CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
NICHOLAS
It’s Sunday, and out back, the brunch crowd is celebrating the anniversary of a fabled overtime grand slam. The ruckus is building early in the day, and I can tell it’s going to be a rowdy one.
I busy myself around the shop, reviewing the list of flowers that I can’t get this year from my normal suppliers. I’m weathering the surprise competition, but it takes time to source replacements, and some will likely be of diminished quality.
I hate that. But maybe I’ll find some new local suppliers to support as a result of this. That would be great.
Still, though, my plan feels like it’s lacking.
A clatter upstairs pulls my attention to Clay.
We’ve had a couple more dates, every one as satisfying as the last. On my request, Clay even put on his tool belt and nothing else when we jerked each other off last night.
I think of him upstairs as the brunch rages out the back windows, and I chuckle to myself even as I feel sympathetic for him, living about the noise.
Our little world must look ridiculous to Clay. But he hasn’t fled yet.
A tingle goes through me when I imagine him as a part of the neighborhood, keeping to himself mostly, but sticking his head out the door when he has the energy. Quickly, I push the pleasing idea away.
This chemical lust keeps occupying my thoughts. Seeing him work so hard and earn Sue’s respect has only added to the draw. But I can’t let my fantasies drift into romance. That will lead only to disappointment for me, and it wouldn’t be fair to Clay, either.
I flip through the weekly local newspaper, reviewing the events in the gayborhood, some of which will lead to business for the shop. I notice that the Historic Architecture Association is having their seasonal luncheon and tour today, and an idea crosses my mind.
After finishing up my last tasks, I walk upstairs and knock on Clay’s door.
He answers after shuffling around noisily. He’s in his sweatpants and a T-shirt, and he rubs his thumbs across his jaw as he eyes me. “Hey, Nicholas. Come in.”
Damn, does he make sweatpants sexy.
“Hi! Hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
He jerks his thumb toward the back window. “Just drinking coffee and listening to old softball players argue about the weather.”
I smile. “Sounds like Sunday to me. On the chance you’re looking for an escape, though, I saw something in the paper you might be interested in.” I hand him the paper, tapping the listing.
“Historic homes?”
“The group is very popular, and their luncheon attracts a nice crowd. I know you like old buildings for their inherent interest and value, but it might be a good opportunity for you to network, too.”
Clay frowns. “I don’t network.”
I chuckle. “I’m not surprised to hear that. But home buyers and professionals attend. So if you’re looking to sell an old house to a wealthy individual, this is a good place to start.”
He looks hesitant, but ultimately hands the paper back to me. “Thanks for the tip. But I’m afraid I’d do more harm than good. I’ll leave the networking to the realty professionals.”
“If you say so. Although I think you should give yourself more credit than that.” I look up to the ceiling, considering. “What if I came with you?”
“Why would you do that?”
“I’m invested in you selling the building to the right person. For everyone’s benefit.”
When he told me he wouldn’t sell to a developer, Clay was clear about his reasons, and they weren’t to benefit me. But he’s also saving my business, and it makes sense for me to do what I can to help along the way.
“Not to mention,” I add, “there’s free food and drinks at the tour.”
Clay studies me for a moment. “I stand there and eat for free, and you’ll do the talking?”
