Brent nodded. “So much.”
“Do you really think wearing swants is too much to ask—and I’m being serious. I want to know if this will actually make it impossible for you to function.”
Brent sighed, working up the courage to look Jonathan in the face once more. “I don’t. Not really. But I’m not the kind of guy who likes to be the center of attention, you know? I like to keep a low profile, and when you’re six foot eight, a low profile is pretty hard to achieve.”
Jonathan released his shoulders and patted his chest. “I imagine it is.” He turned back to the sweater and made the final crossways cut, lifting the neckband away from the sweater. “I’ve always had the opposite problem. I’m the shortest one in my family. Even my kid stepbrother is taller than I am. And when people have to look down to talk to you…. Well, they tend to look down, if you know what I mean.”
“I’m not sure.”
Jonathan removed a tuft of black fuzz from the sweater, then stroked its sleeve. “When people achieve theoretical adulthood, who’s guaranteed to be shorter than they are?”
“Well, kids, I guess.”
“Exactly. I’m thirty years old, yet anyone six feet tall or over talks to me like I’m a child.” He shook his head. “Condescending is not even the word. It’s so infuriating.”
Shame knotted Brent’s belly. “I imagine. I hope I haven’t—”
“No!” Jonathan spun and put his hands on Brent’s chest again. That feels so great. “You haven’t. Not ever. And that’s why I wanted to help you.” His gaze drifted to his hands, and he snatched them away. “I’m sorry. I should have asked before touching.” He shrugged. “Hazards of working in a touchy-feely industry.”
“I don’t mind.” Brent didn’t, although with Jonathan’s confession that he’d only agreed to help because Brent didn’t treat him like a child, the possibility for more than a single night—and that one full of overly suggestive sweaters—was fading like a dying LED monitor.
Jonathan nodded decisively. “Good.” He picked up the sweater and shook it out. “Next step, I’ll need you to put this on.”
Brent eyed it, his stomach clenching again. “Jonathan. It doesn’t have a crotch.”
“Exactly.” Jonathan brandished a rainbow pincushion shaped like a bagel. “But I know how to create a seat and an inseam that will actually fit, not to mention adjust the excess fabric so you won’t look like you’re wearing a miniskirt shorter than sixties-era Lieutenant Uhura.” He pushed the sweater into Brent’s hands. “Go on. You can change in the other room if it makes you more comfortable.”
Brent gulped. Why did I put on the good underwear if nobody was going to see it? He turned his back on Jonathan to lay the sweater over the arm of the couch. Taking a deep breath, he unzipped his jeans and skinned them down his legs. Shit. Shoes. He toed off his sneakers, then nearly toppled over trying to kick his jeans off. Smooth, Brent. No wonder your love life is nonexistent.
Behind him, Jonathan made some kind of sound low in his throat.
Probably trying not to laugh—and I wouldn’t blame him.
Brent sat down on the couch so he could pull the sweater’s sleeves over his feet. This just seems so wrong. “You know, I won’t be offended if you laugh. I’m used to people’s reactions to my awkwardness.”
“Laughing is the last thing on my mind,” Jonathan muttered.
At least that’s what Brent thought he said. Jonathan was probably regretting his offer about now. The least Brent could do was move things along.
He worked the sleeves up his legs. Of course, once they were all the way up, they didn’t reach his ankles. That’ll be interesting. What kind of shoes does one wear with swants? He stood, holding the sweater up so the hem hit the middle of his chest, and sure enough, Sixty-Nine Santa was lined up right over Brent’s package. “Okay, boss. Now what?”
Jonathan draped a tape measure around his neck, picked up his rainbow donut pincushion, and advanced on Brent, a determined set to his mouth. “Can you remember some measurements for me, or do I need to write them down?”
“I can remember them.”
Jonathan whipped the tape measure from around his neck and started barking numbers at Brent as he measured legs, waist, inseam—yikes, that one was a little too… too…. Brent swallowed and concentrated on remembering numbers.
“That’s it.” Jonathan stepped back. “You can take them off now and I’ll get to work. Is it okay if I set up my sewing machine on the dining table?”
