault. Have I been following in your wake for the last two days as you cleared all the sweaters out of every store from Portland to here?”
“Not entirely. And that piece requires certain types of sweaters, so the exceptionally ugly ones aren’t really an option. Ah
. Here we are.” He pulled a bright green sweater covered with giant snowflakes out of a Target bag. “I think this might be the right size. In terms of ugly quotient, it might not be on the upper end of the scale—”
“That’s perfect.” Brent accepted the sweater gratefully. “The less attention I draw to myself, the better.”
Jonathan paused in the act of tucking the empty bag back into the bin. “Really? Why?”
Brent shrugged. “Oh, you know. Awkward introvert. It’s hard enough to hide when you tower over most of the people around you. The last thing I need is to drape this—” He pointed to himself. “—in something even more eye-catching than an extra half foot or so of height.”
Jonathan opened his mouth as if he was about to say something, then pressed his lips together in that one-quarter smile that caught in Brent’s chest like a fishhook, threatening to reel him in.
Picking up the box, Jonathan tilted his head to the side, glancing up at Brent through his lashes again. “Can I borrow your arms one more time? Otherwise I’ll have to play storage box Tetris with the back of my car, and I’d just as soon wait until I get home so I don’t have to do it all twice.”
“Oh. Sure.” Brent slung the green sweater over his shoulder and took the box. With his head and shoulders inside the car, he couldn’t hear clearly, but he thought Jonathan said something. “What was that?”
“Nothing.”
Brent managed to stand up without bonking his head on the hatch door. “What do I owe you?”
“Not a thing.”
“I can’t—You must have paid something for this.”
“I neither remember nor care. In fact, it might have been a donation from a cast member.”
“Listen. I really want to thank you.” Brent held out his hand. “You saved my ass.”
Jonathan took Brent’s hand. “It’s totally worth saving.” His cheeks pinked, and he released Brent’s hand.
Was that flirting? Is he flirting with me? According to Christopher, Brent was terrible at picking up those kinds of social cues. His heart bumped like an excited preschooler. “Um….”
“If you need help with the swants conversion, I have experience.”
Right. He’s simply a nice, helpful guy. “Despite all the evidence to the contrary, I’m not a totally incompetent doofus. I’ve got instructions, so I ought to be able to figure it out.”
“Well, just in case….” Jonathan pulled a business card out of his shirt pocket. “Give me a call if you have any trouble.”
“I don’t want to bother you—”
“You’re no bother. Besides, it’s the least I can do since this is all my fault.”
Brent grimaced. “It’s not—”
“I’m kidding, Brent. But I mean it. Call me if you have any trouble.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it.”
For a moment Brent gazed into Jonathan’s pretty eyes, wishing he had the gumption to ask him out for coffee at least. But taking the initiative was not Brent’s strong suit, since in his book, initiative was only one step removed from humiliating crash and burn. The moment passed, and with a final wave, Jonathan walked back inside the store.
Brent sighed. “Damn.” Oh, well. I don’t have time for coffee or regrets. At least he had his sweater. By dinnertime, he’d have this swants thing nailed and he could get on with the rest of his weekend.
Yeah. All my big plans. Rereading a vintage Asimov novel. Trying to beat his own score on GTA. Cooking for one. How will I survive the thrill?
But as for the swants?
I’ve got this.
Chapter Three
I SO don’t have this.
The alleged instructions, while they might make sense to somebody who’d picked up a needle at some point in their life, were noticeably lacking in the detail Brent needed. They were worse than an IKEA manual. Those he could eventually figure out.
The green sweater Jonathan had so graciously given him looked like it had been attacked by a not-very-fastidious school of piranhas, its remains scattered over Brent’s dining room table. Apparently scissors that were perfectly adequate for paper were an epic fail when it came to cutting heavily patterned yarn.
And, damn it, swants construction didn’t come with a backup-and-restore option.
His desperate second attempt, using his original red sweater, had gone marginally better in that at least it held together. Sort of. He glanced down at the trouser travesty on his legs. He doubted seriously that ugliness from poor execution would meet Riki’s strict criteria. Besides, the whole construct would probably disintegrate before Brent’s first cup of coffee. Team solidarity was one thing, but Brent had no desire to treat his coworkers to the sight of his bony knees, fish-belly white legs, or—God forbid—his underwear.
Brent was stubborn, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew when he was completely unqualified for solving a problem. Time for unconditional surrender.
