Chapter 11
eleven
Luca’s tired feet came to a halt in the threshold of the kitchen.
Emerson sat on a stool at the long kitchen island with his back to Luca, shoulder blades jutting against cotton.
Hunched over a laptop similar to the one Luca held in his right hand.
He was wearing yet another worn t-shirt, another snug pair of jeans.
God, this man wore his clothes well. Everything simple, basic, but so well used that it all looked soft as butter.
Hugging the thick places—those shoulders, that ass.
Hanging just right in all the places he was lean.
Giving his head a shake, Luca headed into the kitchen.
Obviously, he was touch starved. As evidenced by last night.
Crowded into that small booth, touching Emerson every opportunity he got.
He hoped none of it had been too inappropriate, made his boss uncomfortable.
The guy had been tenser than he’d ever seen him; Luca had wanted to impart comfort, encourage him to relax.
His fingers had itched to do something from the minute they’d walked into that barn, Emerson’s shoulders up by his ears, to the minute he’d stormed into the house after Ben and Julie had left.
He’d yearned to dig his thumbs into Emerson’s back, whisper in his ear again. Make his muscles let go.
“Morning.”
Luca laid his laptop on the opposite side of the island. Emerson raised his head. His face seemed even more exhausted than usual, the lines around his eyes deeper. Luca hadn’t expected to see him here. Had thought, even on a Sunday, that he’d already be out in the fields.
“Morning,” Emerson returned the greeting, voice rusty. Looking back down at his keyboard, his cheeks flushed that mottled pink, as if embarrassed by his morning voice. Luca’s fingers itched again. If he was honest, they’d never really stopped.
“Okay if I snag some coffee?” Luca motioned to the pot on the counter behind him. He’d been snagging coffee from this pot all week, but for some reason felt the need to ask now, in this fragile, just-him-and-Emerson Sunday morning space.
Emerson nodded, quick and emphatic.
“Of course.”
Luca paused at the sink, eyes roving over the counter.
He’d brought over his favorite mug, when he’d moved in last week.
He’d rinsed it and left it in the drying rack each day, but now that he thought about it, in his rush to get to his cabin to clean yesterday morning, maybe he’d left it dirty in the sink. So—
A throat clear behind him.
“Your mug’s in the dishwasher. Hope that’s all right.”
Luca registered it then, the comforting whirr of the machine just to his left.
“Of course. Thank you.”
“Mugs are in that cabinet right there, to the left of the window. If you want to borrow one. Like you can use anything in this kitchen.”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
Luca scanned the selection, chose the biggest one he could find, advertising Shelly’s Café.
He smiled as he lifted it out of the cabinet.
He loved that place, even if he hadn’t been in a long time.
He kept his back to Emerson as he filled his cup, mixed in the milk and sugar, brought it to his lips for the first sip.
It probably shouldn’t feel illicit, drinking from another man’s cup.
Like wearing another man’s shirt. But from the moment he’d opened that cabinet, Luca had known that it would.
By the time he turned, Emerson was focused on his laptop again, a deep line set between his eyebrows in concentration.
“Whatcha working on?” Luca brought the illicit mug to his mouth again. Emerson glanced at him, that line in his forehead smoothing the tiniest bit.
“Spreadsheets,” he said with a sigh, eyes flicking back to his screen. “I have two I update every Sunday. One’s for the farm itself, tracking the crops and the eggs, the land, water levels of the pond. Weather updates, how the livestock’s doing, you know. All the important stuff.”
A pause. Two of Emerson’s fingers drummed against the counter, a small smile playing at his lips. After last night, Luca was relieved to see it.
“Updating this spreadsheet might be my favorite part of the week.”
“Must be satisfying,” Luca said. “Tracking the data of all you’re doing out there.”
“Yeah,” Emerson agreed. “I mean, that probably wasn’t accurate, what I just said. My favorite part is actually being out there. Hands in the dirt. But it feels…tidier, having it all in neat boxes on the spreadsheet, you know. Less overwhelming. Like I actually know what the hell I’m doing.”
A barely-there laugh. Luca’s own mouth curved against the rim of Emerson’s mug.
“Pretty sure you do know what you’re doing.”
“As I said.” Emerson’s fingers stopped drumming. He waved them toward Luca instead. “You’ve spent the whole week with Jansel. You have a skewed perspective. Jansel knows what he’s doing.”
