Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
KNOX
“Morning, Goodman.” I leaned back against the counter in the efficiency kitchen and sipped my coffee as Gage shuffled out of his bedroom.
He wore flannel pajama pants, a T-shirt bearing a picture of a beaver above the word “dam,” and a pair of heavy woolen socks he’d “borrowed” from me when the first October cold snap had hit.
It had been nearly two weeks since he’d last worn shorts and done his stretches right in front of me, since he’d casually informed me that we would have the hottest, most satisfying sex ever, since he’d last given me a flirtatious look or let his eyes linger on me.
Instead, he now gave me polite but distracted smiles when I joked with him.
He’d thrown himself into his work, getting to his desk before I finished helping Webb with chores each weekday morning, and returning to his desk after supper nearly every evening, except for the nights when he helped Aiden with his science project.
On Saturday, Gage had let Em talk him into wearing a green Statue of Liberty toga and body paint for some historical society presentation she was running—which I’d naturally had to attend due to my deep love of history and for no other reason—and on Sunday he’d greeted customers in the orchard gift shop like he’d lived here forever and wasn’t the closest thing to a tourist himself.
The whole time, he’d been sweet and friendly, not cranky or sulky in the slightest. He’d put his coffee mug directly into the dishwasher each morning without fail. He didn’t chatter at me incessantly anymore.
In short, he’d done everything I’d ever asked him to do. Become exactly what I’d wanted him to be.
And I was contradictory enough to miss every single part of the way he’d been before.
“Mhmmnfh.” His grunted reply went straight to my dick, but the jaw-cracking yawn that followed made warmth blossom in my chest. His hair stuck up from his head like he’d suffered a terrible electric shock in the night, and his big brown eyes were still mostly shut.
I had an almost uncontrollable urge to open my arms wide so he could burrow into me and I could inhale that saltwater scent that seemed to have seeped into his skin, which was so far from what I should want that it shocked me.
I was not a man who’d ever wanted those sorts of things. I felt like Sally Ann, chasing her tail in a circle.
I had become my own biggest problem.
Then again, this was not a huge surprise. There was nothing like waking up at 3:00 a.m. from a vague dream about a tsunami hitting Vermont—still a landlocked state, last time I checked—and not having enough hands to save everyone to really get a man’s blood pumping in the morning.
I’d sat on my bed in the dark for long, long moments while my heart pounded out a crazy rhythm, telling myself that all was well while counting my breaths—in, hold, out, in, hold, out—feeling the panic threaten to swamp me.
But when I’d finally been able to draw a deep breath, I’d heard Goodman’s teasing voice in my head reminding me that it was inefficient to keep trying to white-knuckle my way through my mental health struggles…
and that was when I’d finally emailed Dr. Travers about what was going on with me and asked if I could make our telehealth visits more regular.
I was doing better than I had been last spring. I was. So much better that it was tempting to believe I didn’t have a problem anymore. But it was just possible that I’d be better for real if I took my mental health more seriously and actually engaged rather than doing the bare minimum.
I turned toward the counter and the coffeepot. “I see you need to be jump-started this morning. Coffee?”
“Please.” He took a too-big gulp from the mug I handed him and sighed appreciatively. “Mmm. Thanks. Just the right cream-to-sugar ratio.”
I rolled my eyes and moved around him to snag my own mug from the counter so I could keep my hands busy. “It’s not that hard to achieve when your preferred ratio is ninety percent cream and sugar to ten percent coffee.”
“Lies,” he squawked before taking another deep gulp. “I’m very badass, and I drink only the highest-octane fuel. Grr.”
“If I melted coffee ice cream in a cup, you wouldn’t know the difference.”
He grinned, marginally more awake. “Okay, you’re not entirely wrong. But then, what is life without cream and sugar, Knox?” he mused philosophically.
I took a sip of my black coffee. “Healthier? Simpler? More efficient?”
“Tragic.” He pushed his hair back out of his face, and I saw his golden-brown eyes glinting with humor.
I grabbed a towel so I could wipe nonexistent crumbs off the counter, mostly for an excuse to turn away from him. “Late night?”
“Eh.” He seesawed his hand. “Pretty late. Had a breakthrough and almost finished a side project I’ve been working on, though, so it was worth it.”
“Side project?” I abandoned my towel. “Which one?”
“Mm.” He swallowed more coffee. “I’ll show you guys next week. Speaking of which, any luck getting Webb to take your money?”
