by B. G. Thomas
He couldn’t help it. He couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to kiss that mouth and—
Whoa!
Those eyes. They were looking back at him. Looking in a way that… that couldn’t be… couldn’t….
His eyes went wide.
He literally couldn’t move.
Charlie panicked.
He wanted to run. Run as fast as he could.
Because good God, Tory was looking at him. Not just looking. He seemed to be… well, looking into him.
He had to get out of here!
Why? his Aunt Charlotte asked. Why on earth?
Because…. Because….
Because what?
Because I can’t do that again, he told her. Not ever.
You can’t what?
He trembled. I can’t take a chance.
Well, why on earth not?
Because I could get hurt!
Getting a little ahead of yourself there, aren’t you, my boy? Putting the carriage ahead of the horse?
He almost laughed then. Of course she was right! Just because Tory was looking at him didn’t mean he was interested, did it? He was a merchant selling his wares, right?
Aunt Charlotte didn’t answer that one.
But of course, she wasn’t really there, was she?
So what do I do, then?
He took a deep breath.
And said the only thing he could think of to say.
“Salt and pepper shakers?”
Chapter Six
SALT AND pepper shakers? Is that what Charlie said?
Oh! His salt and pepper shakers.
Gay cleared her throat. “Charlie absolutely loved the bowl you made. And his holiday dinnerware has a holly theme. So he thought he’d see what else you have. Especially—”
“My salt and pepper shakers?” Tory finished, finally putting it all together. Cute Charlie. He was blushing. The man had to be in his late forties, and he could still blush?
He looked at the sweet man, saw (for goodness’ sake) that there was still fear in his eyes (What does he think? That I want to eat him or something?).
“I’m assuming you’d like the same holly design?” he said, being the absolute professional.
Charlie nodded. Gulped. Tory actually heard him gulp.
“Well, you’re in luck. I have one set left.” He pointed toward his second table, half of which was his holly collection.
Charlie moved, shifting his attention to where Tory was pointing. He came around the corner and let out a little gasp when he saw the display. “Oh my,” he said. “I… I don’t even know where to look. It’s all gorgeous!”
Tory grinned and realized he was blushing. “Thank you.” He touched the salt and pepper shakers, dark green leaves, oval shaped, and sitting up on their ends. Red berries formed the S and P on either of the pair.
“Oh! Oh my,” Charlie said, and Tory felt that little tingle again. He was so cute. He was! So cute.
Tory placed the shakers in the man’s very big hands. There was hair, just a bit, on the top of each. And look. Because his long shirtsleeves were cuffed back, he could see that hair traveled up his arms. Exactly the right amount. A man’s arms. Might his chest be hairy too (Please. God)?
“They’re perfect!” Charlie turned to their mutual friend. “Gay. They’re perfect, aren’t they?”
Tory couldn’t help but smile. Perfect. He loved it when people loved his work. It was almost enough to distract him from how… well, gosh, aroused he was!
Calm down, Tory, he told himself. You’re going to scare him away!
“Absolutely.” Gay was nodding enthusiastically. “Perfect! You’d be a fool not to get them.”
“How… how much?” He was turning the shakers this way and that, holding them as if they were priceless Fabergé eggs. Then he froze again. He was looking at the bottom of them. Where the prices were. “Oh,” he said in a little whisper. Or was it a gasp. “Fifteen? As in apiece?”
Tory nodded. “I know thirty seems a little steep, considering their size—”
Charlie nodded as well. “But you’re an artist, and you need to make a living. An artist should be paid his worth.”
The comment surprised and pleased Tory. He heard lots of complaints. And lots of people trying to talk him down in price. Not enough people realized his work wasn’t arts and crafts, but art. Even if most of his work came from molds these days. He simply didn’t have the time to make his real art. “Actually, they’re a bitch. See, I have to make a lot of them to get pairs. It’s not at all uncommon for the glaze to fill the holes during the firing process. And you can hardly use them that way. I lose quite a few.”
