Chapter 25
Sam obviously felt confused, and probably nervous.
That seemed all right to Ian, because he himself definitely was feeling confused and maybe a little bit .
. . agitated. He didn’t really know what to do here.
How much emotional connection was too much?
How much of this stuff indicated more feeling than he really had for Sam?
By the way, how do you feel about Sam?
He nearly groaned. Now was so not the time to try to figure that out, not while they were waiting for his name to be called at this restaurant Andy had recommended.
She’d said her brother Dalton’s “more upscale” dates took him here.
Ian could totally see some forty-year-old guy taking Andy’s twenty-something brother to wine and dine here, thinking he’d get a superlative blowjob for his trouble and all the dough he dropped at dinner.
Not that Ian actually thought that way about Dalton, but this place had that vibe.
Jesus, why had he thought this was a good idea?
So he sort of needed to make up for not calling when he’d actually meant to and really did want to see Sam again.
But this place? White tablecloths and reservations and freaking candlelit tables?
What did Sam think it meant? Ian’s chest started to tighten up.
He shifted in his chair, trying to get more comfortable in the over-lit waiting area.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sam picking at his fingernails.
He put his hand over Sam’s to get him to stop.
Sam flinched when he touched him, his head hitting the back of his chair.
A snort of laughter escaped Ian before he could smother it, and when he looked at Sam he could see his cheeks going from too pale to too pink.
“Are you nervous?” Ian asked. Thank fuck he wasn’t the only one.
Sam shook his head no, still looking at his hands. Then he slowly started nodding yes.
“Why?”
Sam glanced at him, then looked away. “No one’s ever taken me on a date like this.”
“No one’s ever taken you on a date?” His voice rose, and Sam’s cheeks flushed darker.
“Of course I’ve been on dates,” he hissed. “Just not to a place with white tablecloths and candlelight, that’s all. And we’re wearing jeans.”
“Hell, most of the guys here are wearing jeans. The only people dressed up are the waiters.” And the chicken hawks. Ian had intended to bluff his way through this, but if Sam could be honest, so could he. “I’ve never taken a date to a place like this.” He’d barely had any dates, with guys at least.
The look on Sam’s face was worth every honest syllable. “You haven’t?” he asked. “I’m it?”
Oh Jesus, now Ian felt himself blushing. He cleared his throat but met Sam’s eyes. “Yeah. You’re it.” Sam ducked his head again, looking still pink and maybe embarrassed, but for a different reason, Ian hoped.
Or wait, did he? Hell.
They were seated before Sam spoke again. “So, you’ve never been here before?”
Ian studied his menu, seeing nothing. “Nope.”
Unfortunately, Sam continued his line of questioning. Ian tried not to squirm. “How did you find it?”
Ian sighed and put down his menu. “I asked Andy—my assistant, remember?” Sam nodded. “I asked her if there was a place in town where I could take you and not be, um, conspicuous.”
“Conspicuous,” Sam repeated flatly.
Hell, had he fucked up somehow? “Yeah. Stick out, you know.”
“I know what it means.” He didn’t snap it out, so maybe Ian hadn’t screwed up. “How would your assistant know where two guys might want to go on a date?”
Ian picked up his menu again, but couldn’t really concentrate on it yet. “Her little brother’s gay. She said some of his dates have taken him here.”
When he peeked over the top of his menu, he could see Sam’s mouth forming a silent “oh” while he looked around curiously. Ian smiled to himself and finally managed to read his menu.
“They have coquilles Saint Jacques,” he said, surprised.
“Scallops? You like scallops?” Sam looked at him strangely.
“Yeah.”
Sam kept staring at him. “You know, you aren’t really what you seemed at first,” he finally said. “I thought you’d be this working-class guy who drinks beer and watches ESPN2 hoping women’s gymnastics is on. But you’re into guys and you can say coquilles Saint Jacques with a quasi-French accent.”
Ian smirked. “I like beer and gymnastics, but I’m hoping the men’s team is competing.”
Sam cocked his head. “To be the director of a department at a state agency, don’t you need to have a degree? I know you said something about college . . .”
Ian gave him a look. “Seriously? You think most guys who’re firefighters never went to school, don’t you?
Firefighting’s competitive—most people have at least a two-year degree in Fire Science.
” He looked back at his menu. “I got a bachelor’s in chemistry before I became a paramedic.
” When he glanced up from under his brows, Sam had that silent “oh” on his lips again.
Hell. “And I finished up my master’s in public administration while I was recovering from the accident,” he said.
