by J. M. Snyder
Finally Jim takes a gulp of coffee and sighs. “Well, you keep saying you’re older than me, so I’m not going to err on the side of caution and say twenty-nine.”
In spite of the anxiety twisting through his gut, Alan laughs. “Yeah, that’s a bit off the mark, I’m afraid.”
“For both of us,” Jim adds.
Then he’s staring at Alan again. Studying him. What is it he sees? Alan would love to know. He’s all too aware of Jim’s gaze on his face, his hands, his chest. He feels naked in front of the detective, sure Jim’s using whatever mental tools are at his disposal to figure out the answer to Alan’s question. When he looks at Alan, what’s he taking in, exactly? The dark hair tapering to gray at the temples, the lines around his eyes and mouth, the worn skin on his knuckles. If he comes back with anything higher than fifty-five, Alan tells himself, that’s it, I’m dead. I might as well give it up.
Jim clears his throat, and his smile turns suddenly shy. “So instead of twenty-nine I’m gonna go with…twenty years on. Forty-nine.”
“You’re a liar.” But Alan’s more pleased than he cares to admit. “I don’t look a day under fifty-five and I know it.”
“This isn’t how old you look,” Jim reminds him. “Hell, if that’s the case, I’m sure I look fifty-five some days. I sure as hell feel like it in the morning.”
Alan shakes his head. “Nonsense. You can’t be forty yet.”
“Forty-two last August,” Jim says. “Now fess up. I know you aren’t fifty-five.”
“Not far off, though.” Alan finishes his tea and gets up to set the mug in the sink.
Jim’s still nursing his coffee. Tapping his fingers on the side of the mug, he stares at Alan thoughtfully. “So what then, fifty-one?”
With a look over his shoulder, Alan laughs. “Higher.”
“Fifty-two?” Jim’s grinning again.
Alan turns and leans back against the sink, both hands on the stainless steel edge behind him. “Getting close.”
“Fifty-three.” Jim doesn’t ask this time.
“Ding ding ding!” Alan jokes. “We have a winner. Get this man a prize.”
Jim scoffs. “I’d hardly call that old. Eleven years’ difference might matter when you’re sixteen looking to date someone older, but once you’re over forty, anyone your age and higher is fair game.”
Alan feels his face freeze in mid-grin. Is he saying what I think he’s saying? Alan isn’t sure, but he thinks Jim just said the age difference between them isn’t a deterrent.
To dating. Whether he knows it or not, he just implied I’m not too old for him to get involved with. He specifically said the word date. I heard him.
Minutes stretch out between them, silence again, this time growing awkward. Part of Alan wants to clarify things, but another part, a more sensible part—an older part—doesn’t want to ruin the hope he feels, however fleeting, that maybe, just maybe, Jim might be interested in him, too.
So ask him.
But no, he can’t. This is the first time they’ve spent more than five minutes together. They’re just getting to know each other, really. Alan doesn’t want to rush anything and risk spoiling it.
Getting a grip on himself, Alan nods at the mug in Jim’s hands. “You about done with that?”
Jim takes one last swallow, then hands over the empty mug. “Yeah, good. Thanks. I needed it.”
Alan sets the mug beside his in the sink. “I guess you have to get back to your…what’s it called, beat?”
“I’m a detective, not a patrolman,” Jim explains. “I only drive around the mall a bit before midnight to send home any kids milling around after hours.”
“Kids like Brooks.” With chagrin, Alan says, “Sorry about that.”
Jim shakes his head. “No, it’s okay. I got a good cup of coffee out of it, at any rate. And good conversation.”
Alan waves that away, secretly pleased. “Nothing more than what you’d find at the Brew. At least I didn’t spill it on you.”
That earns him a laugh. “That only happened the once,” Jim reminds him. “And it didn’t even stain my shoes. I put water on them back at the station like you suggested and the espresso came right out.”
Hoping to steer the conversation away from that embarrassing memory, Alan asks, “So if you aren’t going to be patrolling the mall all night, what is it you do?”
“I’ll head back to the station, do some paperwork,” Jim tells him. “Hope something gets called in before my shift is up.”
