Brad swallowed hard. “I thought your partner threatened my guy.”
“Yeah, no,” Ian said flatly. “That’d never happen.”
“I understand.”
“Good,” Ian replied, nodding.
When both men turned, Cabot was there with our pizzas. His boss smiled at him, told him he was doing a good job, and walked away with Terry in tow.
“What was that about?” Drake asked his boyfriend.
Cabot put the pizzas, my deep dish and then Ian’s thin crust, down on the trivets already on the table, and his gaze met Drake’s. “The short version is: I messed up and didn’t tell you that I was having trouble here.”
Drake reached for Cabot, who immediately took the offered hand and allowed himself to be eased down next to him.
“Forgive me. I’ve just never been hit on before.”
Drake nodded.
“I had no idea what to do,” Cabot said, taking Drake’s face in his hands. “I didn’t want you coming down here all pissed off, and, I mean, I’m an adult, right? I should be able to handle my own crap.”
“But you should always be able to tell me anything.”
“Yes,” Cabot agreed, his eyes doing the melting thing they always did around Drake. He was completely smitten, and Drake needed to start believing in that. Their entire relationship had begun with him in denial that a prince could ever really want him. Now, finally, he had to start believing he was a catch, too, before his insecurity drove Cabot away.
“From now on, no more secrets,” Drake said, turning his head to kiss Cabot’s palm. “Swear.”
Cabot nodded, catching his breath, seemingly unable to speak. The hug they shared said it all.
“Can you guys break it up so I can eat?” Ian grumbled, unrolling his fork and knife not because he needed either but because the napkin was necessary. “And take your break, Cab, and sit the fuck down.”
Some things didn’t change.
DRAKE DECIDED to hang around for the last hour of Cabot’s shift, and Ian and I left him the rest of the pizza, much to my annoyance.
“I’ll get you more.” Ian laughed at me as we walked out of the restaurant. “You might not want that for dinner anyway.” I grunted and he bumped me with his shoulder. “I could maybe take you out.”
Turning to look at him, I found him staring back at me. “What?”
“Like on a date. I could take you out on a date.”
My grin conveyed my disbelief.
“What?”
“You wanna take me out?”
When he smiled, slowly, the laugh lines in the corners of his eyes crinkled, and the pleasure he got from looking at me was obvious and made me momentarily breathless. “Yeah, I do.”
“Okay,” I replied hoarsely, clearing my throat. “Bring on date night.”
He was chuckling when his phone rang as we walked back toward the 1973 Ford Capri with a sunroof we were currently getting around in. I had enjoyed driving the muscle car, but with Ian home now, my days of riding shotgun had returned. He had, in fact, already taken over.
He moved by me, stepping off the curb to walk in the street to get in on the driver’s side, but then he instead turned and took hold of my forearm to keep me close.
“No,” he said quickly, his pale gaze meeting mine. “I didn’t realize it was today. I wasn’t staying away on purpose.”
There went date night.
“Miro and I will be by at some point.”
His grip on me loosened but held, sliding to my wrist and then lower, until he was holding my hand. Since Ian was not in any way a PDA kind of guy, the motion was odd and very telling. He was taking some sort of comfort from touching me, but for what, I had no clue.
“I don’t know that we’ll make it for din—cake is at six, I got it.”
When he hung up, I waited.
“My father’s sixtieth is today,” he said, searching my face.
Colin Doyle was Ian’s estranged father. While I had at one time thought the relationship might be on the mend, I was wrong. They hadn’t seen each other in months. “That’s short notice, huh?”
“Apparently she sent me an invite that was returned to her. I moved without filling out one of those forms for the post office.”
“Oh.”
“I mean, mostly it was just bills anyway.”
“Sure.”
“And I got all those taken care of, and no one ever writes me, they e-mail me.”
I nodded because he was rambling about mail and I cared that he was feeling awkward while explaining it to me, but I couldn’t have cared less that an invitation for his father’s birthday party had gotten lost.
The move had been seamless. We spent a Saturday moving Ian from the cinderblock wasteland that was his apartment and into my Greystone in Lincoln Park. He went from renting a hovel to co-owning my eight-hundred-thousand-dollar home that would maybe be paid off—since I’d increased the payments—a year or so before I died. It had been quick, yes, but I’d asked and Ian was crazy about the idea of taking on a mortgage with me. He’d been touched that I’d thought to include him, moved by my faith in him, and finally, over the moon about signing a piece of paper that made us more than work partners. It made us life partners. It was my big gesture, shackling him to me, and he took it as it was meant, as permanency. We had told everyone important that Ian lived with me, but apparently that had not included Colin.