Oh, yeah, I've got lots of ideas. Dirty ones.
"Well," Cade answered, eager to quash his lewd thoughts. "There is a baseball game tonight I thought about watching."
Tristan's face softened. "Oh, okay. We can stream it." He plopped onto the sofa and opened the laptop. "Do you want to pull it up or should I?"
"I'll do it," Cade said, eager to prove that he wasn't completely incompetent with technology. Granted, streaming games was about all he could do besides email, searches for nearby food and online shopping, but he didn't need to share those details with Tristan.
He pulled up the game and centered the laptop between them on the coffee table. Tristan arranged himself right next to him so that their shoulders were touching, but he reasoned it was only because of the small screen. The other man leaned back and kicked his feet up next to the computer, and Cade tried to concentrate on the laptop rather than how close Tristan's legs were to his own, how his hand sat idly in his lap, near enough to reach out and grab, how his hair smelled like something sweet, maybe coconut?
"So, are you a Yankees or a Red Sox fan?"
"What?"
"Yankees or Red Sox?" the redhead asked, eying him warily.
Flustered, he answered, "Oh, um, Yankees."
"How long have you followed them?"
"Since I was a kid."
"Cool."
He watched the pitcher shake off a sign from the catcher as Tristan asked, "Did you ever play baseball?"
God, he asked so many personal questions. "Yeah. For a year."
"Why'd you stop? Did you not like it?"
Cade's heart squeezed at the memories of Marshall, a foster dad and Yankees fan who signed him up for Little League when he was ten.
"I moved."
"You couldn't play at your new house?"
After Marshall and his wife divorced, he'd been sent to a foster home with some creepy asshole who leered at him and tried to touch him inappropriately. He must have made a face because Tristan looked at him curiously.
"No," was all he offered, his eyes transfixed on the laptop.
"Why not?"
He could feel Tristan's gaze on him, burning, probing. Shrugging, he stared at the screen, forcing himself to stay still and silent, hoping the other man would just let it go. If he pushed again, asked questions that Cade was unwilling to answer, he would deflect.
Finally, Tristan commented, "You don't like to talk about yourself, do you?"
"I'm not very interesting."
Cade resisted the urge to squirm as the other man studied him with amber eyes and said, "I doubt that."
When he didn't respond, Tristan's attention slipped back to the screen, and the tension slowly seeped from Cade's body. He focused on the game, answering Tristan's questions about the teams and players, rules and calls, explaining as clearly as he could for a new fan. He lost himself in the sport, allowing its familiarity and slow pace to calm him like it always did.
He breathed a silent sigh of relief that Tristan dropped the inquisition about his childhood. The reporter was too curious, pushed too far, prodded at subjects Cade would just as soon forget. He looked too closely, and Cade was terrified he would see too much.
Cade had spent his whole life keeping people at arm's length and avoiding attachments. But being here with Tristan in this tiny cabin was testing his limits, making it way too difficult, both physically and emotionally, to keep his distance.
The tiny voice in his head was getting louder, telling him to drop his barriers, let Tristan see the real him, and answer questions truthfully instead of deflecting. It insisted that it would be safe, that the other man wouldn't judge, would be kind and understanding.
It was getting harder to ignore that voice.
