A Fortunate Blizzard

by L. C. Chase

  “I, uh . . . I was thinking . . .” Marc pulled his hands free and rolled his shoulders back, his voice more assured as he continued. “I was thinking it’s not right for you to spend your Christmas alone in a hotel lobby, sleeping in a damn chair, while I spend mine alone in the foothills, when we could spend it together. No one should be alone on Christmas, right?”

  “I . . .”

  . . . can’t. Shouldn’t. But yes, I want to.

  “My house is big,” he added. “You’d have your choice of guest rooms, if you wish. Though”—a playful light danced in Marc’s eyes—“I have a very large master bedroom.”

  He waited for a response, that playful light returning to the previous hopeful expression, but at Trevor’s hesitation, that began to fade. Trevor hated knowing that he was the cause of it, but he couldn’t go to Marc’s home. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to spend the holiday there, to simply be with him, it was that the more time he spent with him, the harder it would be to say good-bye. And good-bye was the only place this could go.

  “I can’t . . .” he started, letting his voice trail off at the crestfallen look on Marc’s face. Trevor’s heart twisted at the image, giving the offer a second thought just to make that look go away. The man was right, after all. No one should spend Christmas alone, and he had nowhere to go. As long as they were on the same page, it would be okay. Right? Just a couple of guys making the most of the situation. Then when the airport reopened, he’d head home as planned, and this would have been a memorable interlude.

  You’re fooling yourself, a voice whispered in the depths of his psyche, which he promptly ignored. He swallowed.

  “I’m not looking for anything here,” he said, his voice firm as he locked eyes with Marc. “As long as we’re clear.”

  Conflicting emotions bounced through Marc’s eyes, changing too quickly to get a read on any particular one, but his voice was eager when he said, “We’re clear. I definitely don’t have time for anything more right now, either.” Marc smiled, a grin so beautiful and sincere that it washed away every reason Trevor should have said no.

  “Okay. Take me home, then.”

  “We’ll need to stop at the grocery store on the way,” Marc said as he steered his late-model Audi Q7 onto Interlocken Boulevard, heading back toward the Boulder Turnpike. “I don’t eat at home often enough to actually stock the kitchen. Is there anywhere you need to stop on the way? Anything you need?”

  Trevor shook his head. The only thing he really needed Marc couldn’t give him. “Do you not cook?”

  A snort of a laugh escaped Marc. “Not much point.”

  “Of course there is. Everyone has to eat.”

  “And that’s why we have a city full of restaurants and great takeout,” Marc said. He was still smiling, but it looked a little forced, a little lonely.

  Trevor studied Marc’s profile for a moment. Sunglasses sat on the bridge of a perfectly straight nose, a dusting of dark stubble followed the angle of a strong jaw, and a tongue poked out to slide along a plump lower lip that Trevor knew firsthand felt like satin. He was intelligent, driven, successful . . . gorgeous. Why was a man like this alone?

  Sure, Trevor was alone when it came to romantic relationships, too, but with damn good reason. If a transplant didn’t come through for him soon, he could very possibly be dead in a year. Even if he did get a new one, there was no guarantee his body would even accept it. But he had family and good friends to fulfill his life. What did Marc have other than work?

  An ache trickled into his chest when he remembered what Marc had told him in the dark last night, about being a ghost in his own home. Trevor couldn’t imagine what that must have been like, having always had the unwavering and unconditional love, support, and encouragement of his own family.

  “I’m going to cook for you then,” Trevor decided aloud. This couldn’t go anywhere, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t help someone feel a little less alone. Even if just for a day. “I mean, it’s the least I can do, since you’re being kind enough to invite a wayward stranger into your home for Christmas.”

  Marc glanced over at him, his smile soft. Trevor couldn’t see his eyes behind the mirrored shades, but his voice was pure honey when he said, “Not really a stranger anymore.”

  Trevor smiled back. Nothing about Marc felt like a stranger to him, even though it had been less than twenty-four hours since they’d met. How could that be? Fate, his mom would say. Her belief in love at first sight and “just knowing” when you’ve met the one you’re supposed to be with was unshakable. But that was his mom. Not him. He already knew miracles didn’t happen, and fate could be a fickle bitch.

