Alex shrugged, staring into the depths of his wine glass. “You know the man and love him as much as I do. Could you tell him no?”
Paul’s reply caught Alex by surprise. “Actually, I have no intention of saying no.”
“What?”
“I don’t intend to disappoint him or Uncle Byron. Like you, I’m the last. The last Sinclair.” Paul leaned back in his chair and laughed. “Gawd, that sounds dramatic! LikeThe Last of the Mohicans.”
Even in the semidarkness, when Paul grinned, Alex noticed a crooked front tooth. Rather than detracting from his appeal, it added a certain “mischievous little boy” quality that Alex found endearing, particularly in comparison to his normal “perfect at any price” lovers, with their nips, tucks, and overly bright, bleached teeth. Lately Alex had come to appreciate Paul’s natural appearance and attitude.
“What do you intend to do about it? The children thing, I mean?” he asked. “Forgive me for being blunt, but I can’t imagine you settling down with a woman.” Again, a wonderful belly laugh washed over Alex’s senses.
“Heavens, no!” Paul exclaimed. “I mean, there will be a mother of my children, God willing. We’re just not planning on stripping down and doing the nasty.” He visibly shuddered. “Besides,” he added with a cheeky grin, “Lee could kick my ass to hell and back if she had a mind to.”
“Lee?”
Leaning in, Paul asked, “Did you ever meet Bernard’s great-niece, Cecelia?”
“That’s Lee? It’s been a long time; I haven’t seen her in years. Didn’t she grow up to be…?”
“A stereotype?” Paul supplied.
“I was going to say ‘tattoo artist’. I suppose ‘stereotype’ works too. How’s she doing?” A faded image came to mind of a pudgy little girl with brown hair and freckles who hated dresses and ribbons and who held her own in any kind of competition, from chess to fistfights.
“Let’s say that ‘Lee’ suits her better than ‘Cecelia’ these days.” Paul winked.
Alex deadpanned, “That explains a lot.”
“Yeah, it does. Anyway, Lee’s agreed that when I finally—” Paul rolled his eyes and mimicked the throaty voice Alex remembered from his youth, “—‘find the man worth the grief’, she’ll carry my child as a surrogate—artificially inseminated, of course.”
“Of course.” Alex snickered. Chances were Cecelia Landers had surprised absolutely no one when she made her big announcement, if her outing even required an announcement at all, for as Paul had pointed out, she had prided herself on living up to stereotypes even in her teens. The more Alex deliberated, the more he admired Paul’s having hit on the perfect solution. Lee was practically family, but not incestuously so, and if memory served, good people. Paul planned for fatherhood someday. For a moment, the old envy returned.
Alex never even considered the possibility of having children the way Paul intended to, resigning himself to a brief, loveless relationship followed by a slew of lawyers and custody battles. He’d win, of course, because he held all the cards, not to mention the money. It would still be costly and painful, particularly for the child. For that reason alone, Alex hesitated to consider such a possibility. However, with a friend, someone willing to help out of the goodness of her heart…. “Wait a minute,” he asked, voicing his suspicion, “what’s in your arrangement for her?”
Paul’s smile broadened. “Well, she’d still be a part of the child’s life, only not a traditional one. We’re old friends, and she says she’ll do this for me and our uncles. The thing she says she wants most from this is”—again with a spot-on Cecelia impersonation—“she wants ‘to show all those skinny bitches in the minivans they got nothing on the dyke on the Harley.’”
Alex laughed at the image of a heavily tattooed and pierced, noticeably pregnant biker flipping off a soccer mom in a minivan.
The two men, caught up in their conversation, barely noticed the time, or that they supposedly didn’t like each other.
After dessert, Paul took Alex on a brief walk through the garden, discussing a few planned additions and then, astonishingly, asking for opinions. Although Alex didn’t know much about gardening, that didn’t prevent him from being fascinated by his companion’s animated explanations and plans, reminiscent of their earlier conversation about the renovations to Paul’s old store building.
Evening fell, pleasantly cool without being frigid, and the full moon hung low in the sky, augmenting the pathway lighting lining the walkways through the garden. Paul yawned, and Alex suggested they call it a night.
As they entered the house, Alex couldn’t help himself. “Paul,” he breathed softly, brushing his lips lightly over Paul’s, the briefest of caresses. “Good night, sleep well.” He spun and strode purposefully from the room. If Paul chose to remind him of his promise, he didn’t want to hear it. It took every bit of his willpower to limit himself to one kiss, and if he didn’t get upstairs soon and away from temptation, he might do something that genuinely would horrify the servants.
He wasn’t surprised to find his suitcases from downstairs had been brought up and unpacked, but everything he’d taken to the hotel the previous night had been returned as well.
14
AFEWdays later, hard at work in the office, paying bills and arranging for the running of three separate households, plus vacation homes, an epiphany struck Alex. The house in Boston stood empty most of the year, requiring staff and utilities even when unused. If he truly meant to relocate his life to LA, he wouldn’t need another full-time residence. Besides, the stately mansion held bad memories, and he’d avoided staying there whenever possible. Technically, the decision fell to Alfred, but Alex felt certain his uncle would probably agree to sell or capitalize on the house’s historical value and earn a tidy tax write-off by donating the monstrous money pit to some preservation society. The house in Rhode Island, he’d keep.
Preparing the Houston condo for the market, he acknowledged that he’d never truly considered the glass and chrome showplace home, always referring to his dwelling as “the condo.” He mused on what it meant to finally have a real home, until a soft tapping caught his attention. “Come in,” he called.
The door eased open, and Paul stepped into the room wearing a snug T-shirt and a pair of loose-fitting shorts. From the looks of it, he’d recently returned from his morning run and taken a shower, for his hair fell in a riot of wet strands around his face. And he was barefoot. Alex couldn’t stop staring at those pale feet, toes curling into the plush carpeting.
“Are you all right?”
Glancing up guiltily to find Paul studying him, Alex stammered, “I’m a bit tired, I guess.”