Charlie nodded again and bit his lower lip. “I want them. Got to have them.” He looked at Tory (with those eyes of his) and said, “You’ve got yourself a sale. I don’t suppose you take cards?”
“I do,” Tory replied. “A merchant just about has to these days, even if it means losing a part of the sale to the bank.”
“Aren’t you going to look at his other treasures?” Gay asked, and they both looked at her. Tory had almost forgotten she was there.
And that wasn’t easy to do.
Chapter Seven
OTHER TREASURES? Charlie wondered.
He stared at Gay. Tried to beam her a telepathic message.
Gay! Why can’t you remember that I don’t make 6 to 10 percent of the bookings of Electric i! I haven’t helped make Spencer Morrison one of the highest paid movie stars this year. If a salt-and-pepper-shaker set is thirty dollars, what will his other things cost? Stop! Stop! Please stop!
And then he looked. At the serving bowls and sugar and creamer and napkin holder, all in that gorgeous dark green with red berries and God! A punch bowl? Charlie wasn’t even going to look at the price on that one.
“The red is the hardest color there is to fire,” Gay said, now at his elbow. “You have to paint five layers. That’s why my Waechtersbach is so expensive. That’s a lot of painting and a lot of glaze.”
Charlie nodded, remembering her deep red dishes.
Tory nodded. “Luckily there isn’t a lot of red in mine, since you only need it for the holly berries.”
“They still needed a firing just for the red, right, Tory? I remember that.”
“Sure,” Charlie said and tried not to look at the price on the punch bowl, which was pretty far down on his list on items he needed for a complete collection (and wondered whose side she was on—and remembered she was on both). But he was curious. He couldn’t help it.
But right then he saw something he wasn’t expecting. It was another of those dinnerware holy grails. Napkin rings?
“I thought I recognized that look of pure lust on your face,” Tory said and raised his arms and then laced his fingers together behind his neck. “What is it that turned you on?”
Oh my God, Charlie thought. He wasn’t sure anyone had ever been so forward with him in his life. Not plain and boring him. Get yourself together! Hmm…, he mulled.
“Oh, come on!” Tory’s giggle was actually cuter than Gay’s. Charlie hadn’t thought that was possible. “You can tell me! What’s got you turned on?”
Good God! Really? Charlie looked at Tory from top to bottom. He couldn’t really see his body, not with that huge baggy somehow not-ugly Christmas sweater. The jeans were more like cargo pants and equally form-hiding. But still. Cute. So damned cute. Cute enough that—oh my!—his cock was stirring.
I’m getting hard! When was the last time he’d gotten hard just looking at someone? A real someone that is, and not a porn star. And—Oh shit! My slacks aren’t baggy. I’ll show. What if Tory sees?
Really? You want to know what’s got me turned on?
How about your everything! There was nothing he didn’t like. He wanted to bury his hands in Tory’s hair. He wanted to see if it was soft and fluffy. He wanted to touch his five-o’clock-shadow-covered cheeks (more like an eleven o’clock shadow) to see if the hair was soft or spi
ky. He was wondering how it would feel against his face. And Tory’s eyes. He had the most beautiful eyes… hazel. He could see that now. Hazel eyes! But he couldn’t say any of that, despite the fact that Tory was openly flirting and putting himself on display.
Please don’t look down. Please don’t look down.
Tory tossed his head back and laughed, and when he looked at Charlie again (with those impossible hazel eyes), he said, “Come on! I know dinnerware lust when I see it! Is it the punchbowl?”
Oh! He was talking about the dishes.
“The butter dish? The candleholders? Those can be tricky too! Sometimes they warp.”
Charlie had almost humiliated himself! He’d almost said, “Your everything,” when he should have said, “Your napkin rings.”