“Sewing machine? You brought a sewing machine?”
“Yup.”
“But I thought we only needed yarn and the right kind of needle.”
“Technically, yes. But this’ll help give you a more finished look.” He lifted something smaller than the size of Riki’s average handbag out of his suitcase. “Vintage Elna Lotus. It belonged to my mom. It doesn’t do a lot of fancy stuff, but we don’t need fancy for this.” Jonathan flicked its side, and it pinged like metal. “And it was built to last.” He set it on the table and released a couple of catches around the top so the sides dropped down to reveal a compact little machine.
“Oh, I get it. It unfolds like a lotus flower.”
“Exactly.” Jonathan dug around in his suitcase again and pulled out a notebook. “Those measurements, please, professor.”
Brent rattled them off as he took off the swants-to-be and pulled his jeans back on. Jonathan didn’t watch—Brent checked. Darn it. On the other hand, maybe that was a good thing. There was a reason he and Christopher only had sex in the dark.
Brent set the sweater on the table, where Jonathan was threading the sewing machine with black thread. “I meant to offer you a beer when you arrived. And I made salsa.” Brent pointed to the chips on the breakfast bar.
Jonathan looked up from fiddling with a dial on the machine’s front. “You made salsa? Yourself?”
“Sure. It’s not hard.”
He snorted. “Maybe for you.”
“Wait.” A grin ambushed Brent’s face. “You’re telling me you can turn sweaters into pants, but you can’t make something as simple as salsa fresca?”
“What I’m telling you is that I can’t cook. At all.” Jonathan stood up again, then spread the sweater out on the table. “When my mom was in middle school, all the girls had to take Home Ec—a semester of cooking and a semester of sewing.”
“What were the boys doing at the time?”
“Shop—a semester of wood and a semester of metal.” He wrinkled his nose. “I know. Totally sexist, but what can I say? It was the sixties. The modern women’s movement was barely a gleam in Gloria Steinem’s eye. Let’s just say I’d have aced the sewing module but failed cooking miserably.”
“But if you know how to follow directions—”
“Please. So many people have tried to convince me that I can do it if I try. It’s why my ex and I broke up. He insisted that I make dinner at least half the time.” Jonathan rolled his eyes. “He was a mathematics professor and a big believer in precise division of labor. He claimed that you couldn’t assess the proper equivalencies between, say, vacuuming and baking a chicken, so I couldn’t opt out of cooking by doubling down on dusting.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I’m not. There were charts. And a timer.”
“No wonder he’s your ex.”
“Bingo.” Jonathan eyed the salsa. “I’d love nothing more than to try your salsa, with beer, but I need my wits about me during this next bit.”
Brent grinned. “I thought you could do this blindfolded.”
“Blindfolded, yes. Tipsy, no. Seams tend to get a bit wobbly when you’re drunk.” He wiggled his fingers. “And I wouldn’t want to get salt all over the sweater. After, maybe?”
“Sure. I’ve, um, got some flavored seltzer if you’d like. Or regular water. Coffee. Tea.”
“Water would be great, thanks.”
Jonathan picked up those wicked shears again, so before Brent had to witness a
nother attack on his only viable swants option, he scurried into the kitchen. “Would you like ice?”
Jonathan glanced up, meeting Brent’s gaze over the breakfast bar. “Lovely.”
As Brent pulled a glass out of the cabinet and filled it with ice, he wondered how long Jonathan would need to finish the project. It was just past seven. Would he want to go out for dinner? Brent kicked himself for not making it to the grocery store. If he had the stir-fry ingredients he’d planned for his own meal tonight, he could cook for Jonathan, something other than stupid chips and salsa.
Brent set the water glass by Jonathan’s elbow, then wandered over to the couch to straighten up the rejected sweaters. Shuddering, he folded the snowman with his carrot appendage on the inside.
Behind him, Jonathan hummed something that Brent didn’t recognize, accompanied by the whir of the little sewing machine. Brent settled onto the couch, and though he tried not to stare like a creeper, his gaze kept getting drawn to Jonathan’s intent profile.
