Sab’s brows pull together.
Idiot that I am, I plough on. “And I reckon you’re the perfect fella for someone out there.”
“Someone?”
No. Absolutely fecking not. But what am I supposed to say? That justsomeoneisn’t good enough? That there’sno oneout there better for him than?—
Who?
You?
Laughter echoes in my head and it’s not pretty. But it’s on the money. I don’t do relationships. Never have—and more thanthat, no one’s ever asked me to and I’m willing to bet there’s a reason for that. I’m the fun one, right? The one you practice with until you’re brave enough for something real?
And where’s the harm in that? It’s all I’ve ever wanted. All I’ve ever asked of anyone in return. So why does my gut feel like I’ve swallowed glass?
It takes a split second for those thoughts to spiral through my mind. Long enough for Sab to retreat another few steps and head for the stairs.
I follow him, stone-heavy silence stretching out as he finds his shoes and plugs his feet into them.
His house or mine, this is usually the moment we come together on the doorstep. Lingering touches. Eye contact so intense it feels like he’s a living, breathing part of me. But somehow tonight, between us, we’ve nuked it. Sab’s gaze flickers anywhere but me, and I’m standing there like an eejit with the Grinch in my throat.
It staggers me that we’ve gone from the bliss we found in my bed to something as painful as this. But I don’t know how to fix it. If it even can be fixed when all we’ve done in the clusterfuck the last five minutes have been is acknowledge reality.
Sab finally looks at me. For the first time in forever, his gaze is unreadable. And he doesn’t reach for me. He opens the front door and turns his head enough that my neighbour’s security lights flare in those dark eyes. “Night, Galen.”
“Night,” I echo, as if we’re already miles apart. As if we really are hookups saying goodbye with no inclination to see each other again.
I hate it.
Ihateit.
But he’s gone before I can speak, leaving me alone on my doorstep, stark-bollock naked and telling myself this is what I wanted all along.
Sab
I don’t open FlingIt for three whole days. Don’t allow myself to contemplate that a swingers app is the only way I have of contacting Galen unless I chuck rocks at his windows. There’s a reason he’s never given me his number. A reason I’ve never given him mine. The sooner I accept that the better.
Replaying the awkwardness we parted on helps, even though I die a little every time I do it. Why am I so bad at this? Why can’t I stick to the fucking script?
“Are you cooking that or abusing it?”
Tam’s voice is as familiar to me as my own. But I’ve zoned out enough that he makes me jump, and uncharacteristic irritation burns my throat. “You want these for the church or not?”
The sablés we donate to St Mark’s festive feast each year, along with the fuck-ton of calligraphy Tam’s already delivered. I don’t usually get involved, but the alternative to mauling shortbread while he growls at me is waking Esme up and going home to my empty house, which I want to do as much as I want to have the conversation Tam’s been gearing up for since I rolled home from work a few hours ago.
Sablé dough is delicate. Just flour and sugar rubbed into an obscene amount of butter until it resembles sablé—sand. Youbring it together with light hands, then you leave it alone, to chill, and become something magic.
You don’t poke at it.
Overwork it.
Overthinkit.
Can a life lesson be found in buttery biscuits?
“Putain de merde.” Tam nudges me aside. “I preferred you celibate.”
“What makes you think I’m not fucking celibate?”