“When’s that?”
Running a hand through his hair, Jim sighs. “Four in the morning. These overnights can be a killer.”
“Bet your wife doesn’t like them,” Alan suggests.
Jim laughs. “No wife, sorry. I’m married to the job.”
“Girlfriend, then?” Almost teasing, Alan adds, “Boyfriend?”
Jim’s brows rise up again. “No one. I kind of have a cat but I’m not really sure I can call it mine. It comes and goes as it pleases.”
“Don’t they always?” Still, the admission makes Alan light-headed. His chest feels full, his arms tingly, his legs weak.
No one, eh? And he didn’t flinch or make some homophobic comment when asked about a boyfriend, either. So you might have a chance after all, old man, if you don’t scare him off.
Chapter 3
Alan sees Jim to the door. The detective stops just outside and turns to give Alan a nod. “Thanks again for the coffee.”
“Anytime,” Alan tells him. Before he can think better of it, he adds, “And I mean that. You don’t have to wait for Brooks to get into trouble to stop on by. You know where to find me.”
Shut up, he thinks, sure he’s said too much. You’re ruining a good moment here. Shut up, shut up.
With a shy grin, Jim ducks his head. It’s a move Alan finds endearing.
“Well, I’ll have to keep that in mind.” Jim glances up, meeting Alan’s gaze with a frankness that makes his heart weak. “Have a good night, Alan.”
“You, too, Jim.”
Wrapping his arms around himself, Alan steps out to watch Jim walk the short distance to his car. After opening the car door, he gives a little two finger wave, a playful salute, before dropping behind the wheel. Alan waits until the car starts and Jim backs out of his driveway before he steps back inside.
As he’s closing the door, a voice behind him says, “You owe me.”
Alan turns to find Brooks at the bottom of the stairs, hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie, a knowing smirk on his face that Alan wants to wipe off. “What’s that?”
“You owe me,” Brooks says again. “Pay up.”
“All right, all right.” Alan fishes his wallet out of the back pocket of his trousers, grumbling, “You know I’m good for it. Not like you’re going to the mall again tonight to spend it now, are you?”
Selecting a ten dollar bill, he folds it in half between his fingers, then folds it again before he holds it out to Brooks, who looks at it but doesn’t take it.
“Go on, then,” Alan says, giving the bill an enticing shake. “You earned it.”
Brooks gives him a sardonic look. “I think I earned a bit more than that tonight, don’t you?”
Alan’s taken aback. “For what?”
“He was here for a while, wasn’t he?” Brooks smirks and raises his eyebrows suggestively. “I get ten just for him bringing me home. I should get more when he decides to stay.”
“How much more?” Alan asks, indignant. “We had a cuppa, that was it.”
“But he came in,” Brooks argues. “Things are heating up between you two. You can’t deny it.”
Alan shakes his head. “Bloody hell! It was coffee, not a kiss.”
Brooks shrugs. “It’s only a matter of time. I mean, you like him, it’s obvious he likes you—”
“You think?” Alan’s heart soars at the thought, and a five joins the ten in his hand. “Why do you think that? Did he say anything earlier?”
Th
is time Brooks takes the money. “No, but I can tell.”
Alan scoffs. “You’re fourteen. What do you know about it?”
“Hey, sex is everywhere nowadays, hello.”
“Cheeky bastard,” Alan mutters. He forces himself to remain calm as he pockets his wallet. The boy’s just saying what he thinks I want to hear.
Brooks makes the money disappear. “How’d you two meet anyway?”
It’s an honest question. Brooks knows Jim from getting picked up for breaking curfew, but it’s Alan who drops him off at the mall after hours in the first place. And why? So Jim will bring him back, and hopefully Alan can steal a moment or two with the sexy detective. Pretty good gig for ten bucks, if he says so himself.
And tonight…how did Brooks put it? Things are heating up between us.
God, I hope so.
But how did he meet Jim in the first place?
