I returned with a warm washcloth and two water bottles.
Silas sat up and wiped his stomach, tossing the cloth aside as he reached for the water. “Thanks.”
I located my sweats and thought about putting them on, but it seemed like too much work. Moreover, it would put a physical barrier of sorts between us, and I wasn’t ready to lose the connection. Not yet. I had questions. So many questions.
I added another log to the fire and joined him on the mattress. “You’re bi?”
Silas shot a quick sideways glance in my direction. “Yeah.”
“You’re not out.” I didn’t really need confirmation. His panicked expression said it all.
He shook his head. “No. I’ve haven’t done that in…a while. You?”
“I think my story is a little different,” I hedged. “I’m not a famous athlete or a?—”
“I’m not famous.”
“You’re on TV.” I caught his wary gaze as I uncapped my water. “Don’t worry. This stays here. With us. Cone of silence, remember?”
Silas frowned.
“I feel like an asshole, and it probably doesn’t matter anymore. I just retired. I can do what I want. Or who I want,” he added. “In theory, anyway. Reality isn’t that simple.”
“It rarely is.” I took a swig of water, my eyes fixed on the roaring fire.
We sat in silence for a minute or two, lost in thought. At least I was. I’d never brought a man home with me. Even by accident. I should have been uneasy with this new dynamic. Twenty-four hours ago, I hadn’t known Silas Anderson. Now…well, I still didn’t know much about him, but I’d touched his cock and that was something.
When he excused himself to use the bathroom, I tidied a bit, folding the blanket, reattaching the sheet, and yeah…I put my sweats on. Not my boxer briefs, though. I threw those into the laundry room, then foraged for food.
“You can hardly see the trees or the lake out there,” Silas commented, striding naked into the great room. “It’s all white. I bet it’s freezing too. Nice and warm in here.”
I smiled. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”
He moved into the kitchen, pausing to lean on the corner of the island with his beefy arms crossed. “Much better. I should probably trek through that shit and get out of your hair, but those sandwiches look big enough to share.”
“I scrapped the omelet idea. This was easier. Make yourself useful, and grab a couple of wineglasses.” I inclined my chin toward the open shelves near the sink and plated the turkeysandwiches. “Red or white…you choose. The wine fridge is at the other end of the island.”
Silas pulled out a Pinot Noir. “Bottle opener?”
I tried to keep my eyes on his chest, but they drifted south—of their own volition—to his flaccid cock. Christ, he was gorgeous. “Uh…that drawer.”
He grinned like a Cheshire cat as he uncorked the bottle and sauntered away. No one would blame me if my gaze lingered on his perfect ass a beat too long. It was a thing of beauty.
I plucked a bag of chips from the pantry and carried our makeshift late-lunch-slash-early-dinner into the living area, where Silas was stepping into the discarded long johns. He made a show of snapping the elastic and cupping his junk, and snickered at my eye roll.
We pushed the bed out of the way, returned the coffee table to its place in front of the sectional, then wordlessly tucked into the modest feast.
“This might be the best turkey sandwich I’ve ever eaten,” Silas said around a bite.
“It’s pretty basic, but I will say this…homemade pesto aioli is a game changer.”
He hummed enthusiastically and picked up his wineglass, raising it in a mock toast. “To pesto aioli.”
Conversation meandered from pesto to pasta to a retelling of Silas’s trip to Italy last summer, Pinot grapes, and his favorite vineyard in Napa.
“I’ve never been to Napa,” I admitted. “I’ve been to the Bay Area, though. You said you’re from there?”
“You remembered that?”
