“Are you hungry? If you don’t feel like going out for dinner, I can order in,” Rhys said. “Or I’ve still got some leftovers. Mama always goes overboard for a few days after I get home and makes too much.”
After a long day of traveling, Thomas didn’t feel like getting out again, so he leaned his elbows on the marble-topped island in the kitchen side of the room. “I’m fine with staying in. What kind of leftovers?”
Rhys opened the fridge door and peered in. “Let’s see… barbecue chicken, stewed potatoes, creamed corn, green beans. If you want something lighter, I’ve got a couple of tomatoes I can slice if you’d like a tomato sandwich and chips.”
The mention of tomato sandwiches sent a sharp pang through Thomas’s chest as it brought back memories of his childhood. His mother had often fixed tomato sandwiches, especially during the hot summer months, and he’d loved them.
“A sandwich sounds good,” he said, trying to sound lighter than he felt. “Heavy on the mayo and pepper.”
“Tea to drink?”
“Sure,” Thomas said, knowing he didn’t need to ask if it was sweet tea. He was back in the South, after all. “Anything I can do to help?”
“No, I’ve got this,” Rhys said. “I know how tired you must be after traveling all day.”
Thomas didn’t know how sitting on an airplane or in an airport most of the day could be so draining, but it always was, especially when a time difference, however slight, was involved, so he wasn’t inclined to argue. He’d help out in the kitchen once he was well-rested. For now, he watched Rhys’s long fingers curled around the hilt of a knife as he sliced a fat tomato, liquid seeping onto his hand and the cutting board as he pierced its skin. Thomas tried — and failed — not to get aroused when Rhys licked tomato juice off his thumb.
“So how exactly is this going to work?” he asked to distract himself from the cozy domesticity of their situation. “This fake boyfriend thing.”
Rhys glanced up, his expression quizzical. “I reckon we’re just going to pretend we’re dating.”
“Right, but I’d like to know the parameters of my role before I’m thrown into the middle of a scene,” Thomas said. “For example, what about physical contact? Are you going to sit beside me and put your arm around me? Can I hold your hand? What about kissing?”
Rhys turned his attention back to the tomato, and his cheeks flushed pink. “I hadn’t really thought about all that.”
“Well, you should,” Thomas said, keeping his tone pragmatic. “The whole point is to make your family believe we’re dating. That means you have to act like I’m your boyfriend, not your little buddy from work.”
Rhys put down the knife and leaned on his hands against the island. “You’re right,” he said. “We’ll both have to use our acting skills.”
Thomas’s ego deflated a little at that, and he fixed Rhys with a sardonic look. “Is it really going to be that hard to pretend you’re attracted to me?”
Rhys looked at Thomas, his denim blue eyes turning sharp and intense, and for the first time, Thomas felt like Rhys was really seeing him. He met and held Rhys’s gaze, taking in the strong lines of Rhys’s face and wishing once more that this wasn’t a charade.
“No,” Rhys said at last, his voice low and a little husky. “You’re not my usual type, but I think they’ll believe I wanted someone different from Andy, and you’re cute.”
“Just cute?” Thomas raised one eyebrow, hoping to poke a better compliment out of Rhys.
“You’re hot, and you damned well know it,” Rhys said, beginning to slice the tomato again with more forcefulness as if he was channeling something into each slice. “But those big eyes and button nose of yours are cute hot, not runway model or lumberjack hot. Besides, it’s hard to tell about the rest of your face with that beard in the way.”
“I’d look a lot younger without it.” Thomas reached across the island to steal a tomato slice, but Rhys smacked his hand, and he drew it back with a mock wounded pout.
“You make me feel like a dirty old man as it is.”
Thomas laughed and batted his lashes. “I’m thirty-two. A far cry from being jailbait.”
“That’s still over a decade of difference between us.” Rhys shook his head as he went to the fridge to get the mayo.
“So? You aren’t ancient.” Thomas snagged a couple of potato chips out of the open bag since he’d failed at procuring the tomato slice. “You’re a fit and healthy man in the prime of your life. I’m old enough to be past the wild oats stage and young enough to remind you how to have fun again. No one is going to judge you for being with me.” He paused, then added in a sardonic drawl, “Theoretically, of course.”
“Of course.”
“I mean, God forbid you ever cast off your widow’s weeds.”
“I will when I’m ready,” Rhys said, slathering a thick layer of mayo on slices of whole wheat bread with agitated strokes of the knife.
Half a dozen retorts crowded against Thomas’s lips, but he knew better than to let any of them free if he didn’t want Rhys to shut down completely. Instead, he sat back and folded his arms across his chest, watching Rhys place the tomato slices on the bread with finicky precision.
“I don’t want to argue with you about it.” Rhys said after a long and awkward silence.
