Of course, Young had taken to Liv like honey on a vine.
Thanks, Liv
Any time. Tell Luca I said hey
Even though Dell never explicitly told Liv, whenever he asked her to take care of the dogs, that he was going to see Luca. But she always knew anyway.
Heat danced up the back of his neck as he chucked the phone onto the passenger seat and threw the truck into gear.
* * *
Luca opened the door with a grin.
“Hey.”
He stepped back to let Dell inside the cabin. Dell sucked in a breath before crossing the threshold.
“Hey.”
He’d shaved his head again, which he often did during a longer fishing jaunt. Easier upkeep, Dell supposed, although he liked when Luca was on land for longer, too. When he let his dark hair grow out into its curls.
But shaved-head Luca always focused Dell’s attention on his dark eyes, the way that grin cracked open his tanned face, the dimples hidden in his cheeks, in a way that felt sharper. More immediate. Harder to escape.
“Want a beer?” Luca asked as they walked into the kitchen, the same way he always did, and Dell nodded, taking the offered can from Luca’s hand, like he always did. The beauty of a routine.
And the moment the hops landed on his tongue, Dell was able to relax. To push Mae Kellerman—and any and everything else—away. To ground himself here, in Luca’s cabin.
It was a true cabin, Luca’s place, essentially one large room divided into a kitchen and a living space, a bed tucked into a corner. All cocooned in warm cedar, Dell’s favorite choice of lumber. Nestled in a quiet hillside close to the beach, almost every window offered views of the churning surf. Sometimes, Dell wasn’t sure if he was more enamored with Luca or Luca’s cabin.
“How was Alaska?” he asked.
Luca shrugged, cracking open his own beer. “You know. Long. Exhausting.”
Dell watched him. The way his throat bobbed as he took a sip. The way the warmth that had been in his eyes cooled as he stared away from Dell, out the window toward the ocean.
And there it was, the rub Dell increasingly tried not to feel, every time. His and Luca’s arrangement was simple. Physical. Once a month, on the months Luca was in town. It worked out for both of them, their own dedicated solitudes. They’d connected on an app, had liked the experience and decided to keep it going. Romance hadn’t quite ever been involved. Dell, especially, had wanted it that way. Demanded it that way.
It wasn’t fair of him, he knew, to have any other demands—any other possible wants—now.
Still, after two years of pre-sex small talk, the occasional post-sex endorphin-fueled confessions, Dell had learned some stuff about the guy. That, for instance, he had some feelings about the months-long trips to Alaska he and his family often had to take, like most Oregon commercial fishermen, to make ends meet. That Luca, Dell was pretty sure, didn’t love being a fisherman at all.
But Dell also knew, from the set of Luca’s shoulders, the rigidness of his jawline, thatYou know. Long. Exhaustingwas all Dell was going to get out of him about the last three months of his life.
Which was, again, the arrangement.
Dell moved on to his next standard question.
“How’s book stuff?”
And Luca still stared out the window, but his mouth curved, body relaxing when he replied, like he almost always did: “You know. Shitty.”
Dell smiled into his next sip of beer. The other thing he knew about Luca Yaeger—the most intriguing thing of all—was that he was writing a book. That most likely, he would much rather spend his days writing that book than being in a fishing boat. It was a fantasy novel, and he’d been trying to get an agent for it, but that was all Dell knew. All he’d likely ever get.
But Dell loved that grin Luca gave him every time he asked about it anyway.
“How’s stuff with you?” Luca asked next. Dell shrugged before he answered, taking another long draw from his can.
In truth, Dell loved a good Oregon IPA. Always had, since the day he’d moved here in his twenties. He never kept any at the house, though. Tried to not keep any alcohol in the house at all. Something about drinking alone always left him feeling…off. A bit more melancholy than expected, each time he’d tried. And it always fucked with his sleep, which was good and fucked to begin with.
