Accidentally On Purpose

by J. M. Snyder

  Too bad Alan can’t stop thinking about it as easily.

  * * * *

  Monday morning, Alan’s gaze is drawn to the detectives’ usual table as soon as he enters the Brew but no one’s sitting there. Just as well—there’s hardly a queue at the counter, so he wouldn’t have an excuse to linger even if he did see Jim.

  Come to think of it, though, the guy at the counter sort of looks like the detective from the back. Unless…

  Alan steps out of line and moves closer. As the man’s profile comes into view, Alan’s heart soars. It is Jim. He can’t help but wonder if sharing a cuppa Friday inspired the detective to stop by the café this morning.

  Maybe to see me? Is that too much to hope for?

  Jim hasn’t noticed Alan yet; he’s digging in a hidden pocket inside his blazer, reaching for his wallet to pay the server. Before he can do so, Alan comes up beside him and hands over a twenty. “I’ve got it, mate,” he says, smiling at the server. “Ring up the both of us, please.”

  Now Jim turns, brows arched in surprise. “Alan, hey. Fancy meeting you here.”

  That makes Alan laugh. “I know, right? Long time, no see.”

  “You didn’t have to pay for me,” Jim protests.

  But Alan shakes his head. “Ah, I owe you, remember? From our little game the other night? You guessed right.”

  “Eventually.” Jim takes his food when the server offers it: a plate with a fat blueberry muffin on it and a tall cappuccino. As he sips his drink, he looks at Alan over the top of the cup. “You paying makes me feel like this is a date.”

  “Oh, I’m not that cheap,” Alan jokes.

  “Well, thanks. It’s my turn next time.” Jim starts to walk away, then calls back over his shoulder, “Stop by on your way out.”

  The server hands Alan his change, then the usual bag with his orange scone inside. His double espresso arrives seconds later, set carefully on the counter where he can get it. Then Alan turns to follow Jim, who’s sitting at his usual table by the door.

  When Alan approaches, Jim nods at the empty chair. “Can you sit for a minute? Or do you have to rush off to work?”

  “I can sit.” Alan sets his cup and bag on the table, then slides his briefcase under the chair before sitting down. “Where’s your partner this morning? I don’t want to take her seat.”

  “She isn’t coming,” Jim says. “Last week we were called out to investigate a robbery in Church Hill and Anita fired her weapon, so she’s on administrative leave at the moment.”

  Alan takes a sip of his drink, which burns the back of his throat and warms his belly. “What’s that, like a paid vacation?”

  With a laugh, Jim shakes his head. “I wish. No, it’s basically work from home. You have to be available from eight to six every day, so you can’t go out wherever or whenever you want. And you’re given some kind of busy work to do. Anita’s entering old cold case files into our new computer system, which means she spends eight hours a day doing nothing more than data entry. She’s already texted me this morning and swore she’ll never shoot another gun for the rest of her life.”

  Alan thinks of Jim facing down a barrel of a gun and shudders. “Do you often get into situations like that?” At Jim’s frown, he explains, “Where you have to shoot something. Or someone.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about me,” Jim drawls. “I’ve never had to discharge my weapon yet. The only action it’s ever seen is at the squad’s practice range.”

  Still, Alan’s nervous. He knows Jim’s a detective, but he thought that meant investigating murders and such. Not anything that might put him in harm’s way.

  Concern must show on Alan’s face, because Jim reaches across the table and covers Alan’s hand with his own. The touch is warm and affectionate, and so sudden, it makes Alan’s heart skip. “Really, it’s fine,” he says softly.

  “I guess I never thought about it,” Alan admits. “You have a dangerous job.”

  With a shrug, Jim pulls his hand back. “Eh, it pays the bills. Keeps me busy. Besides…” He gives Alan a coy grin. “It’s how we met.”

  Alan laughs in surprise. “No, we met when I backed up into you here. You didn’t have to be a cop for me to do that.”

  “Maybe not,” Jim concedes, “but we only really got to talking once I started picking up your nephew for breaking curfew on a regular basis.”

  “That kid.” To keep from adding anything more, Alan pulls his scone out of the bag and breaks off a piece to eat. Part of him wants to tell Jim how exasperated Brooks was all weekend long, but another part realizes he’d reveal his true feelings about the detective if he does. So he pops the piece of scone into his mouth to keep quiet.