Holding the not-yet-swants up with one hand, he duckwalked to the kitchen, where he’d stuck Jonathan’s business card to the fridge with an I <3 C# magnet. Seriously? He had a dozen magnets from different hardware and software vendors, and that was the only one sporting a heart. Had his geek subconscious suddenly turned into a closet romantic?
He set the card on the breakfast bar and clamped his elbows to his sides to keep from mooning his kitchen while he dialed.
The call connected. “Hey, Jonathan. I don’t know if—”
“Hi. This is Jonathan. Sorry I can’t take your call right now, but leave me a message, and I promise I’ll get back to you. I may or may not prioritize callbacks by how swoony your message is.”
Swoony? What? The dreaded beep sounded, but Brent couldn’t find the words. He’d never been accused of being swoony in his life, so the chances of connecting with his inner hottie—whom he wasn’t sure existed anyway—were in the negative digits.
He hung up. Jesus, I’m a thirty-seven-year-old man with a job, a mortgage, and a master’s degree. How can I still be intimidated by the telephone?
Besides, if he expected to keep said job—and be able to continue paying said mortgage—he needed to adult with a little more gusto.
Although, is adulting the problem, or am I intimidated by a cute guy who I’m seriously attracted to?
It had been two years since his six-year relationship had gone down in a spiral of hurt and betrayal, and Brent had yet to venture back into shark-infested dating waters.
But I’m not asking him for a date. Exactly. I’m consulting with an expert in… in sweater refactoring.
Yeah. He could deal with that.
He composed the message in his head first. Even with something as simple as a voicemail, he was never good with extemporaneous speaking. Once he’d gone over it mentally a few times—and practiced it out loud, thankful that his refrigerator was the nonjudgmental sort—he redialed Jonathan’s number.
After the beep, he plunged in. “Hey, Jonathan. This is Brent. From the Goodwill, uh, place? With the sweater? I mean, the one you gave the sweater to at the Goodwill place. I’m….” Jesus. Can’t I get three sentences out without sounding like I’m suffering from terminal brain farts? Brent disconnected, then immediately realized his mistake—he hadn’t deleted his ridiculously incoherent message. “Shit!”
Why can I be so succinct with coding and documentation, yet completely hopeless with actual conversation?
But as he was practicing again, pacing back and forth in his kitchen with the crotch of the stupid not-yet-swants bagging halfway to his knees, his phone rang.
Jonathan’s number.
Brent fumbled his phone as he tried to answer, nearly dropping it onto the cork floor. “H-hello?”
“Brent? Hi, it’s Jonathan. Sorry I couldn’t catch your first call. I was in the shower.”
Right. Other people have lives. “I don’t mean to bother you—”
“It’s no bother. I wouldn’t have given you my number if I didn’t want you to use it. So.” Jonathan’s voice took
on a warm, suggestive purr. “What’s up?”
“I’m, um, having some trouble with the swants.”
“The swants. Right.” Was that disappointment in Jonathan’s tone? No. Must be imagining things. “What seems to be the problem?”
“What doesn’t seem to be the problem? Clearly I overestimated my ability to translate my experience with sensible engineering workflows into DIY projects that defy logic by their very existence.”
Jonathan chuckled, which sent a warm tingle up Brent’s spine. “I wouldn’t say they defy logic.”
“Really? Arms do not equal legs. The torso is not equivalent to the… er, well, let’s just say humans are not isometrically mirrored at the waistline.”
“True. How far have you gotten?”
Brent glanced down at the disaster on his lower body. “To the edge of the precipice. In fact, I may have already plunged over the side and am now clinging desperately to the cliff face.”
Jonathan laughed again. “Okay. How are you with FaceTime?”
“Don’t use it. But are you familiar with HubPilot?”
“Um…. Yes?”
“Do you have it installed on your phone?”
“As a matter of fact, I do. Do you?”
“I’ve got it installed everywhere. I work for the company.”
Jonathan made a sound that Brent couldn’t interpret, then muttered something that sounded like stupid.
Brent’s shoulders inched up toward his ears, and his belly plummeted. “What was that?”
“What? Oh. I wasn’t talking to you. I just, um, dropped my, um, pincushion. Stupid of me. So, connect on HubPilot?”
“Yep. I’ll set up the session here and send you the link.” Brent paused. Jonathan had been in the shower. Maybe he was about to go somewhere. “Unless this isn’t a good time for you?”
“It’s a perfect time. Text me the link and we’ll get everything sorted in a jiffy.”
What if I’d rather it take longer? Like all night? Or the rest of our lives? Brent gave himself a mental facepalm. Stop it. “Right. Talk to you in a minute.”
A Swants Soiree Page 2
