“Kissing you somewhere a tad less”—he slaps a rainbow-mittened hand on the ice—“cold and unforgiving.”
Reality slams into me like an opposing defender. He’s got me so damned worked up I completely lost track of where the hell we are.
I roll off him, and this time he lets me go.
“I take it that’s a no, then?” He sits up, then goes to his hands and knees so he can stand.
Just like I taught him.
“It’s not exactly a no.” I get to my feet and offer a hand to him, but he brushes it off and stands shakily on his own. I don’t know whether to be offended or proud.
“But it’s not exactly a yes, either, is it?” he asks, wobbling a little but managing to catch himself before he winds up sprawled on the ice again.
I resist the urge to grab his arm to steady him. “Not exactly.”
“What is it then?”
Good question. I’m not ready to run up and down Church Street holding hands and waving a Pride flag. But I don’t want this to be the end, either. How do you ask a guy to screw in secret without offending him?
“Tell you what, Puck Boy,” Kolby says before I can come up with an answer to that puzzle. “You’ve got twenty-four hours to figure it out. If it’s a yes, meet me at Vino and Veritas tomorrow night at eight. The wine bar, not the bookstore. And before you object, it’s not a gay bar. It’s an all-inclusive establishment. Which means everyone is welcome. Including straight dudes. So as far as your Cro-Magnon hockey buddies know, we’re two friends getting together for a casual drink. Or you can tell them you’re meeting me after work to finish an assignment for class if that makes you feel better.”
Damn. He can read me like I’mThe Cat In ThefreakingHat. It’s almost creepy how well he gets me.
“What about your skating lesson?”
“I’d say you taught me more than enough for one day.” He winks at me—fucking flirt—and skates a few wobbly feet before he manages an awkward turn to face me again. “Wouldn’t you?”
I skate ahead of him to the boards so I can open the door, not bothering to answer his question. I’m pretty sure it’s rhetorical.
And if it’s not, I’m pretty sure he was the one doing most of the teaching.
10
Kolby
“I thought you were off at seven.”
I look up from the book I’m half pretending to read—a history of wood and its role in shaping human society—to see Briar lounging against the bookshelf next to me with his arms crossed.
“I was,” I say, closing the book.
“Then why are you still hanging around? Catching up on some light reading?” He glances at the cover of the book I’m holding. “I didn’t know you were into wood. At least not the kind used to build houses and make paper.”
I put the book back on the shelf where I found it, between a biography of Agrippina—better known as Nero’s mother—and a thick volume on the Crusades. “I’m not. Although did you know trees never die of old age? Insects, disease, and people are usually the killers. And city trees live an average of thirteen years less than country trees.”
“I didn’t, but I do now.” He plucks a book off one shelf and moves it to the shelf below. I swear, Briar’s got some sort of spidey sense when it comes to misshelved books. He can spot them a mile away. “So if you’re not satisfying your hidden desire to learn about lumber, what are you doing here?”
“Killing time. I’m meeting someone in the bar at eight.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “Hot date?”
“Maybe.” If he shows up.
I check my watch. It’s almost eight. I should head over to the bar. I’ve been stalling, not wanting to be stuck sitting there alone staring into my hard cider, looking like the world’s biggest loser while I wait to see if my date is a no-show or not.
Briar claps me on the back. “Good luck. Or what is it you actor types say? Break a leg?”
I smile, remembering the skeptical look on Adam’s face that first improv class when we talked about strange theater superstitions. “That’s only for stage stuff. I think good luck fits in this situation.”
