A Flighty Fake Boyfriend (Men of St. Nachos #2) - Z.A. Maxfield Page 0,53

Epic who experienced wonder with every new thing he saw.

Epic, who only ever let me lead on the dance floor.

He held out his hand. “Let’s go home, Ryan.”

“Okay.” I took his hand and let him lead me back.

At checkout, they wouldn’t take my money.

I left a suitable bonus for the housekeeping staff and tipped the men who carried our things and retrieved my car, but beyond that, Laurie had picked up the tab for everything.

There would definitely be an attempt to pay Laurie back in the future—partially, anyway. He would no doubt refuse, but still I’d try.

I’d also continue to feel relieved that I didn’t have to pay the bill because I could hold two separate ideas at the same time.

Epic held his hand out for the keys. “I’ll drive.”

I handed them over—not because he was bossy, but because I felt wrapped in some sort of psychological batting. Even with my sunglasses, the light was too bright. The colors too vivid.

Every sign we passed, every building, every farmstead and roadside attraction seemed to have some message for me. When I reached for a bottled water, my hand trembled as if I was having an internal earthquake.

My thoughts raced. My priorities seemed to be rearranging themselves.

I had changed, and I didn’t know how.

I had changed, and now I felt like I was taking my very first steps again, unsteady, uncertain, unable to find something to grab hold of because my old crutches were gone, and I didn’t have new ones yet.

I glanced over at Epic, and for a single brief second, I hated him.

All of life’s painful lessons—all its agents of change—practiced destruction before creation could begin.

I’d known the truth going in.

I’d pulled the pin on the grenade myself.

Was I sick with remorse, giddy with anticipation, or both?

I already had whiplash, and this was just the beginning.

In San Luis Obispo, we had made-to-order omelets on the terrace of a crowded farm-to-table restaurant. After, we decided on a stroll in the botanical gardens. Of course, we had to stop for sunscreen.

“Let me,” Epic ordered.

“I already did it.”

“You missed a spot.” He was determined that not one ray of sun would reach my skin, ever. “You don’t want to have polka dots when you go back to Canada. They won’t let you in.”

“Right. I’ll be too colorful,” I teased.

“Here.” He settled my hat on my head and handed me my sunglasses. “In case no one told you, there’s a hole in the ozone layer.”

“The news did catch my notice a time or two.”

“You liked the gardens in Santa Barbara, didn’t you? We spent a lot of time on the grounds at the hotel.” He took my hand. “Is this a thing for you? Are you a closet horticulturalist?”

“I keep an African violet on my desk, but I live in a high rise, so no.”

He covered his face with both hands. “Don’t tell me. You rent furnished.”

“Yes,” I admitted. “What’s your point?”

“You know where I want to live?” He made an expansive gesture with both hands. “A huge tumble-down Victorian house with creaky stairs and a poison garden.”

“Ad astra, I guess. If you want that, you could probably get it.”

He kicked at a rock in the path. “Not waiting tables.”

“Probably not. But you have a first-rate education, and whatever you do, a house with a poison garden is probably within your reach.”

“Would you come and visit me?” He shot me a wicked smile.

“Hell no. You’d probably offer me tea, and how would I know it’s safe to drink?”

“I wouldn’t poison you.” He held up three fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

“Were you a scout?”

“No.”

“Hm.” I leaned over to read a plaque next to a pretty blue-flowered shrub. “Nipomo Mesa Ceanothus. Say that three times fast.”

He did.

“Show off.”

“Am not.” He casually bumped me with his shoulder, then took my arm. It brought us closer than handholding and placed us squarely into the couple category. Two motherly women on the path ahead of us aw’d discreetly.

Our difference in ages brought us totally different perspectives on PDA. At his age, I would never have so casually signaled a partnership in public.

There was plenty of vitriol left in the world against LGBTQ individuals, but when I was his age, gay people were casually discriminated against in churches, on the street, in businesses, bars, and restaurants. There was no protection for employees, no respect from most police.

I was torn between envy of Epic’s confidence and exasperation with it. It had taken me thousands of dollars’ worth of therapy and twenty years of