4. Bread Baskets & Blushes #2
Connor was cute when he winced, crinkling one cheek and half his mouth and making a pouty theatrical moue, which really shouldn’t look charming on a guy his size, but most definitely worked.
Jonathan hadn’t known that he could have a thing for large bumbling jocks, perhaps because nothing in his prior twenty-six-point-nine years had given him much intimate exposure to the type, but Connor was rapidly broadening Jonathan’s horizons.
“And I’m not really as sarcastic as I sounded.” I’m worse.
“Damn, that’s it, then.” Connor mockingly tossed the cloth napkin from his lap onto the side of the table. “I’m outta here.”
He suppressed a stab of disappointment, because his conscious brain recognized this was a joke even if his subconscious curled in the fetal position, and laughed. “It wouldn’t be the shortest date I’ve had.”
“Really?” Connor relaxed into the back of his chair and lifted his arm to check the watch exposed by his rolled sleeve. “It’s been fifteen minutes. I find it hard to believe you can chase someone away that fast.”
He wore a real watch, an analog one with a battered leather strap and a face that looked like steel. Blond arm hair curled around the edges of the strap. Neither fragile nor show-offy, something Jonathan suspected was Connor’s vibe in many things, and hopefully in bed.
“Some men don’t care for men who wear makeup.
” Some straight-passing men like you. That was why he rarely hooked up with Connor’s end of the queer spectrum.
He’d found out early that the unpredictability of what they accepted in others could hit unexpectedly and hard, whereas if a guy wore a little eyeliner himself, he was likely going to be okay with how Jonathan dressed to go out.
“Well, fuck them.”
“Certainly not.”
The intensity of Connor’s gaze made Jonathan feel very warm, despite the waft of air across the back of his neck.
Then he leaned toward Jonathan, his wide shoulders shrinking the table to a mere display shelf for his upper body.
“If they can’t imagine looking down at glitter on their own skin, and how it got there, then yeah, they can fuck right off. ”
Jonathan lost the use of his voice for a moment. But he could breathe, he knew he could. In. Out. Yes, he demonstrably could still breathe.
Not dull. Connor was definitely not dull. And definitely not new at this.
They ordered food and finished the cocktails they’d brought from the bar, talking and laughing until the server brought their two shared appetizers.
“Why did we order salad?” Jonathan glared at the lovely butter lettuce confection.
Some other time he’d be perfectly happy to have it for dinner with crisp bread, salted butter, and a nice white wine, but now the sous vide onion the server had ordered them to try had forced him to abandon all other food. “We should have had two of these.”
Connor licked his lips without lifting his gaze from the plate where he’d transferred his half of the charred, then slow-cooked, onion and its thyme-infused beef demiglace. “I’m a decent cook, but this…” he exhaled and closed his eyes. “This is why I go to restaurants.”
Conversation stopped as they concentrated on the appetizer, but one onion, its plate of sauce, and one small breadbasket with five—merely five—slices of sourdough baguette could only account for a few minutes before Jonathan pulled at the previous conversation thread.
“You mentioned miso broccoli in a text. Should I stereotype you and assume you also grill, or are you going to say you make an amazing bibimbap?”
“I do both,” he grinned. “I can pretty much follow any recipe, but my specialty is brunch. Friends beg for my French toast.”
“Brunch? I’ll have to dial in a different stereotype.”
“Don’t worry, I grill too.” Connor stared into Jonathan’s eyes for a longer-than-required moment. “I’m versatile that way.”
Fuck. Me. Or. Or.
Connor raised an eyebrow. He should get those waxed, just a tiny bit.
Jonathan smiled at his date but didn’t let the buzz he felt stop him from beating Connor to claim the last piece of sourdough. “This is mine.”
“What type of evil place gives two guys only five tiny pieces of bread?” Connor wrapped his hand around Jonathan’s wrist, as if he intended to remove Jonathan’s hand from the bread. His grip wasn’t tight, but it was firm and Jonathan’s brain almost stuttered, but he recognized a tactical maneuver.
He curled his fingers around the morsel. “Still mine.”
“Is it though?” Connor leaned forward, pressing his weight onto the edge of the table until it shifted, his eyes locked on Jonathan’s. “Can you stop me from taking it?”
“I can and I will. I intend to use it for the rest of the sauce.”
“So do I.”
Jonathan’s heart was pounding, whether because of the banter and hand locked around his wrist, or the fizz from Connor clearly saying he was versatile, or the way Connor let his eyelids close slightly and licked his lips, he didn’t know.
They stared at each other, letting the silence stretch until Jonathan felt the urge to giggle.
“We are learning something about each other right now this moment.”
Connor’s lips twitched, then he nodded. “We are.”
“You are trying to use your size to intimidate me, Connor, and I don’t like that.”
Connor jerked back. “Oh shit, I’m sorry.”
“Ha!” The bread was in his hand and on his side of the table immediately.
Connor glared. “You sly fucker.”
Jonathan made a tsking sound while he tore the piece in half and swiped the soft end through the remainder of the creamy sauce, then popped it in his mouth. “However will you shut me up, I can’t imagine.”
“You…” Connor squirmed as he let the sentence drop. The air between them felt as hot as the glow from the stone-fired oven in the wall.
Jonathan swiped the second half through the last bits of decadent cream sauce and raised it toward Connor. “I can play nice. For the right incentives.”
Connor’s lips parted and he leaned forward.
“I am not a mommy bird. Feed yourself.”
“Oops,” Connor grinned and reached for the piece.
The small movements it took for him to pinch the edge of crust between his finger and thumb and then lift it to his mouth should be forgettable, peripheral.
He should be able to look away from Connor’s hand.
He knew staring at another man chewing was making things awkward, but that damn fluffy hair and those wrists had wiped his brain as clean as the appetizer plate.
“Sir, your main courses.” Saved by the server.