“Sorry, but I’m not interested. Been there, done that. You have fun playing around with people’s emotions. It’s what you guys do.”
The stricken look on Zach’s face almost changed his mind, but Sam held firm, knowing he would end up the loser in the end.
“Go back to your friend and enjoy. I’m going home.”
Luck was with him tonight for once. The moment he held out his hand, a cab pulled up. Without another word, he jumped in and gave the driver his address. Despite what he’d said about not being interested, Sam couldn’t help but turn around as they drove down the block.
Why did he feel like the bad guy watching a forlorn Zach recede in the distance?
The next morning Sam awoke with a fresh outlook, deciding to put Zach, his friends, and the entire damn Atlantic City episode behind him. Perhaps he’d begin dating again, perhaps not. One thing Sam knew for certain: before he opened his heart to a man again, he’d first make sure to check him out; there’d be no more pickups at the bar or allowing Henry to bully him into a quick decision. Nor would he allow himself to be blinded by lust. Never again would appearances sway him, no matter how soft and yielding the man’s mouth might be under his own.
He hadn’t been a police officer for nothing. Standing in the shower, soaping himself up, Sam vowed the next time he took a lover, there’d be no surprises. He liked his life neat and orderly and hated surprises.
Now that he’d settled his dating life, Sam was hungry. Nothing went better with fresh coffee on a Sunday morning than pastries from his favorite neighborhood bakery, so he pocketed his keys and slipped his phone in his pocket. There were several texts from Henry which he chose to ignore, not wishing to rehash last night so early in the morning without fortification.
But the God of surprises failed to take Sam’s needs into consideration when he walked into Caruso’s bakery and found Zach Cohen sitting at one of the small round tables, a cup of cappuccino and the crumbly remains of some pastry in front of him.
Hopeful eyes met his across the store, but Sam steeled himself to remain firm in his decision and ignore Zach, heading directly to the glass-topped counter featuring every kind of Italian delicacy imaginable. Leaving his own miserable personal life aside, Sam’s happiness could definitely be measured in cannoli cream and fruit tarts, and no one knew how to make him happier than Mrs. Caruso.
“Ahh, Sammy, there’s my favorite guy,” she gushed. Seventy-five years old and perpetually in black since her husband’s death five years earlier, Teresa Caruso had run this neighborhood institution for over forty years. Her twinkling black eyes, sharper than any late-night comedian’s, flickered over to Zach, then back to Sam. “I think you have an admirer. He came in about an hour ago asking if I knew you.” As if they were buddies confiding secrets over a beer, Mrs. Caruso leaned over the countertop to whisper, rather loudly to his dismay, “He’s a cutie, Sammy. Go sit and I’ll bring you over your espresso and some treats.”
He opened his mouth, but Cupid, who this morning had taken the form of a white- haired Italian grandmother in orthopedic shoes, shooed him off, refusing to listen to his protests.
“Go, go. Don’t worry. You know I love all you boys; I never kiss and tell.” She winked at him, and in spite of himself, Sam laughed and shook his finger at her.
“Mrs. Caruso, you’re a bad one.”
“Go on and sit down. Make that sad man smile.”
With an inward sigh, Sam walked over to Zach, who gazed up at him, the solemn expression still etched on his face.
“Do I need to put out a stalker report? Because I remember last night telling you I didn’t want to see you again.” It might’ve come out a bit harsher than he intended, watching Zach’s face pale in the early morning sunlight.
He didn’t mean to be a bastard, but Sam didn’t trust himself around Zach. The glimpse of that wedge of skin below Zach’s throat, which Sam knew from personal experience tasted of salt and heat and felt soft to the touch of his tongue, defeated his intention to remain cold and impersonal. How could he hold back, when his body hardened and his cock ached at the very sight of this man?
“I remembered you mentioned this place when we were on the boardwalk, so yeah, I guess you can call me a stalker if you want.” Zach spoke to the table as if he couldn’t bear the sight of Sam’s face. “But I wanted to give it one last shot, to see if you’d listen to the entire truth. Then, if you want to tell me to go to hell, at least I’ll know you have all the facts.”
Sitting down across from Zach at the tiny table, Sam’s brain told him he was being an asshole, while his body cheered him on. He’d never been a man who thought with his dick, but the rapidly growing hardness between his legs was proving him wrong.
Mrs. Caruso placed a small cup of espresso and a plate with miniature cannoli and fruit tarts filled with pastry cream in front of him. The sweetness of the sugar mixed with the strong scent of the espresso, and Sam couldn’t help but relax his grim expression to a smile of thanks for her.
“This looks amazing as usual. Thank you, Mrs. Caruso.”
“My pleasure. Eat up. I brought enough for you and the boyfriend.” Another wink from those gleaming black eyes; then she patted Zach on his shoulder.
“You know you’re much cuter than that one Sammy wasted his time with before.” With that pronouncement she returned to her place behind the counter, listening to herTop 40hits on the radio, and sipping her own coffee.
Sam bit into a fruit tart, enjoying the explosion of sweetness on his tongue. He sipped the espresso, staring out the windows which overlooked Luquer Street. He’d be damned if he’d be the one to start the conversation.
“I know you’re mad, and you have every right to be. But you have me all wrong; I’m the furthest thing from a partier imaginable. I hate those places; Marcus forces me to go to them.”
Sam swallowed another sip of espresso and eyed the rest of his tart before meeting Zach’s anxious gaze. “Yeah. That’s why you had a bet with him about meeting and screwing a guy that weekend, and lucky me,” he said, laughing harshly, “I was your victim of choice. But here’s the thing.” Sam placed the tiny espresso cup on the table and stood up. “No one fucks me and plays me for a fool. I had enough of that shit already. So thanks for the explanation, but you know what? I really don’t give a damn.”
He took a ten-dollar bill out of his wallet and handed it to Mrs. Caruso who frowned at him but pressed her lips tight when he shook his head at her. “I’ll see you during the week.” The door bells tinkled over his head, and he walked out onto the street and headed back to his apartment.
“Sam, wait.”
It was déjà vu from last night; Zach running after him, asking him to wait. Only this time he was a block from home and didn’t need to wait for a cab. His long, purposeful strides made it harder for Zach to catch up, but halfway down the block, Sam saw from a side-eyed glance Zach fall into step next to him, breathing hard. Slowing down slightly, Sam remained silent, knowing Zach only had to catch his breath before he began to speak.