Then Jonathan glanced up and caught Brent looking. Busted. But Jonathan smiled, apparently not bothered in the least.
Brent cleared his throat. “So. Your ex was a professor.”
“Yes, he was. Something he never let me forget.”
“Is there a non-ex?”
“If you’re asking if I’m single—” Jonathan waggled his eyebrows. “—the answer is yes.”
“Good.” Heat washed up Brent’s throat. “I mean, not good that you’re alone. Unless you want to be alone. Because that’s totally legit. I mean, I’ve been alone for most of my life so—”
“It’s okay, Brent. I get it.” Jonathan snipped a trailing thread off the seam he’d just finished and held out the sweater, which was now most definitely swants. “Here you go. Ready for you to give them a trial run.”
“Wow. That was fast.”
“Experience, remember. Plus there’s not a lot involved once you’ve got the measurements right.”
“Okay.” Although Brent had already taken off his pants in front of Jonathan once, for some reason it felt different now. So he took the swants and scurried down the hall to his bedroom.
Chapter Six
COWARD. BUT somehow, stripping for that first fitting wasn’t the same as changing into a finished garment. More intimate, as if he had already reached a relationship milestone with Jonathan, when instead there was no relationship at all.
Do you want there to be?
As Brent stared at himself in the mirror—tall, gangly, not even close to the definition of handsome, his forties closer than his twenties—he realized the answer was yes. Hell, yes. Please yes.
Relationships were messy and illogical and fraught with unexpected pitfalls, but for someone like Jonathan, Brent would be happy—hell, he’d be thrilled—to put in the work.
Maybe Riki was right. It was time for him to poke his head out of his coding cave, in his personal life as well as at work.
But to do that, he had to dig around in his psyche and discover a little courage. He held up the swants and stared at the jolly old upside-down elf. “Help me, Sixty-Nine Santa,” he murmured. “You’re my only hope.”
He pulled the swants on, the repurposed sleeves hugging his legs in a way that was simultaneously comforting and sensuous. Instead of bagging halfway to his knees, the seat hugged his ass nearly as well as his bike shorts. He held his T-shirt up and checked out the fit. The elasticized waistband—something else Jonathan had improved on from the basic instructions—hit Brent’s hips right below his navel.
He glanced in the mirror. Upside down on top of Brent’s crotch, Santa looked a little less jolly—and considerably naughtier—than he did right-side up. And maybe just a touch smug as well. Ho, ho, ho, indeed.
Brent took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and walked back to the living room, to find Jonathan dipping a chip into the salsa.
“Oh my God, Brent, this salsa is amazing!” He popped it into his mouth and chewed, his eyes closed. “Mmmmm.”
“Glad you like it.”
“Oh, I do. I—” Jonathan opened his eyes and looked at Brent. “Oh,” he breathed.
Brent managed a hesitant smile. “You know, other than the mortification of getting an apparent blow job from Santa, these are really comfortable. The yarn is super soft.”
Jonathan nodded. “Chenille,” he croaked, then picked up his water and took a huge gulp. “It sheds like a son of a bitch, but it feels great.”
Brent peered down at his feet. “And you made the sleeves, er, legs longer.”
“Yup. With the extra I cut off the hem. I figured you’d prefer it that way.” Jonathan fluttered his eyelashes. “Unless you’ve got some kinky boots in your closet that you were dying to wear.”
“No. No boots, kinky or otherwise.” An image of Jonathan in thigh-high black leather invaded Brent’s brain and made it difficult for him to breathe. “Why? Do you have some?”
Jonathan’s lips turned up in a sly half smile. “I might.”
That smile, and the suggestive burr in Jonathan’s tone, went right to Brent’s dick. “That’s….” Brent turned away, but in profile, he probably looked even more like Santa’s efforts were bearing, er, fruit. “I’m sorry.”
“Brent.” This time Jonathan’s tone was soft, and maybe a little apologetic. “I’m the one who’s sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. But you’re just so… so….”
“Awkward? Dorky? Pathetic?”