  Marc reached over, as if he was going to take Trevor’s hand in his, but he paused midway, moving to grip the steering wheel instead. He returned his focus to the road ahead of them, and his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed.

  I’d have held your hand.

  Trevor gave himself a mental knock on the head to stay in check. He shifted his gaze out the window, where a thick blanket of pristine white powder covered the passing land. The fresh snow glistening under the bright winter sun—still, pure, peaceful—that never failed to awe him with its quiet beauty. He burned the image, the tone of its mood, to memory so he could paint it later. The idea took shape in his mind’s eye as they drove—a big canvas, maybe six feet by four, the bottom third a stark snow-covered landscape littered with diamonds, and a vast blue sky that reached for eternity filling out the rest of the canvas.

  Before he knew it, they were pulling into Boulder’s local organic grocer—open but minimally staffed due to the blizzard—where Trevor gathered ingredients to make a few renal-diet-friendly meals. The added bonus of cooking for Marc was that he could control the menu and wouldn’t have to explain why there were so many foods he couldn’t eat. He didn’t want to get into his condition, didn’t want to talk about it . . . really didn’t want to even think about it. Right now he just wanted to focus on enjoying the company of an attractive, kind man.

  “Do you have any food allergies? Or anything in particular you don’t like?” Trevor asked as he picked out a package of skinless chicken thighs. He tossed the package into their cart and tried to ignore how domestic grocery shopping with Marc felt.

  This was a mistake. He should have stayed at the hotel.

  And slept in a chair? the devil on his shoulder chided.

  “I’m a garbage can,” Marc said, bestowing a smile on him that could compete with the sun. “I’ll eat anything.”

  Damn it. Why did those smiles make Trevor ignore the things he couldn’t afford to forget? At least he’d already verbally set the boundaries and Marc had agreed—neither of them was looking for more.

  “I’m not sure if I should be impressed or appalled,” Trevor teased, hoping a little humor would get him out of his own head.

  “Impressed.” Marc’s eyes danced with infectious mirth. “Definitely.”

  Trevor shook his head and grinned. “Appalling,” he said, making sure his tone was playful.

  Marc’s gaze dropped to Trevor’s mouth, and even as he resisted the urge to lick his lips, he wasn’t able to turn away. Marc’s eyes flicked up, connected with Trevor’s, and for that brief moment the only sound he could hear was the buzzing of electricity sparking between them.

  Trevor cleared his throat. “Just a . . . a few more things and . . .” He nodded, as though that would break down the roadblock his tongue suddenly seemed unable to navigate. He turned away before Marc could say anything and quickly gathered the rest of the food.

  Twenty minutes later, Marc pulled over at the foot of a long, snow-covered drive that led to a sprawling rancher. Snowplows had been along the main road at some point, but the entrance to the drive was blocked by a good four feet of pile up. Marc sighed and killed the engine, turning to him with an apologetic expression. “I’m sorry. It looks like we’re hiking it from here.”

  “No problem,” Trevor said, his legs needing the stretch anyway
. “The fresh air will do us good.”

  “I’ve got an ATV with a plow on it to clear the drive.” Marc opened his door, and cold air burst its way inside. “I’ll get changed after we get everything inside and take care of that. Shovel open this fancy new gate, too, so I can get the car off the road.”

  “If you’ve got two shovels, I’ll help.”

  Marc smiled. “Thanks.” He grabbed their two bags of groceries, while Trevor threw his duffel bag over his shoulder, and together they trudged their way through the powdery snow and up the drive.

  His breath puffed out ahead of him, as if leading the way, and snow crept between his pant legs and socks to chill his ankles. Even though he exercised regularly, he was winded by the time they reached the house, and his legs were ready to give out. While constant fatigue had become a normal state of being for him since starting dialysis, he wasn’t usually this wiped out after his treatments anymore. But the last twenty-four hours had been a little out of his regular routine, what with the late night and amazing sex—not just once, but twice. He shook his head. He still couldn’t believe how Marc had gotten his libido so charged up. Now though, the fatigue had seeped deep and made his bones feel heavy. If he could sneak in a nap, he’d be okay the rest of the day.

