I shrug. “Hey, I know your favorite kind of toothpaste.” I wink. “Thought that meant we’re friends.”
He scoffs, but I don’t miss those full pink lips of his twitching upward just a little bit. “You don’t even want to go.”
“I would with you there,” I blurt out, and his eyes widen, his cheeks pinking up in that way that’s becoming oddly addicting to me.
“No,” he says firmly.
“Okay,” I say, not one to push. “But it’s every Thursday, apparently. So maybe someday.”
He’s quiet for a while, but he nods eventually. “Maybe.”
I’m going to take that as a win.
9
DAKOTA
“So how was trivia?” I guess I’m just totally giving up on not engaging with the handsome landscaper.
Oh well.
I tried.
“Eh.” He shrugs. “I didn’t go, and boy, did I hear about it from Shelly.” He shakes his head, but he doesn’t sound all that annoyed by his ex-wife. I’m semi-convinced there has to be more to the story.
Who is so fond of their ex? And who doesn’t mind their ex meddling in their love life? He has to still be in love with her.
Maybe that’s why I keep chatting away with him. I always did love a mystery.
“She’s really trying to get you laid, huh?” I blurt out, and he only chuckles. We finished the outside of the greenhouse yesterday and have moved inside already. I say we, but mostly I’ve just been standing around, handing him things, here and there, and talking to him.
I don’t want to think about how out of character all this is for me. “It seems that way,” he says ominously as he works to build a shelf for plants. He showed me the plans for several shelves andeven a couple of beds inside this morning. And while it makes me giddy, thinking about the project being done, I can’t deny the feeling of dread too.
But I push forward with the whole talking thing instead of dwelling on that fact. “You don’t want to date?”
“I don’t know.” He hammers a nail into place and aptly moves to the next one, fully securing a sturdy-looking shelf. “Sometimes I do.”
“How long has it been?” And again, why the hell am I so chatty? So full of questions. I should be inside my house, just waiting for him to wrap it up and get off my property. But no matter how hard I try to stay inside when he arrives, there’s this magnetic pull to him, and I wind up outside with him.
“I’ve only ever dated my wife, and I was a teenager then.”
My jaw drops. I don’t mean to show my shock, but he zeroes in on it instantly, smirking at me. Just waiting for the next question to fall from my mouth. And out it tumbles. “You’ve only ever been with one person?”
If he’s surprised by my blunt, kind of rude question, he doesn’t show it. “Yup.” I see that look of mischief on his face before his mouth opens, and I already know it’s going to be trouble. “How many people have you been with?”
He’s not angry that I’m being so nosey. And the question is said in a teasing manner, like he knows I won’t answer him. For some reason, that irritates me, and I shrug. “More than one.” I also don’t miss that he saidpeopleand not women. My back straightens, and I meet his eyes, testing him. “I’ve been with more than one man, for the record. No women. I’m gay.” I put my hands on my hips, resisting the urge to squirm when he offers no reaction as I just keep talking. “And I’m sure you’ve already figured that out. I’ve been told Iactgay.”
Bitter resentment drips from my tone as I scowl in his direction, just waiting for him to laugh at me. Or agree. Orsomething. But instead, he looks like he’s confused, his head tilting to the side. “There’s a way to act gay?”
“I don’t know,” I bite out and then drop one hand from my hip and wave it in front of my self, between our bodies. “You tell me.”
I swear his head tilts even more to the right as he studies me, like some sort of museum exhibit. I huff and drop my hand to the side, waiting for him to speak. I’m not used to being the one who talks so much, but the silence is making me squirmy. “You do know that most of Oakley’s Crew is queer as fuck, right? Like all of them. Like the owners are both men and are married. Crazy in love. If you walk into the front shop—you’ll walk right past a huge Pride flag and might catch those two owners sucking face unapologetically on any given day.”
Now it’s my turn to cock my head to the side, my mouth suddenly dry. Normally hearing the phrasequeer as fuck,especially coming from a straight person, I’d absolutely lose my shit and be fully on guard, but it wasn’t said with any hatred. There’s no uncomfortableness to his tone. No hatred. No malice whatsoever. It’s like he’s actually very proud to work there and very fond of his bosses—though it sounds like he’s seen his fair share of PDA from his bosses. “That doesn’t bother you?” I ask him carefully, still ready for a fight.
“Hell no,” he answers immediately. “Why would it bother me? I work with amazing people every day, and the job is fantastic. They’re all my best friends who would be there in a second’s notice if I needed them.”
“Well, I didn’t see the Pride flag because I didn’t go into the office,” I say, folding my arms, my whole body rigid—still ready to defend. What, exactly? I don’t know. It seems like Gabe might be an ally at the very least, not the opposition.