“Not yet. Stubborn ass. And short of pretending our distant cousin Rockefeller died and left Webb a lawyer on retainer, I’m out of ideas for now. But I’m gonna keep trying. Has Aiden heard from Amanda again?”
Gage shook his head. “Not that I know of. I reminded him he’s got to ask permission from his dad before he goes with her or she could end up in trouble, but who knows if he’s listening.
I mean, that’s his mom.” He blew out a breath.
“Anyway. Aiden and I ran late last night because we’re trying to finish his project so he can bring the prototype to school next week—”
“Prototype.” I snorted. “You guys gonna mass-market these? To all the dog owners who don’t want to feed their dogs treats by hand?”
“Hey! You never know.” Gage took a loaf of bread from the freezer and put two slices in the toaster before leaning a hip against the countertop.
“The guy who first sold pre-sliced bread to the masses was laughed at, too. ‘Who’d ever want to buy their bread sliced, Otto? What a stupid idea, Otto.’ His genius wasn’t recognized either. ”
I snorted. Only Goodman would know the name of the man who invented sliced bread. Only Goodman could be cute about it.
“I mean, I know it’s not life-changing shit,” he went on, “but it is kinda cool. It dispenses a treat when the dog uses a pressure pad or button. Showing Aiden how to use it to train Sally Ann—or any other dog—is the fun part. I don’t need the money, just the inspiration.
” He extracted a jar of Marco’s apple butter from the fridge and a spoon from the drawer.
“Oh, really?” I teased. “We’re independently wealthy now, are we, Goodman?”
“Kinda.” He shrugged casually as he spooned the sweet mixture onto his bread. “Not like I could buy my own rocket and pretend to be an astronaut, you know? But I can get by.”
He stuck the spoon in his mouth and licked it clean so thoroughly and distractingly it took me a second to realize what he said.
“Wait. I thought you said you didn’t have a lot growing up.”
“True. But our circumstances changed a year or so ago.”
I blinked, then blinked some more. “Like you won the lottery or something?”
“Something,” he agreed.
New Gage did not volunteer information, and I fucking hated it.
“So are you saying you can afford to invest in tiny projects here and there, or—”
“Could I be sitting on a beach somewhere and never work again?” he asked in a hard voice.
“Theoretically, yes, assuming a good rate of return. But I have goals, and—” He broke off with a head shake.
“I really hate when people suggest that I shouldn’t be motivated to do something just because I have money in the bank.
Is money the only reason a person works?
How much money do you have in the bank? Should we talk about your motivations? ”
Touché. “You’re right. Of course you are. I just thought…”
I’d thought that he wouldn’t understand that. That someone so young and sunshiny couldn’t also be serious and goal oriented.
When was I going to stop underestimating him?
Gage folded his toast in half and shoved the piece in his mouth, a signal that the conversation was over, at least for now. “Wonder what Drew’s making for breakfast,” he asked around the mouthful.
I stifled a smile and shook my head. He and I had discussed his consumption of “Breakfast Appetizers” several times before, and he knew my thoughts.
Just like I knew better than to get him started on the supplementary meals he referred to as Breakfast Dessert, Lunch Dessert, Dinner Dessert, and Second Dinner Dessert.
My cell buzzed on the counter, and I grabbed it. “Probably eggs and bacon. It’s Satur—oh. Hmm.” I read the text through twice. “Interesting.”
“What is?”
“You remember me mentioning my friend Myles?”
He swallowed his toast with a gulp. “Your fuck buddy.”
“My friend with occasional benefits. He’s having a party tonight at his apartment in the city, and I’m invited.” I glanced up. “He wants you to come along.”
“Me.” Gage wrinkled his nose. “Me?”
I shot him a look that said not this repeating thing again, and he rolled his eyes.
“How does he even know I exist?”
“Because I mentioned you the night I saw him.” I’d had a couple of drinks myself that night—though not nearly as much as Goodman—and I vaguely remembered mentioning Gage’s name kind of a lot.
An embarrassing amount, really.
“You did? What did you say?”
I shrugged casually. “That you were creating an awesome integrated app for Sunday Orchard. That you were looking for a job with a lot of upward mobility and interesting projects you could sink your teeth into.” I was pretty sure I’d also used the words relentlessly sexy and infuriatingly adorable and so fucking young.
“His company has some job openings, and our other friend Jason is doing the hiring. Jason’s going to be at the party tonight, too, so this would be a great opportunity for you to network. ”
Gage frowned. “But… they haven’t seen my resume or anything. How will they know I’m qualified?”