Jonathan set his water down and crossed to where Brent cowered by the sofa. “I was going to say adorable.”
“Adorable? Me? Have you looked at me?”
His smile returned, much naughtier than Santa’s. “Every chance I get. Haven’t you noticed?”
“I thought it was because you were triangulating my measurements for swants.”
“I was. But I’ve been drooling over you since I got a glimpse of your profile in the Goodwill Outlet.”
“My profile.” Brent swallowed convulsively. There’s no way he can miss a certain feature of my profile at this particular moment.
“Mmm-hmmm. I’ve always had a thing for Adrien Brody, and you bear a very strong resemblance. Sort of a cross between him and a young Neil Gaiman.”
A tendril of hope unfurled in Brent’s chest. “Yeah?”
“Absolutely.”
“Well, I’ve had a thing for Adam Rippon since I saw him at the Olympics, and you bear a very strong resemblance to him.”
Jonathan moved closer. “I’m flattered. Extremely. So that means…?” He lifted an eyebrow.
“It’s only that—” Brent took a deep breath. “I’m not a fast mover when it comes to relationships. I mean, glaciers have smoother moves than I do.”
“That’s not necessarily a bad thing.”
“But it is when I want to do this.” Brent cupped Jonathan’s face, so fragile in his long, knobby fingers. He lowered his head slowly, giving Jonathan a chance to pull away, but he didn’t—just kept looking at Brent with his lovely gray-blue eyes.
Then, when Brent was a breath away from those enticing full lips, Jonathan said, “Wait.”
Brent dropped his hands immediately and stepped back. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
“Come back here.” Jonathan snagged his hand and pulled him past the end of the couch. He peered down at Brent’s Mission-style coffee table. “This looks sturdy.”
“It is.”
“Good.” Jonathan stepped onto it and tugged Brent forward until they were almost chest to chest. “I didn’t want you to get a crick in your neck.” Then he framed Brent’s face. “Because that would so kill the mood.”
Finally, the thing Brent had been dreaming about since he’d first seen Jonathan’s mouth happened: Jonathan’s lips met his in a kiss that threatened to blow the top of his head off.
Not because it was messy or dirty or overly aggressive, but because it was perfect. A soft, yet insistent exploration of the ways their mouths could fit together. Brent n
ever wanted to stop—and with Jonathan at just the right height to prevent awkward body contortions, there didn’t seem any reason why they should.
I’ve got all night. Hell, I’ve got the rest of my life.
But then Jonathan pulled back, chuckling. He glanced down at Brent’s groin, where the fit of the swants was distorted by Brent’s erection. “You know, I think Sixty-Nine Santa’s got his work cut out for him.”
The heat pooling in Brent’s groin rushed upward until his face was probably redder than Santa’s suit. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s very flattering.” Jonathan grinned. “Not to mention mouthwatering.”
“Do you want to…? That is, would you like to stay tonight? We don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to, although I’m open to suggestions, especially more kissing. But I could make dinner. We could have those beers.”
Jonathan bit his lip. “I’d like to. But I’ve got to go. Maybe a rain check?”
“Tomorrow?”
“Sorry. Family stuff.”
“Monday?”
Jonathan wrinkled his nose. “I can’t. I’ve got a… a thing. Previous engagement.”
“Ah.” Brent’s heart dropped to Santa’s jaunty cap. Just because Jonathan was single didn’t mean he wasn’t seeing any number of other people. “That’s okay.”
“Hey!” Jonathan threaded his hands in Brent’s hair. “I’ll call you, okay?”
“Sure. Um, let me help you pack up.” He stepped back so Jonathan could jump down from the coffee table. At least Brent’s dick had deflated so he could move around without extreme mortification.
“Brent—”
“It’s okay, Jonathan. You’ve done so much for me today, and none of it was in your plans. Call me when you’re free.”
But as Brent helped a subdued Jonathan pack up, he didn’t have a lot of hope that the call would come. Especially when Jonathan’s kiss at the front door seemed almost sad.
A Swants Soiree Page 4
