Chapter 3
PASCAL
I’d never been a fast dresser, usually changing my mind a few times before settling on an outfit. But two hours was excessive, even for me. My bed was covered in shirts, pants, ties—even some bow ties—and a glittery top I’d bought for one crazy Halloween party ages ago.
In the end, I settled on something simple but elegant: a dark-blue polo shirt and a pair of cream-colored skinny pants that made my legs look longer—or so I liked to tell myself. No pants in the world could make me tall, but I needed the illusion. Thank you very much.
The doorbell rang exactly at noon. Of course Stanton would be punctual.
Mr. Dowdell answered the door. He insisted on doing that, saying it was proper etiquette, despite my protests that I was thirty-four, not sixteen.
The man was eighty-one and fit as a fiddle.
But his house was too big for him, so he rented out the second floor, which was my domain.
I loved staying with him, and it was a win-win for both of us since I’d never be able to afford a house on my salary.
“You must be Stanton.” I heard my landlord’s gravelly voice from the hallway. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Oh god. I rushed down the stairs, nearly tripping over my own feet. “Mr. Dowdell!”
But Stanton laughed, that rich sound making my insides melt. “All good things, I hope?”
He looked incredible in dark jeans and a red button-down that showed off his broad shoulders. The silver in his beard caught the light, and those laugh lines around his eyes deepened as he smiled at me.
“You look great,” he said.
I had to swallow before I could answer him. “Thanks. You too.”
Mr. Dowdell cleared his throat. “Have him home by midnight, young man.”
“Mr. Dowdell!” I squeaked. Gosh, he could be so cheeky.
But Stanton played along perfectly. “Yes, sir. I’ll take good care of him.”
My landlord winked at me. “Have fun, boys.”
I followed Stanton to his truck, a new-looking massive Ford F-250 with a backseat. He opened the passenger door for me, and I had to hop up to get in. Thank goodness for the running boards, or I would’ve made a complete fool of myself.
“It’ll take us an hour and fifteen minutes, based on the current traffic, but we’ll see,” he said as he got in. “I brought snacks in case you need them. They’re diabetes-friendly. My sister-in-law recommended them.”
My heart melted at his thoughtfulness. “Thank you. I brought some too.”
“Smart.” He pulled out of the driveway. “I hope you like surprises because I’m not telling you where we’re going.”
“I do, actually. Though now I’m really curious.”
He grinned. “You’ll see.”
We chatted easily during the drive, and I had no trouble relaxing into the conversation.
Stanton told me about the renovations he was doing on his farmhouse, and his enthusiasm was contagious.
“The previous owners let it fall into disrepair through no fault of their own—they were dealing with a severe illness—but the bones are solid. Right now, I’m redoing the kitchen.
You should see the original hardwood floors I found under three layers of linoleum. ”
“That sounds amazing. I love old houses.” I shifted in my seat to face him better. “They have so much character.”
“Exactly. Though sometimes that character comes with a hefty price tag.” He chuckled. “Last week, I discovered the previous owners had done their own electrical work. Let’s just say it wasn’t up to code.”
“Yikes.”
“Yeah. But fixing things up, making them right again… There’s something deeply satisfying about that.”
I loved how his eyes lit up when he talked about his projects. His passion was infectious, and I was interested in seeing this house he was bringing back to life.
When we hit Seattle, I started recognizing landmarks. “Are we going to Pike Place?”
“Nope.” He grinned.
A few minutes later, he parallel-parked on a street lined with historic buildings, and I knew exactly where he was taking me.
I rubbed my hands, an almost giddy excitement filling me. “The Elliott Book Company is my favorite spot in Seattle.”
It was the largest independent bookstore in Seattle, famous for its maze-like layout and incredible selection.
His smile was warm. “I had a feeling you’d like it. But there’s a catch.”
“Oh?”
“We each have a half-hour to find a book for each other. Then we wrap it—they have a wrapping station—and write three clues on the paper. Like a blind date with a book.”
My heart did a happy dance. “That’s such a cool idea!”
“I thought it would be fun to see how well we can guess each other’s taste.” He checked his watch. “Meet you at the info desk in half an hour?”
I nodded eagerly, already eyeing the store’s entrance. “Game on.”
The store was everything a bookstore should be and then some. It housed multiple floors of books connected by creaky wooden staircases, with reading nooks tucked into unexpected corners. The smell of old books and fresh coffee from the in-store café filled the air.
But what to get for Stanton? I wanted something that would show I’d paid attention to our conversations, something meaningful.
As I browsed, I thought about what I knew about him. He was thoughtful and observant. He liked fixing things. He appreciated beauty and history…
That’s when I saw it: a gorgeous paperback movie-edition of Under the Tuscan Sun.
Perfect. It combined everything: renovating an old house, appreciating history and beauty, and starting over in a new place.
Plus, the descriptions of food and wine would appeal to someone who clearly enjoyed the finer things in life.
I loved the book when I first read it, and I had reread it—a rare thing for me and something I only did with books I truly loved.
At the wrapping station, I carefully wrapped the book in brown paper and wrote three clues:
1. Like you, the main character starts over
2. Old houses need love
3. La dolce vita
When we met up again, we both held a wrapped package. His eyes sparkled with excitement. “I see we were both successful?”
I nodded. “Mission accomplished.”
As much as I was looking forward to dinner, I wouldn’t mind spending some more time here as well. It had taken me twenty minutes to find Stanton’s book, which had left only a few minutes for browsing—not nearly enough.
“How about I hold these for now? I promise I won’t peek. That way, you have your hands free to browse some more,” he suggested.
The man certainly knew the right words to woo me. “That sounds perfect.”
