Chapter Eight #2
There were flings in Chicago and a few longer things out west. One guy who liked to do crossword puzzles in bed, and another who thought “fine dining” meant ordering the second-cheapest bottle of wine.
There were hookups in bars and clumsy mornings-after spent dodging eye contact.
None of it ever felt like this, like my skin was vibrating, like I might float off the ground if I don’t keep moving.
That’s how I know this is different. That I’m different.
I want May to see the man I’ve become. Not the scared, stubborn mess who left him behind for “bigger dreams,” but someone who’s finally figured out what he wants.
Someone who isn’t afraid to want it, either.
I’m so busy fussing that I almost miss the sound of May’s footsteps on the porch. There’s a knock, quick and sharp, and my stomach does a stupid little somersault.
He’s here.
I wipe my hands on a towel, take a steadying breath, and open the door.
May stands there, framed by the soft glow of the twinkle lights wrapped around the front beams and a drift of fresh snowflakes.
He looks…fuck, I don’t have words. Tonight, he’s in navy slacks and an open-collar white shirt under a perfectly cut vest. His makeup is subtle but flawless.
A hint of shimmer on his cheekbones, lashes dark and curled beneath his black frames again, lips soft and glossy.
He’s holding a gift bag, eyes bright, a little color in his cheeks from the cold.
For a second, I just stare, drinking it in.
This is what I’ve been missing all these years.
The way May looks at me when he thinks I’m not paying attention.
The curve of his mouth when he’s trying not to smile too wide.
I want to drop to my knees and beg him to stay for the rest of my life, but I settle for the world’s dopiest grin instead.
“Wow,” I manage, because my brain has apparently been reduced to two working words. “You look…unreal.”
He flutters his lashes as he steps inside. “You clean up nice yourself, Dalton. I see you’re going for ‘sexy lumberjack with a Martha Stewart kink.’”
I bark out a laugh, the nerves in my chest loosening just a little. “Yeah, well, it was either that or lean into the full Santa’s Village strip club. Mal tried to get me into a Christmas onesie. I drew the line at elf hats.”
“Coward,” he teases, eyes twinkling as he toes off his shoes and surveys the living room. “This place is…wow. I haven’t been in here since they did the renovations.” His eyes sparkle. “Tell me you didn’t do all this yourself.”
“Define ‘all this,’” I reply, stepping aside to let him in. “If you mean the wildflowers, yes, that was me. If you mean the three million candy canes, well, you know the crew here,” I add with a chuckle.
He slips inside, the scent of his cologne mingling with the kitchen smells and making my knees weak. He looks around, taking in the gingerbread insanity, then turns that megawatt smile on me. “So, are you trying to seduce me, or are we about to get baked into a pie by a cartoon witch?”
He’s not wrong. It’s…a lot.
I gesture helplessly at the gumdrop pillows. “Look, it was this or the room with the Santa wallpaper. I made a choice, and I stand by it.”
He gives me an exaggerated slow clap. “Honestly, the commitment to the theme is impressive. Ten out of ten for the candy-cane curtains. Is that a cookie sheet being used as wall art?”
I glance over my shoulder. Sure enough, there’s a bedazzled cookie sheet hanging above the fireplace. “It’s festive.”
“I love it,” he declares. “It’s absurd and perfect. Like you.”
If my heart were any softer, it would ooze out of my boots. “You look fucking incredible,” I admit, because I am still entirely too distracted by the sight of him, and why pretend otherwise. “That shirt should be illegal.”
He laughs, ducking his head. “You know, I almost wore a turtleneck. But I know what the sight of my collarbones does to you.”
“Don’t feed my kinks, May,” I warn. “Unless you’re planning to finish what you start.”
He leans in, lips ghosting my cheek. “That depends. Does dinner come with dessert?”
I groan. “You’re here for my body, not my cooking. I knew it.”
“You caught me.” He glances around, eyes taking in the table, the flowers, the candles. He gets this look, soft, and a little surprised, and my heart just…fuck. I want this every night.
May raises an eyebrow, clearly impressed. “This is very…domesticated of you.”
“I contain multitudes,” I quip, pouring him a glass of sparkling cider and handing it over. “But mostly I just didn’t want to risk poisoning you on the first date.”