“Is it the cookie jar! It’s the cookie jar, isn’t it? The lids are tricky sometimes. They—”
“Warp?” Charlie managed to get in when Tory took a breath.
“Warp!” Tory cried as if it were the most wonderful thing in the world. As if Charlie was the twenty-first-century Sherlock.
Charlie laughed. He couldn’t help it. And it was better than being humiliated.
“So not the cookie jar?” Tory asked.
He shook his head.
“The doggie treat jar?”
Charlie shook his head again. “No dog.”
“Cat?”
“I’m not so much a cat person,” Charlie said, then worried Tory might be. “It’s just that they jump up on counters and dining room tables—”
“Where we keep the pretty stuff,” said Tory.
“Yes!” Whew! Tory understood. “Exactly.”
“So. Is it the gravy boat? The spoon rest?”
Spoon rest? He turned back to the table. There was a spoon rest? But then he saw the napkin rings again. And that was what he wanted. So beautiful. And imagine, Tory made them. For some reason that made him want them all the more. He bent and peered at them more closely. Saw the red berries were painted perfectly. Turned to show Gay and—
Wait. Where was Gay?
He looked around the room. When had she left? Geez, he’d been totally ignoring her! Had he upset her? Of course he had.
Then he saw her swoosh of peacock feathers above the heads of the crowd off to the far right, and when the crowd moved just enough for him to see her, she was looking right at him. She was smiling. She winked and gave him a nod, then turned away.
She wasn’t mad at all. She was giving him room to flirt. As if he even knew how to do that.
Charlie looked back down at the napkin rings. Picked one up. Checked the price.
Five dollars.
Five dollars. For one. It had to be. It wouldn’t be five dollars for a set. Five dollars. And he’d want eight. Nine really. Forty-five dollars. Once again, more than the whole set of dishes. No. He couldn’t do it. Maybe the spoon rest? He saw it. It was beautiful. He picked it up and turned it over and saw it was fifteen. That he could do.
“You like the napkin rings, don’t you?” Tory asked quietly. And when Charlie looked into his face, he saw nothing but sweet sincerity there. “How many would you want?”
“Eight,” he answered. Then, “No. Nine.”
“For breakage?”
Yes. Breakage. “Yes,” he said. Yes! Tory knew about breakage!
“Well, you know I’m having a two-for-one sale this afternoon,” Tory replied, and Charlie knew it wasn’t true.
Charlie shook his head. “No, you aren’t.”
“Sure, I am!”
“Tory, Gay already told me that your art is your livelihood.”
Tory shrugged. “Not just that.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “There are my classes and stuff.”
The classes Gay said were amazingly affordable. “I don’t know how he affords his rent,” she’d told him.
“No,” Charlie said. He couldn’t do that. “You’re being sweet, but I know you aren’t having a two-for-one sale.”
Now the smile was beautiful, and God, to kiss that mouth…. “I’ve got a two-for-one sale for you. Any friend of Gay’s is a friend of mine.”
Charlie’s heart skipped a beat. So tempting. The price and the kiss. But Aunt Charlotte wouldn’t approve, would she? Taking money from someone who probably needed every dollar he could get. And an artist was worth his trade.
Although I would approve if you were brave enough to kiss him!
“The salt and pepper shakers are what I really wanted,” Charlie said and pulled out his card.
“Do you need a receipt?”
“You got them,” Gay said, suddenly appearing at his elbow. “Good. You sure you don’t want—”
“I’m happy with my purchase,” he said, cutting her off.
“But what about his two-for-one sale?” she asked. “You can’t beat that.”
She’d heard about the sale? How long had she been standing there?
“I tried,” Tory said and began to wrap the shakers.
And Charlie found himself a little sad. Purchase being wrapped. Transaction done. Time to go. It had been nice to be flirted with. Even if it was only salesmanship. Even if it had only been because he was friends with Gay.
Any friend of Gay’s is a friend of mine.
The beautiful young man handed him a plastic grocery store bag with his shakers inside.