We started in the New Arrivals section, chatting as we checked out the titles. “Do you still stay up to date on the news?” I asked as he flipped through Seymour Hersch’s memoir.
“Not as much as I used to, and thank god for that, but it’s a hard habit to break. I love that I have more time to read other things now.”
He ended up buying the memoir, as well as a book on the Vietnam War and one on the Stonewall Riots.
“You’re into history?” I asked as we climbed the creaky stairs to the fiction section.
“Love it. Especially queer history. It’s important to know where we came from, you know? My degree is in history, actually.”
I nodded, watching him trail his fingers along the spines of books as we walked. The way Stanton’s face lit up at certain titles was as adorable as it was recognizable. “What’s your favorite period?”
“The twenties.” He pulled out a book and showed me the cover of The Great Gatsby. “Though this isn’t exactly representative of queer culture back then. Have you read Gay New York by George Chauncey? It’s fascinating.”
“I haven’t, but I’ll add it to my list.”
We spent another hour exploring the store’s nooks and crannies.
I’d never met a man who loved books as much as I did, and it was heaven.
He ended up buying four books for himself.
My stack counted seven books—trust me, that was on the low side for me—but Stanton insisted on paying for me.
I let him, though it did make me wonder.
If he wasn’t working as a reporter anymore, what did he do for a living?
We returned to Stanton’s truck, where he carefully put the books on the backseat. “Ready for dinner? I made reservations at a place that can accommodate your dietary needs.”
He was so thoughtful. If his goal had been to make a good impression, he was more than succeeding. “Thank you.”
He took me to a seafood restaurant with a stunning view of the water.
And he’d been right. Their menu was very accommodating for me, with plenty of options.
I chose a grilled salmon with a double portion of steamed vegetables, foregoing the starchy sides.
Because of that, I allowed myself a glass of white wine.
Stanton ordered a seafood risotto and a nonalcoholic beer, which I appreciated. I’d once had to call a taxi when the man I was out with had insisted he was fine driving after three beers. No, thank you. I had zero desire to play Russian roulette with my life and that of others.
“Time to exchange our books.” Stanton rubbed his hands, and I smiled at his enthusiasm.
I handed him the book I had picked, then studied the clues on mine:
1. Words that changed the world
2. Controversial for its time
3. Beat this!
“Hmm.” I tapped my chin. That last clue had to refer to the Beat generation, the famous literary movement that had started in the forties. “Is it On the Road?”
After all, Jack Kerouac had been its most famous proponent.
“Good guess, but no.”
I tried a few more titles but couldn’t figure it out. When I finally unwrapped it, I gasped. It was a leather-bound collection of Allen Ginsberg’s most famous poems. “Oh my gosh, I love it. This is perfect!”
He smiled almost shyly. “I noticed you have poetry posters hanging in the library…and you have a mug with the Invictus poem on it.”
My heart melted. He’d been paying attention. “Thank you. You really found me the perfect gift.”
I hoped I’d gotten it right as well. Stanton didn’t figure it out based on the clues, but his face lit up when he opened his gift. “Oh, I’ve wanted to read this for a long time. Thank you! It definitely hits the right themes for me.”
We spent the rest of dinner discussing books, renovation projects, and our families. Like me, he had supportive parents and siblings, which I loved for him. The conversation flowed effortlessly, and I was completely captivated by his stories and his genuine interest in mine.
But there was one thing I couldn’t figure out. He’d casually mentioned he was retired, but how was that possible when he was only forty-eight?
“May I ask a rude question?” I asked when we were about ready to leave the restaurant.
“Rude? You? I doubt it.”
I chuckled. “It’s about your retirement.”
His face lit up with understanding. “You’re curious how I managed to retire at my age since reporters aren’t known to make that much money.”
I fiddled with my fingers. “Exactly.”
He covered my hands with his, sending a flash of warmth through me.
“I don’t mind you asking. The truth is that I got incredibly lucky, and I mean stupid luck.
I was experiencing burnout symptoms and questioning my future when I stopped by a bodega around the corner from my paper and, on a whim, bought a lottery ticket.
That wasn’t something I did often, but I did that day…
and I won big time. It allowed me to quit my job, end my lease on my crappy apartment in Brooklyn, and move across the country.
I was looking for something on the West Coast because my family is on this side of the country, and when I came across that farmhouse, I bought it. That’s it.”
Wow. I hadn’t seen that coming. “Good for you. I mean, somebody has to win, so it might as well be you, right?”
“I’m certainly grateful for it. I’m not sure what I would’ve done had I not gotten that windfall.”
On the drive home, we talked about everything and nothing, and I felt a warmth in my chest that had nothing to do with the heater.
When he walked me to my door, I held my breath, hoping he would kiss me. He stepped closer, his hand coming up to cup my cheek. The rough pad of his thumb brushed over my skin, sending shivers down my spine. His blue eyes met mine, asking silent permission. I gave a tiny nod, my heart thundering.
His lips were soft when they touched mine, his beard tickling my skin like a tender caress.
The kiss was gentle, almost reverent, and my fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, wanting to hold on to this moment.
He tasted like the mint he’d had after dinner, and his hand was warm where it rested against my face.
When he pulled back far too soon, the loss of contact left me wanting more.
My lips tingled, and my knees felt weak like every cliché romance novel I’d ever read had suddenly become reality.
“I had a wonderful time,” he said softly.
“Me too.”
“Maybe we could do it again?”
“I’d love that.”
His smile lit up his face, and that sudden weakness in my knees returned with a vengeance. He was turning me into a blushing maiden, and even crazier was that I didn’t mind.
“I’ll call you…or text you,” he said.
“Looking forward to it…and to our next date.”
I meant every word. I was in trouble with this man in the best kind of way.