  Side by side they stomped up two short steps to a sprawling front porch, and he set his bag down by the door, then shook the snow from his pants. Marc did the same before gathering the bags and opening the front door. Anxiety snaked into Trevor’s chest as he followed Marc into a large foyer that revealed an open floor plan and a west wall banked in floor-to-ceiling windows. The Front Range mountains stood tall and majestic in the frame of the windows, and Trevor’s breath caught, awe replacing the sudden bout of apprehension. This view alone was well worth the unplanned hike.

  He whistled. “Wow.”

  Marc glanced over his shoulder and smiled. “That’s the number one reason why I bought this place. That and the East Boulder trails are just outside.”

  “Impressive,” Trevor said, dropping his bag to the floor. He kicked off his shoes, hung his jacket on a hook by the door, and followed Marc into a massive chef’s kitchen. “How can you have a kitchen like this and not cook?” He shook his head.

  Marc looked around the kitchen, almost as if he were seeing it for the first time. “I’d intended to use it often, but . . .” He shrugged and then began emptying the contents of the grocery bags.

  It seemed he wasn’t going to continue, and Trevor had the distinct impression he shouldn’t press. Instead, he helped unpack the groceries, handing items to Marc who put them in their assigned places, in companionable silence. He tried again not to think about how domestic it all felt. He definitely did not think about how right it felt. A life like this wasn’t, and would never be, his.

  “Come on,” Marc said when they were done. “Let me give you the grand tour, then we’ll change and head back out.”

  “Lead the way, squire,” Trevor teased, grateful for the distraction from his wandering mind.

  The house was gorgeous. His own home up in Nederland didn’t have the expansive views, being surrounded by trees as it was, but he’d always thought he’d had a king’s ransom in natural light with skylights in nearly every room. The light that filtered into this house put his to shame, though. Not only were there multiple skylights in almost every room but each window ran floor to ceiling, and the ceilings? Vaulted with natural wood and exposed beams. Everything about this home was bright, open, and airy. It was beautifully appointed with a welcoming, homey mood to it, but the feeling that something was missing nudged at him. That this was a house on the verge of being a home. After a few minutes he realized the walls were devoid of photos—not a single family portrait, no candid snapshots of friends celebrating or vacation memories. Not to mention . . .

  “You don’t have a Christmas tree,” he blurted, and immediately heat charged into his cheeks.

  Marc looked down, shoving his hands into his pocket. Trevor’d embarrassed the man. “Yeah. Not really here much to enjoy it, or, you know . . . it’s just me.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  “No, it’s okay.” Marc met his eyes and smiled, but his expression read unsure. “Maybe we can do something to festive the place up together?”

  “I—” Trevor frowned. “What?” Marc wanted them to decorate his house together? That was . . . I am not going to say domestic again.

  “Or . . .” Marc turned away, but not before Trevor caught the lush green of his eyes dim. “My apologies. That was silly.”

  “No, I’m sorry,” Trevor said quickly. The last thing he wanted was for Marc to think him an ungrateful asshole. He reached out, placing his hand on Marc’s biceps and giving the firm muscle beneath his palm a brief squeeze. Not getting involved didn’t mean they couldn’t do things together, right? It didn’t have to be any different than helping to decorate the little art gallery in Nederland. “I didn’t mean to put you on the spot about not having decorated or for seeming not to want to. It was just . . . I don’t know. But . . . it’s a good idea.”

  Marc glanced back at him, studying him for a second before he placed his hand over Trevor’s.

  “More to see,” Marc said quietly, his voice thick, and tipped his head toward a short set of stairs. He dropped his hand, turning to finish the tour, and Trevor fell in step behind him, hoping he wouldn’t stick his foot in his mouth again.