* * * *
The short answer is at the Brew Inn, a coffee shop near the bank where Alan works as a financial advisor. For the past thirty years he’s stopped at the Brew every morning for a double espresso, extra hot, and an orange scone before heading into the office. Most of the time while he stands in the queue, his nose is buried in the newspaper, which he folds to the dimensions of the daily crossword. Tucking his briefcase in the crook of his arm, he leans the paper on it and fills in the puzzle with a ballpoint pen while waiting to order. Or rather, waiting to pay—he’s been coming in for so long, all the staff know what he wants by now. When he reaches the counter, he pays with exact change and then steps to the side of the till, still lost in the crossword, until his espresso is ready.
On the day he first met Jim, Alan was on a roll with the puzzle and didn’t glance behind him before stepping out of line. There was a muffled oomph and a sudden hand pressed into the small of his back. Alan was already apologizing as he turned. “Sorry, mate—”
His elbow caught the edge of a saucer someone held, causing the muffin on it to fall on the floor. “Oh, bugger all!” He tried to grab the pastry and only ended up knocking over his double espresso, which the server had set on the counter moments before. Hot liquid splashed his good Chelsea boots as well as the polished Oxfords of the man behind him, whose dirty muffin also got soaked.
“Bloody hell, I am sorry. Jesus. What a mess.” Alan tucked the newspaper and ballpoint into his coat pocket, then grabbed a handful of napkins off the counter. Squatting, he patted the dark splotches on the man’s shoes, which would dry and stain if they weren’t cleaned away quickly.
Without looking up, he advised, “You’re going to want to get some cold water on these so they don’t stain. I’m doing a botched job.”
“It’s okay.” The man caught Alan by the arm and helped him stand. “Really, it’s cool. No worries. It was an accident.”
“Let me at least buy you another muffin.” Dabbing the lapels of the man’s suit, Alan looked up, and anything else he might’ve said evaporated as easily as the breath in his lungs.
Course I have to embarrass myself in front of someone like this. Jesus Lord, but there was something subtly sexy about the stranger, from his rugged features to his combed back hair to his dark eyes and the easy confidence he exuded.
“I’m really sorry,” Alan said again faintly. “Let me make it up to you. Please. What kind of muffin was it?”
The man shook his head. “No, really, it’s fine.” Glancing past Alan, he added, “My partner already got me a replacement, so we’re all good.”
Partner. The word conjured in Alan’s mind an image of a young buck, strapping and built, wearing nothing but a smile as he fed this handsome man a muffin piece by piece.
Then the image changed, and it was Alan himself nude before the man, crumbling the muffin between his fingers and placing them on the man’s soft, thin lips. A jolt of lust shot through him and he jerked, dropping his briefcase. The edge of it landed in the spreading pool of cooling coffee, which splashed his pant legs this time.
“Bugger, I’m—God.” When had he become so damn skittish? And why? The man had a partner. Not a girlfriend, not a coworker. A partner.
And all I’ve done is knock his breakfast on the floor and tossed my coffee on him. If Brooks were here, he’d say I was a hot mess.
A woman approached them carrying a plate with two muffins on it. For the briefest moment, Alan thought she worked there. Then he noticed her pressed linen pantsuit and his heart sank. So this was the “partner,” a sharply-dressed African-American beauty with skin like polished mahogany and an amused smirk on red-lacquered lips.
“Here, Jim,” she said, plucking one of the muffins off her plate and depositing it on his. “Try not to drop this one.”
“It was my fault. I’m sorry,” Alan apologized again.
The man—Jim—shook his head. “No, no, I was in your way. Forgive me.”
Before Alan could say anything further, Jim followed his partner through the crowd and was gone.
“Mr. Travers?”
This from a tentative voice behind him. Alan turned and found a server behind the counter holding out a cup he supposed held his double espresso. His second double.
Alan felt all discombobulated. He patted his pockets, trying to find his wallet. “I’m sorry.” He wondered if that would be his mantra all day. Sorry, sorry. “Let me pay for that.”
“You already did, sir,” the server replied.
“Right, that was for the one I spilled.” There was his wallet, tucked into the same pocket of his overcoat as the newspaper. No wonder he hadn’t felt it at first. “Let me pay for his second muffin, too. How much do I owe you?”