  But what if Brooks is right?

  What if Jim is as attracted to Alan as Alan is to him? Was that such a crazy idea?

  He asked me to join him, didn’t he? And the way he ducks his head when he speaks to me, the way he smiles at me, the way his eyes brighten when he looks my way…why not take a chance and see where things might go between us?

  And risk losing what little he already has with the man? Alan doesn’t want to alienate Jim by misreading kindness for something more.

  Companionable silence stretches between them. Alan tries to think of something to add, but his mind is blank. All he knows is the throb of his pulse in his groin and the tingle of flesh where Jim’s hand covered his. Can he say or do anything to get that back?

  After a long moment, Jim breaks off part of his muffin and crumbles it onto his plate. “So this isn’t a date, huh?”

  Alan shakes his head. “If it was, I’d take you somewhere nicer, for one.” Is it just him, or does his voice quiver slightly? “I’m a dinner and show type of guy.”

  “What kind of show?” Jim asks.

  With a shrug, Alan admits, “Well, whatever, really. A movie, a concert. I have tickets to the opera on Friday. I’m a season ticket holder and get two seats for each show, but Brooks doesn’t really care for it.”

  “I’ve never been.”

  Alan frowns. “To the opera? Never?”

  Jim shakes his head. “What’s it like? Fat lady on stage singing a song you can’t understand? What’s it in, Italian or something?”

  With a grin, Alan says, “I think you’ve seen one too many Bugs Bunny cartoons.”

  “So what’s different?” Jim breaks off more of his muffin and molds the crumbs into balls before eating them.

  “Well, no rabbit, for starters.”

  That makes Jim laugh. “Okay, so no rabbit. What else?”

  Alan sits back, drink and scone forgotten as he tries to find a way to explain how wonderful the opera is to someone who’s never been. “No fat ladies. At least, not all of them, anyway. And yes, it’s usually in Italian, but there are supertitles—”

  “What are those?”

  “The English translation of the lyrics,” Alan explains. “They’re displayed above the stage so you can follow what’s going on.”

  Jim laughs again. “No shit? Who knew. Do you like it? Opera?”

  “I love it,” Alan admits. “I wish Brooks did. I hate going by myself…”

  “So take me.”

  Alan stares at Jim, nonplussed. Is it as easy as that, then, getting a date?

  Jim must read hesitation in Alan’s stunned silence because he shrugs and crumbles up more of his muffin. “Or don’t, if you don’t want to.”

  “Wait.” Alan doesn’t quite dare believe what’s happening here. “Are you asking me to ask you out?”

  One of Jim’s brows shoots up and he smirks. “It wasn’t a question.”

  “But would it be a date?” Alan wants to know.

  “I don’t know.” Suddenly Jim turns coy. “Do you want it to be?”

  Hell, yes. But Alan isn’t quite ready to admit it out loud.

  Then Jim leans forward, and hooks a finger at Alan to draw him in closer, too. “Here’s the sitch. Neither of us are getting any younger here, so let’s cut to the chase. I like
you, okay? And I think it’s a pretty safe bet to say you like me, too.”

  Alan’s throat is so dry, it clicks when he swallows. “I’d take that bet.”

  Jim’s smile widens. “Alright then. No games. I don’t have tickets to the opera, and I’m not going to be so uncouth as to invite myself, but I can ask you out to dinner. Would you like to go out to eat with me Friday?”

  “I would love to.” Alan thinks he knows where Jim’s going with this, so he adds, “Would you care to accompany me to the opera afterward?”

  Jim laughs. “It would be my pleasure.”

  Chapter 8

  That evening Alan orders a pizza for dinner, which he and Brooks share at the breakfast bar in the kitchen. Brooks isn’t entirely there—he has his phone in one hand, typing with his thumb, as he holds a slice of pizza in the other. Texting his little girlfriend, no doubt. Alan waits. At one point, the phone dings and Brooks grins at something before setting it down.

  “What happened? Her battery die?” Alan jokes.

  Brooks shakes his head and checks the screen, even though no other texts have come in. “It’s dinnertime. Her mom says no phones at the table.”

  “Good idea.”