  The ranch-style house had been built on the side of a hill, so there wasn’t a basement, but there was a lower level on one side. Marc stopped at the bottom of the stairwell, and Trevor walked past him into another large open space. Sitting directly below the main living area on the upper level, a bank of windows surrounded French doors facing the same view of the Front Range. Blue sky made brighter by the crisp snow stretched miles high.

  The opposite wall was off-white and completely bare. The far side of the space was lined with shelves and drawers. At the other end of the room was a sitting area with a comfortable-looking chaise, two chairs, and a wooden table in the middle. But what caught and demanded his attention was what stood in the middle of the room, facing the view: an easel with a large blank canvas on it.

  Trevor turned to Marc, opening his mouth to ask why it sat there blank, why the room seemed so . . . abandoned, and why that perfectly lit gallery wall was empty, but the words died before he’d finished taking a full breath to speak them. Marc wasn’t looking at him, still hadn’t even entered the room. In fact, he’d retreated back up to the lower step. His gaze was fixed on the view beyond the window, as if he were deliberately not looking into the room, and the rigid stance of his body said he wanted out of there as fast as possible.

  It didn’t make sense to Trevor. To have this incredible space, to have it set up specifically as an art space, but to pretend it wasn’t there?

  Then he remembered what Marc had said in the middle of the night: that he’d wanted to be an artist, but disapproval from his mother had made him bury his true dreams. Marc had said he had no time to get back into art now, but this room . . . Trevor’s heart squeezed tight in his chest. This room was a silent cry.

  Marc shot a quick glance at Trevor. “Ready for the grand finale?” he asked, his voice tight.

  “Sure.” But Marc was halfway up the steps before Trevor finished the single word. If only he could help make this man’s life better . . . If only he had enough time to make a difference . . . They had today and tomorrow, though. That would have to be enough.

  He followed Marc around a corner and into what had to be the biggest master bedroom—no, master suite—he’d ever seen.

  “If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear you planned this tour to end here,” Trevor said, stopping behind Marc in the large room. Just as all the other rooms in this house, two full walls were windows. Another set of French doors opened out to a patio that ran the length of the eastern side of the house, and sunlight shone down through three skylights.

  “Are you sug
gesting I had ulterior motives?” Marc’s voice was pitched low, husky, and he turned and snaked a finger through Trevor’s belt loop, tugging him closer. An impish light sparked in his eyes.

  Trevor grinned. “Depends what those motives are.”

  “I have a feeling you might like them.” Marc dipped his head and nipped at Trevor’s lips. The touch sent a charge of shivers racing through his body.

  “There can’t be any more to this,” Trevor reminded him, steadfastly ignoring the part of him that did want more.

  Marc tilted his head slightly, and Trevor could see the wheels turning in his brain. He braced himself for questions he would not answer.

  “We’re on the same page,” Marc finally said, but he didn’t let go of Trevor’s belt loop.

  “Good.” And it was good, so why was his relief tinged with disappointment?

  Marc pulled Trevor closer until their bodies bumped against each other. “Doesn’t mean we can’t take advantage of the moment,” he said. His solid body pressed against the length of Trevor’s, and this time Trevor initiated the next move.

  The kiss was slow, sensual, and he opened his mouth to welcome Marc’s tongue inside. Trevor angled his head to deepen the kiss, and Marc responded with an intensity that would have knocked Trevor’s shoes off had he still been wearing them. He was being devoured, and he loved every second of it, wanted more, wanted it always. And right now, he didn’t care what that meant. He just wanted to feel.

  But Marc broke the kiss, calming the fire that was building between them, and stepped back. A chill stole over Trevor from the absence of all that hard heat against him, and he stumbled a step forward. His chest rising and falling rapidly as air puffed from his lungs in small gusts, and his mind raced to catch up with what had just happened.

  A wicked grin pulled at Marc’s mouth. “First we shovel, then we play,” he said, his voice gruff. He walked over to a chest of drawers and pulled out a T-shirt and pair of sweatpants, tipping a chin at Trevor before tossing the clothing his way.