Page 70 of Checking Out the Librarian

“Connor made them?”

“He did.” A smidge of muffin caught on the corner of Lily’s mouth, so Jonathan tapped his finger to his own lips. “They’re just his day-olds, though.”

“Ohmigod, they’re so good, but you’re all, just his day-olds.“ She made more exaggerated chewing sounds.

It was a muffin, not some sort of crunchy chips, so those sounds coming from her were unnecessary.

“I would like to apply for a new job. Consumer of Connor’s day-olds. Eater of his muffins.”

Jonathan let his eyebrows climb and covered his mouth with his fingers before he whispered. “That is not our kink.”

Her chin dropped almost to her chest and she turned red. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean⁠—”

Too perfect. He had her.

“You jerk.” She lifted her hand as if to throw the empty muffin wrap at him but stopped. “I forgot my lunch. Give me another and I’ll forgive you.”

It was close to nine that night when Jonathan cuddled next to Connor on the nubby tan couch.

They had drawn signs to carry in tomorrow’s parade, cooked an eggplant adobo recipe from The New York Times, and cleaned the kitchen. Connor had drunk a beer with the Filipino dish and opened a sauvignon blanc for Jonathan. The unfinished portion of the bottle now waited in Connor’s refrigerator for their next night in.

He’d advanced a square to have both a dedicated toothbrush and a bottle of wine. The only part of stereotypical domestic bliss missing was a television playing a sporting event enjoyed by half of the people in the room.

He would neither say nor think the word “couple,” but he understood that even refusing to do so was a self-defeating action.

Defeat that looked like a half-glass of crisp white wine and his thighs thrown across Connor’s lap was extremely difficult to accept. Extremely.

“We’re a good sign-making duo.” Connor sounded very satisfied and possibly even more relaxed than Jonathan. He’d finally opened the door to the second bedroom, revealing Blondbeard’s secret lair as a craft room that included bins of patterned papers, pull-out shelves of paints and markers, wrapping materials, and even a vinyl cutting heat press machine, but no sewing machine.

Jonathan had one, as anyone interested in costumes and clothing that fit properly should, but he kept that information to himself. Telling Connor about his sewing machine would be normal sharing, although Connor might want to come over to Jonathan’s apartment to use it, and his place wasn’t nice enough.

He stared at the way Connor had folded a fuzzy blue blanket across the back of a spare armchair, and dug his teeth into his lower lip. There was so much more to do before he could have Connor or Lily in his space.

“Hey, our signs are excellent,” Connor ran his thumb along Jonathan’s lip, releasing it from the tension. “On point.”

Jonathan had made a sign about the joys of reading queer books, obviously, and Connor had opted for the word “PRIDE” with letters composed of sports images and out athletes.

Connor’s hand stroked his arm very close to his tattoo, a caress that was starting to become habitual as Connor flirted with the edges of the design, outlining the leaves but never touching the colored portions. “You have Grade A choice crafting skills.”

“Are you rating me like beef or eggs.” He curled closer to Connor, laying more of his shoulder and torso across Connor’s body. Luckily, he was flexible enough to pretzel onto this man and maintain a well-balanced wineglass braced on his thigh.

“Well, I grew up on ranch, so which do you think?” Connor shifted to align himself with Jonathan’s body, instead of facing forward. He nuzzled into the hair above Jonathan’s ear. “My family raises excellent wagyu cattle. They fill my freezer with exceedingly good ground beef. Very juicy.”

“That I understand.”

“I figured.” Connor’s hand was growing heavier on Jonathan’s arm, slowing down, and the space between his words lengthened.

Jonathan felt the same lassitude. Enjoying a Friday night together on a couch must have a much deeper meaning than he could articulate to himself at this moment.

Connor continued quietly speaking. “One thing left for tomorrow.

“Hmm?” The hand trapped between his body and Connor’s thigh could feel the hot skin, firm under his fingers and covered with tickly little hairs, where Connor’s shorts exposed his leg.

“Don’t know what to wear.”

Jonathan had packed a larger-than-usual overnight bag, because the difficulty of planning for parade clothing was not hypothetical. “Wear whatever you want, it’s Pride. But if you don’t want me to pray for Bob The Drag Queen to excommunicate you, don’t say things like⁠—”

Connor leaned closer to Jonathan and lowered his voice. “Matchy-matchy?”