  Before Brooks can react, Alan plucks the phone off the breakfast bar and tucks it into his back pocket.

  Brooks gives him a wounded look. “Hey! Give that back!”

  “Finish eating first,” Alan says. “I have to tell you something.”

  Taking a bite of his pizza, Brooks grumbles, “Better be good.”

  Now that he has his nephew’s attention, though, Alan can’t come right out and say what he wants to. Instead he hedges around it. “Are you and Miss Kylie still going to the cinema Friday?”

  “I think so, yeah.” Brooks holds out his hand. “Give me the phone and I’ll double-check.”

  Alan doesn’t fall for that. “Do you think her mother can take you?”

  Brooks frowns. “Why can’t you?”

  “I have tickets to the opera—”

  “Yuck!” Brooks rolls his eyes and reaches for another slice of pizza. “Before you ask, no, we don’t want to go.”

  “Why would I ask you to?” Alan keeps his voice light, innocent. “They’re my tickets.”

  “Because you don’t like going alone.” Brooks digs into the second slice, chewing furiously. “I can’t go with you because I’ll be with Kylie. And I don’t want to go with you, either. I hate the opera.”

  “Uncultured swine,” Alan teases.

  That earns him another eyeroll. “Anyway, if you’re thinking about giving us the tickets, we don’t want them. We’re going to see the new Mission: Impossible movie. She’s already decided.”

  “I’m not giving you my tickets, don’t worry.” Alan helps himself to another slice of pizza, and without looking at his nephew, he casually says, “Besides, I have a date.”

  Brooks stops in mid-chew and stares at him. “You do not.”

  Arching his brows, Alan gives a little shrug as he takes a bite.

  “You didn’t.” Brooks studies him, not quite sure what to think.

  Alan shrugs again and keeps mum.

  Suddenly Brooks lets out a whoop. One arm shoots up, punching the air. “Woo! I told you he likes you. I told you!”

  “Yeah, well.” Alan can’t keep his smile in any longer. “Apparently he does.”

  Chapter 9

  While they were at the café, Jim gave Alan his phone. “What’s this for?” Alan wanted to know.

  “Type in your number,” Jim told him.

  Alan frowned at the unfamiliar screen. “I could just tell you what it is…” But he typed in his phone number anyway, then tried to figure out how to enter his name, too. “Brooks is so much better at this than me.”

  “Let me see it.” Jim took back his phone and typed something on the screen. “One L or two? In Alan?”

  “One. Two A’s.” Alan wondered if he should hand over his own phone now. Before he could, though, it started to ring. He patted his pockets, trying to find it. “Who the bloody hell’s calling now?”

  “It’s just me,” Jim assured him.

  With a chuckle, Alan asked, “Wanted to make sure I didn’t give you the wrong number?”

  Jim shrugged. “Just wanted you to have mine, that’s all.”

  “Oh, right.” Alan’s cheeks burned as he saved the number to his contacts. “Haven’t done this in a while, can’t you tell?”

  “Well, I figure it’ll be better to call me directly rather than call the station.” Jim grinned. “You probably don’t want the whole squad to know we’re going out.”

  “No, I guess not.” Alan pocketed his phone again, worrying now that Jim might get in trouble for…what, exactly? Going out with another man? Or with someone he met on the job? “Don’t worry, mate. We’ll be discreet.”

  Reaching across the table, Jim covered Alan’s hand with his. Discreet, my arse.

  “I just don’t want them to know—”

  “I get it,” Alan interrupted. “I do.”

  “—I’m going out—”

  Alan shook his head. “I know.”

  “—to the opera.” Jim’s eyes lit up with mirth, and he squeezed Alan’s hand before letting go. “Man, they’d never let me live it down.”

  Alan had to laugh out loud. He hadn’t expected that. “Right, well, here’s hoping it’s not as bad as all that.”

  Jim’s quick smile is contagious. “I doubt it. At least I know I’ll enjoy the company.”

  No pressure then, eh?

  * * * *

  Monday evening, after Brooks goes up to his room and leaves Alan to clean up the kitchen, Alan is folding the pizza box so it’ll fit into the rubbish bin when his phone dings with an incoming text message. The phone rests on the counter, far enough away from the sink so it won’t accidentally get wet when he washes up the dishes. Now he leans over to look at the screen, sure it’ll be something from Brooks like Bring me up another Coke plz or Is there any pizza left?

