They were too close. Close enough that Luke could see the flecks of gold in Noah’s brown eyes, could count his eyelashes if he wanted to. Could lean in just a few inches and?—
“They’re hand-cast,” Luke said quickly, jerking back. “This guy in Vermont makes them. Costs a bit more, but?—”
“Worth it?” Noah’s voice was soft, questioning, and Luke wasn’t sure they were talking about cabinet hardware anymore.
“Yeah.” Luke’s throat felt dry. “Some things are worth the investment.”
Their hands brushed as Noah reached for another sample, and electricity shot up Luke’s arm. He pulled back like he’d been burned, nearly knocking over his empty coffee mug.
“Careful,” Noah steadied the mug, his fingers wrapping around Luke’s wrist for just a moment. “Wouldn’t want to break anything.”
Too late for that, Luke thought hysterically. Something was definitely breaking—his resolve, his professional distance, his carefully constructed walls.
“Dad!” Eli’s voice carried down the stairs, shattering the moment. “I can’t find Captain America!”
Noah’s hand dropped away. “Be right there!” He turned back to Luke, expression apologetic. “Sorry, it’s his favorite stuffed?—”
“No problem.” Luke gathered his samples with shaking hands. “I should head out anyway. Early day tomorrow.”
“Right. Of course.” Was that disappointment in Noah’s voice? No, Luke was definitely imagining things. “Thanks for coming by. And for the cookies.”
“Anytime.” The word slipped out before Luke could stop it. He needed to get out of here before he said something even more dangerous. “I’ll email you the final numbers tomorrow before placing an order for materials.”
“Luke—”
“Dad!” Eli again, more insistent. “I looked everywhere!”
“You should go,” Luke said, already backing toward the door. “Can’t leave a boy without his Captain America.”
Noah’s laugh followed him, settling somewhere beneath his ribs where it had no business being. Luke barely remembered saying goodnight, barely registered the drive home. His mind was too full of soft brown eyes and gentle hands and the way Noah moved through his kitchen like he belonged there.
The way Luke could imagine belonging there too.
Luke sat in his truck outside his own house, gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. The engine ticked as it cooled, counting seconds like a metronome keeping time with his racing thoughts.
This wasn’t happening. He wasn’t falling for a straight guy with a kid. He definitely wasn’t imagining more family dinners, more homework sessions, more quiet moments in the kitchen that needed so much work but somehow already felt like…
“No,” he said aloud, the word sharp in the quiet cab. “Not doing this.”
He needed to make a list. That’s what Keaton would tell him to do—break it down, analyze the problems, find solutions. Like assessing a renovation project. Clinical. Professional.
Reasons This Can’t Happen:
Noah is straight. (Probably. Maybe.)
He’s a client. Professional ethics exist for a reason.
There’s a kid involved. A great kid who already looks at me like I’m some kind of hero.