He sips, eyes meeting mine over the rim of the glass. “First date, huh? I remember our first first date. You spilled Dr. Pepper in my lap and tried to mop it up with napkins from the popcorn stand.”
I laugh, a little mortified and a lot nostalgic. “In my defense, I was very distracted by your legs. And you forgave me. Eventually.”
He pops a grape into his mouth, grinning. “Only because you let me win at mini golf.”
“Is that what you think happened?” I deadpan.
“Please. I was three under par. You were so busy staring at my ass, you could barely hold the club.”
If I could bottle this moment, the warmth, the laughter, the way May looks at me like I’m the only person in the world, I’d die happy, drowning in it.
We snack and banter, falling into the kind of easy rhythm I didn’t even know I missed.
Every time May laughs, it feels like a little part of me stitches itself back together.
I want to reach over, touch him, pull him into my lap, and never let go, but I’m determined to play it cool. For at least another ten minutes.
He notices, of course. He always does.
“You’re nervous,” he observes, eyes dancing.
“Terrified,” I confess, because there’s no point pretending. “Is it obvious?”
May leans in, lowering his voice. “Only to someone who’s known you since you thought cargo shorts were a personality.”
I wince. “Ouch. Low blow.”
He shrugs, unrepentant. “You’re cute when you’re trying too hard.”
I want to say something clever, but instead I just beam at him, hands a little shaky as I clear away the appetizers. “Dinner’s ready, if you’re hungry.”
May stands, smoothing his shirt, and follows me to the dining table. He lets his hand brush against my lower back as we walk, a tiny touch that nearly makes me drop the plates. The table is set with actual cloth napkins and real candles, and May surveys the setup like he’s judging a reality show.
“Wow. Okay. This is…not what I expected. In a good way.”
I grin, suddenly proud. “Hawk and Eva helped. I bribed them with promises of manual labor and my soul.”
May laughs. “Worth it. What’s on the menu?”
I gesture to the spread, suddenly wishing I’d gotten a haircut, or maybe a new personality.
“We have rosemary chicken, garlic bread, salad with Hawk’s homemade dressing, and some kind of crème br?lée thing that Eva swears is foolproof.
Also wine. And if you’re still hungry after, I have an entire tray of gingerbread cookies because Mal doesn’t believe in portion control. ”
May gives a low whistle, genuine surprise on his face. “Color me impressed. If you were trying to seduce me with food, it’s working.”
“Noted,” I reply, feeling about twelve feet tall. I pull out his chair, bowing a little. “Tonight, I’m auditioning for boyfriend. Let me impress you.”
He gives me a look, biting his lower lip, and I can see the gears turning. It’s almost dangerous how much I want him to like this. To like me.
We sit. I pour the wine, careful not to spill. May watches every move I make, amused and a little smug, but also genuinely appreciative.
We toast.
“To second chances,” I offer, raising my glass.
He clinks mine. “To better choices,” he counters, eyes bright.
I take a sip, and for a second, it’s just us.
The world shrinks down to this small, ridiculous gingerbread kitchen, the flicker of candlelight, the soft hum of the furnace, and May’s perfect, devastating smile.
We settle at the table, which is just small enough that our knees bump beneath the pine-and-heart-printed tablecloth.
May pours himself some water and samples the salad, eyes going wide at the first bite.
“Damn. Whatever you put in this dressing should be illegal.”
“Hawk’s secret,” I admit, feeling warm all over. “I was just the muscle.”
He reaches under the table, squeezing my knee. “It’s perfect. You’re perfect.”
That does things to me I’m not ready to talk about. Instead, I focus on the food, which, thank God, is actually good. We eat, making small talk and taking cheap shots at the décor.
“At what point do you think the snowmen achieve sentience?” May wonders, eyeing the army of ceramic snowmen on the windowsill.
I squint at them. “I think they’re already plotting. See the one in the back? He’s the leader. You can tell by the dead eyes.”
May snorts into his wine, nearly choking. “If I wake up in the night to a snowman standing over the bed, I’m suing.”
I waggle my eyebrows. “If you wake up in my bed at all, I’ll consider the night a success.”
He gives me a look equal parts exasperated and fond. “God, you’re such a cheeseball.”
Guilty as charged.