“Oh no, you don’t have to do that. Detective Farrow took care of it.”
Alan frowned. “Detective…?”
“Farrow,” the server said with a nod. “She bought Detective Garrison another muffin and picked up your second espresso. So we’re all square.”
Alan felt like he was a step behind. “Detective Farrow…”
Patiently the server explained, “Yes, sir. She already paid. You’re good to go.”
She spoke slowly, as if Alan might be a little stupid. From the concerned look on her face, she might’ve been wondering if she should call the detectives back, just in case Alan took a header into the coffee spilled on the floor. “Sir?”
“Oh, yes. Thank you. Sorry.” He was apologizing more in one day than he might’ve done the whole rest of the year. Pocketing his wallet, he took the offered espresso, then picked up the small paper bag on the counter that held his scone.
On his way out of the café, he caught sight of the two detectives at a bistro table near the front door. Farrow was saying something Alan couldn’t hear, but as he passed by, Garrison—Jim—looked up and met his eye. He gave Alan a tight-lipped grin and a quick nod in recognition, nothing more. But Alan practically floated all the way to the bank.
* * * *
For some reason the story cracks Brooks up. “I can’t believe it! You’re always so prim and proper—”
“I am not!” Alan protests, even though he knows it’s true.
Brooks ignores him. “I just can’t imagine you knocking all that shit over like that.”
“Watch your language, young man.” Alan tries to be stern, but the sound of the boy’s laughter makes him grin. Even he has to admit the story is humorous.
Chapter 4
After that disastrous first meeting, Alan tried to put the handsome detective out of his head. But he couldn’t stop reliving the moment he looked into Jim Garrison’s eyes, and sometimes he swore he still felt Garrison’s hand on the small of his back. He was too damn old for a schoolgirl crush on someone he met in passing, someone who didn’t even know his name, and yet there it was.
He was smitten.
The next morning when he stopped for his espresso, he left the newspaper in his briefcase, the crossword forgotten. He tried to tell himself not to be disappointed if Garrison wasn’t there. Maybe the detective didn’t stop by the Brew e
very day like he did. Maybe Garrison was out on a call, or on patrol, or whatever it was detectives did at 7:30 in the morning.
Yet try as he might, Alan couldn’t help feeling hurt when he looked around the small café only to discover the detective was nowhere in sight.
The next day, same thing. No Garrison. No Farrow, either, so at least there was that, but Alan worried he’d scared them off, spilling coffee and muffins and acting the fool. Had that been their first—and last—stop at the Brew?
Would Alan ever see Garrison again?
He was being a bit dramatic, he had to admit. But the more he thought of the brief encounter between them, the more it inflated in his head, until it wasn’t a chance moment between strangers but rather love at first sight. Or at least lust, and that surprised him, he had to admit. He wasn’t exactly Casanova. He hadn’t been on a date in…well, if he were being honest, the last time he’d been with someone had been years before Brooks was even born, and the boy would soon be old enough to drive. It wasn’t as if Alan had made a conscious effort to not date, but really, he was happy enough staying at home. He’d sown his wild oats as a young man and was pretty much settled into his middle age, thank you very much. He had his job at the bank and his nephew to raise. He didn’t need anything else.
Or so he’d thought.
Garrison lingered in Alan’s thoughts like cologne—sharp on the senses at first, then slowly fading to a ubiquitous scent that clouded his mind and made his body ache in ways he’d forgotten could feel so good. He started sitting at the Brew to down his drink and scone, thinking perhaps the detective was coming in after he’d already left. Maybe Alan was just missing him. He even sat at the same table Garrison and Farrow had occupied on that first day, now almost a week ago. It provided him with a direct line of sight to both the customer line and the front door.
Still no Garrison.
Let it go, mate. He’s gone, you missed your chance. Tough luck.
So Alan went back to doing the crossword while queuing and hurrying out of the café as soon as he received his order. He stopped staring into police cars he passed, and stopped looking for Garrison’s face in every crowd. He gave up the idea of going out with someone again, enjoying someone else’s company, a man his own age or near enough.