“And you hired him, right? Ergo.” Luca’s grin grew.
Emerson glanced at him, another huff of an almost-laugh escaping his lips.
“Ergo,” he repeated under his breath, voice soft, almost wondering.
Luca felt inordinately pleased with himself.
“What’s the other spreadsheet for?” Emerson had said there were two he updated every Sunday.
All the light that had crept onto Emerson’s face disappeared.
He shifted on his stool. Moved his fingertips back to the mousepad.
“The other one’s for tracking money.”
“Ah.” Of course. Luca stared into his mug.
And then, before he could stop himself, the urge to comfort Emerson once again preceding rational thought—
“I have spreadsheets, too.” He lifted his chin toward his own laptop, still resting on the far edge of the island. “It’s what I came up to work on.” He’d contemplated lying in bed, doing his dreaded email check while his cheek was still smashed against Emerson’s pillow.
But he was tired of hiding out with his laptop on the bottom floor.
It was feeling more familiar, that bedroom.
Coming back to it each night. The bed was comfortable.
He’d need to do laundry today; cleaning his cabin from the renters had taken longer than he’d expected yesterday, and he’d never gotten around to it.
Once he did have clean clothes, though, he might even start keeping them in the drawers of the dresser instead of living out of a suitcase.
But it was still someone else’s room in someone else’s house.
And last night was the first night since he’d moved in that sleep hadn’t come easy. Not only had he been concerned for Emerson, but he couldn’t stop thinking about his and Julie’s conversation at the end of the night. About how she and Ben were staying in Dell McCleary’s guest house.
“Have you ever been to his place?” she’d asked as they walked down the dirt road in the fading twilight. “It’s gorgeous.”
Luca had only been able to shake his head.
He and Dell had only ever met at Luca’s cabin. But he’d heard that it was beautiful, knew Dell had built the guest house from the ground up. Dell had told him some things, the two years they knew each other.
They just hadn’t known each other well enough for Dell to actually invite him to see it.
His mind had gone to fucked up places once the sun had gone down, once he was alone.
Rethinking his and Dell’s last real conversation.
Not the casual ones they had sometimes when they saw each other in town now, when they happened to be at the IGA at the same time.
Or whenever Luca was brave enough to visit Mae’s bookshop, and Dell was there too.
Because Dell had invited Mae Kellerman to see his house the minute they’d shown up in town.
Not that Luca had a right to be upset about that, not at the time and especially not now.
His and Dell’s relationship had always had clear boundaries they’d each agreed to.
And that last conversation, when Dell had suggested something more, some type of open relationship between the three of them—Luca’s gut had rejected it immediately.
He knew he was the one who’d said no, who’d technically walked away.
Even if it had felt an awful lot like being left.
Still, picturing a beautiful man like Ben getting to sleep in a room Dell had designed, getting to drink coffee in his kitchen—hell, maybe they were all fucking each other.
Sure, Ben had seemed pretty devoted to this Alexei guy, same with Julie and her partner, but Ben and Julie had also been pretty touchy-feely with each other all night.
Maybe they were all getting to touch each other, up on that hill Luca had never been invited to.
Maybe Luca could’ve been part of it, if he’d said yes.
Except he knew his jealousy was full of shit. He’d still say no, if Dell asked him today. He knew he would. He knew he was being problematic.
He just missed having Dell in his own bed.
He missed having anyone in his bed.
He’d hooked up with exactly one guy in the year since Dell had dumped him, just a single, app-connected night with someone who was passing through.
It’d been a good night, to be clear, but it had also been months ago.
Luca was lonely and touch-starved, but he’d always been lonely, even when he was with someone.
Even when he was surrounded by his family.
He always held himself back just a little too much.
Always spent a little too much time in his head.
He didn’t know why. Just seemed like the way his brain had always been wired.
Anyway. Point was, staying in bed in a dark room wasn’t doing him any favors. If he was going to torture himself, might as well do it in the daylight, with a cup of coffee.
“I’ve been avoiding them,” he added now. “My spreadsheets. They sort of…track my failures.”
“Luca.” Emerson’s mouth quirked back up as he looked at him again. And it was so rare that Luca received the gift of this combination—direct eye contact, a smile, Luca’s name on Emerson’s lips—that his breath caught. “That’s what my spreadsheets do, too.”