  To his pleasant surprise, the message is from Jim. Hey you.

  Alan feels a broad grin spread across his face. Unlocking the phone, he types back, Evening, Detective.

  He waits a moment for a response, and when one doesn’t arrive immediately, he goes back to struggling with the box. But as he’s shoving it into the bin, another message comes in. This time he picks up the phone to read it.

  Even ur texts have a posh accent.

  Alan laughs as he types back. The Queen is posh. I have a working man’s Cockney.

  His phone autocorrects Cockney to simply cock.

  That’s a bit in your face, innit? “I have a working man’s cock.” Not that I’m one to brag.

  He deletes the word and tries again. This time he selects Cockney and doesn’t let autocorrect change it. As soon as he hits SEND, he starts typing again.

  I don’t understand the appeal of text messaging. It takes too bloody long. Why not just call?

  He’s barely sent it before his phone goes off. He answers it before the end of the first ring. “Hello?”

  “There you are.” Jim’s gruff voice fills Alan up inside, warm and close and God, so intimate. “I wondered if it was too late to call.”

  “It’s never too late.” Alan imagines Jim behind the wheel of his vehicle, sitting in the dark, bored as he watches the empty mall parking lot and waits for his shift to end. “You at work, then?”

  “Not tonight,” Jim admits. “I’m home, stretched out on the couch with the Weather Channel on mute. I like the way you sound on the phone.”

  Alan laughs and heads to the living room. The dishes can wait. “And how’s that, exactly?”

  “Just…I don’t know. If I close my eyes, it sounds like you’re right here beside me, I guess.”

  Alan can hear the smile in his voice. “You’re more than welcome to swing by for a nightcap, if you want.”

  “With a stop by the mall to pick up Brooks, eh?” Jim jokes.

  Sinkin
g into his usual seat on the couch, Alan stretches his legs out over the cushions, the way Brooks sits sometimes, taking up the whole thing. “No, he’s upstairs,” he says. “Supposedly studying for a Biology exam tomorrow but more likely texting that little girlfriend of his.”

  “Are you sure he’s up there?” Jim’s voice is heavy with thinly veiled skepticism.

  Quite sure, mate. The only way he gets to the mall is if I take him. But Alan keeps that to himself.

  Instead he says, “Pretty sure. I took him up a can of soda not ten minutes ago. That’s how I know he’s playing on his phone instead of studying.”

  “Hmm.”

  Silence envelopes them; it’s enough for Alan just to hear Jim breathe in his ear. After a long moment, though, Jim says, “So. Tell me about your day.”

  Alan laughs, embarrassed. “It was boring. Nothing to talk about, really. How about you?”

  “Mostly paperwork,” Jim admits. “With my partner on leave, I’m more or less stuck behind a desk until all that’s sorted out.”

  More silence. Damn, are we that incompatible? Alan wonders. If so, what the hell will they talk about on their date?

  At least we won’t have to rack our brains for conversation topics while we’re at the opera.

  Jim clears his throat. “Did you tell Brooks about Friday?”

  “Had to, really,” Alan says, eager for something—anything—to talk about. “He’s going out, too, and expecting me to cart him around like I usually do.”

  “What’d he have to say?” Jim asks. “Wait, he knows you’re gay, right?”

  “He knows,” Alan admits. “More than he should, really. Can you believe he tried giving me advice? Fourteen, and thinks he’s a right Casanova or something.”

  That earns him a laugh. “Well, you did say he had a girlfriend.”

  “Don’t you start, too,” Alan warns, only half serious. “You want to know what he said? He said it’s obvious you like me. The bloody cheek of that kid, I swear.”

  Jim laughs again. “Well, he wasn’t wrong.”

  * * * *

  Time rushes by. Alan hasn’t moved from the couch, his feet at one end, shoes kicked off, and his head at the other end, resting on a bolster pillow. He knows it’s late—it has to be—but he doesn’t want to get off the phone, which is pressed to his ear so he can savor every little sound Jim makes. Alan’s voice is raspier than usual, his throat scratchy. He’s almost all talked out, and he suspects Jim is getting tired, too.