“Thank you, Tory,” Charlie said, taking the bag.
“You’re very welcome,” Tory replied.
Charlie gave his perfect fantasy one more look—not only was Tory his perfect physical type, but the sweetie also understood the need for matching salt and pepper shakers—and turned to go.
When: “Hey, Charlie?”
He looked back at Tory.
“You know I teach classes.” He held out a folded piece of paper. “You do the work, and you could get those napkin rings for practically nothing. I’ve got a class this Tuesday evening at six.”
A class? With Tory? A chance to see him again? “I don’t know if mine would look very good,” Charlie replied. Goodness. His heart was racing again. “Certainly not as good as yours.”
“Why, of course not,” Tory said with a wink. “I am an artiste! But I will help you.”
He felt another of those little shivers.
“Think about it?” Tory asked.
Gay elbowed him.
“Sure,” he said.
And hoped he had the courage to actually go.
Chapter Eight
“YES, MS. Carrington. I sure will,” Charlie said into the phone. “Hold please.” Then, “Gay, I have Cyan on the phone.”
“Oh, thank goodness!” she cried. “Transfer my dear Dark Witch through.”
Dark Witch. Only one of Cyan Carrington’s biggest hits, or at least her most remembered.
Charlie transferred the call and then looked—or tried to—at the list on his computer screen. Tried not to look in the lower right-hand corner.
The Christmas dinner was going to happen. Yes! Charlie could barely believe it. He studied the list.
ME: Turkey, Stuffing, Gravy—pie?
HARRY & CODY: Green Bean Casserole, Bread, Pumpkin Pie
FRANK AND RAY: Yams, Mashed Potatoes, Cranberry Sauce. Pie?
Charlie really was detail-oriented, the reason why Gay had kept him on when he’d only stepped in to help her as a temp some years before (about the time he’d met Gerald).
He was making the turkey because he loved making the turkey. Plus, it was easier for the host to make it and pull it out of the oven fresh and hot. The stuffing, because he didn’t always like the weird ways people made it.
I mean, oysters? Oysters? Really? Could there be anything grosser than oysters in dressing in a turkey?
The gravy, because the best gravy was made from the drippings of the turkey. It only made sense.
Cody wanted to bake the bread fresh. He said there was nothing better than the smell of freshly baked bread filling the house. It was one of the few good memories he had from his
childhood. He’d been excited at the idea of a big old-fashioned Christmas dinner. Charlie wasn’t too sure about big old-fashioned Christmas. But it would be dinner.
Harry insisted on making the green bean casserole because he said his version was famous. Charlie wasn’t sure about that, but he was simply happy they’d have a vegetable—something that wasn’t carbs.
It was Harry who made the suggestion about his neighbors Frank and Ray, and Charlie was thrilled at how fast they agreed. He’d met them at Cody’s birthday party last year.
Despite himself, he glanced down at the bottom right-hand corner of his computer. 5:14 p.m. Forty-six minutes from now was…. No. Don’t think about it.
The phone rang. “Oasis Agency,” he answered. “May I help you? Oh! Hello, Mr. Eisenberg. Yes! She is expecting you. One minute.” He put the actor, Kansas City’s own Asher Eisenberg, on hold for a moment, then checked to see Gay wasn’t on the phone anymore and let her know who was waiting for her.
“Gosh. Yes. Put him through!”
Back to his list.
Frank and Ray were bringing both yams and mashed potatoes. Because Frank loved mashed potatoes and Ray loved yams. “And what’s wrong with having both?” Ray asked. “My granny always made both.”
Yeah. Why not?
It was interesting how different the two men were, but maybe it was those differences that made them work.
Boy! Could he and Tory be any more different?
Stop it! Tory? Really? Geez. Was this horniness? Maybe he just needed to get on craigslist! That’s what Gerald did when he got horny, right? Once he apparently got tired of having sex with me, that is.