Sam’s eyebrows flew up, though he didn’t look surprised exactly—he looked smug. Ian felt Sam’s foot nudge his calf under the table. “You got yourself some book learnin’, huh?”
Ian laughed loudly enough that people nearby looked at him, but what the hell? Sam was cute.
After telling Ian he’d decided on the cedar-plank salmon, Sam leaned over the table to whisper, “Did you notice the kinds of guys that are in here?”
He looked around. There was the odd male-female pairing, but mostly he saw guys. Usually two to a table, mostly on dates as far as he could see. “Gay guys?” he whispered back.
Sam kicked him lightly in the shin, scowling playfully. “I mean what type of gay guys.”
Ian looked again. He couldn’t suppress the smirk. Definitely a few older guys with very young dates. “Looks like chicken is the house specialty.”
Sam nearly snorted out the water he was drinking. He kicked Ian again while laughing. “Does that mean I’m your boy?”
Yes. “No.” Ian smirked. “I should have asked Dalton where to take you myself,” he continued, “but he won’t start work until next week. I have a feeling his take on this place would be different than Andy’s.”
“He’s working for you?”
Ian nodded. “Just hired him yesterday. He’s a nice kid. More your type than I am.” He folded his menu and let his eyes wander around the room.
“What do you mean?” Sam asked. Fortunately, their waiter showed up to take their orders before Ian had to answer.
After that, Ian got him to talk about what he read.
It was supposed to be a simple, polite question, because he wasn’t really into reading—Ian read when he had to, and otherwise didn’t—but Sam was full of surprises.
“You read romance novels?”
Sam lifted his chin and took a turn looking around the room. “Yes,” he answered firmly. “I do.”
“So . . . gay romance novels?” Were there gay romance novels?
Sam fiddled with the wine he’d ordered, twirling the glass in slow circles on the tablecloth. “Yes, and het ones.”
“Het like heterosexual?” Ian was trying not to smile. He’d been getting used to thinking of Sam as cute, but this was a whole new level of cuteness.
“Yeah, like heterosexual.”
Their salads came, so Ian let Sam have a breather, but he had no intention of letting him off the hook.
“So, reading romance novels, this helps you with your writing?” Ian asked as soon as the waiter had ground their pepper and otherwise made himself necessary, then left.
Sam sighed and put his fork down, biting his lip. “No. I just like to read them. If anything, they keep me from writing.”
“So that’s not what you want to write?”
Sam shrugged one shoulder and took a sip of wine. Ian had a drink of some beer, thinking. “I know you’re getting something out of it,” he finally said. “You like them, but you also . . . study them, right?”
Sam gaped at him. “How’d you know that?”
Ian smiled instead of answering. He didn’t know how he knew, he just did.
Sam took a deep breath. “Well . . .” He paused, inspecting Ian, probably to see if he really cared.
Shockingly, Ian did. He tried to look interested and encouraging, but since he’d never tried either of those expressions before, he had no clue if it worked. Something did, though.
“It’s like, in romance novels, you always have two plots. There’s the relationship plotline, and then there’s a second story arc, you know?” Sam looked at him.
Ian nodded, just as if he did actually know. Hell, this showing interest thing was easy.
“Pretty much, you always know what’s going to happen in the relationship plotline. But the oth—”
“Wait, if you know what’s going to happen, why read it?’
Sam shrugged. “To find out how it happens.”
“I don’t get it.” Ian picked up his beer again and took a drink. “Who cares how it happens? It happens; that’s it. Knowing ruins the ending.” Sam looked downright affronted. Ian had to hide his smile by taking another sip.
“Oh, that’s so sad,” Sam said, shaking his head. Ian waited for him to say what was so sad, but he sighed and looked down at his salad, carefully selecting his next bite.
“Fine, I’ll ask. What’s so sad?”
Sam looked at him with wide eyes. “You’re one of those people who don’t enjoy life, aren’t you?
You just work toward the next goal you set for yourself, never thinking about how you get there, only satisfied by reaching it.
And when you don’t reach it, you feel a sense of failure, right?
Oh Ian, that explains so much about you. ”
What? He could only stare.
Sam burst out laughing, and it took Ian a few seconds to put it all together. Sam was giving him shit. That was just . . . beyond cute. It was darling.
“Oh my God,” he muttered, dropping his head in his palm. Darling. This was way out of hand. Next thing he knew, he’d be calling Sam “kitten” or something. It was enough to put him off his salad. But he found himself smiling by the time Sam sputtered to a grinning stop.
They argued about whether knowing the ending of the story ruined it or not right through dessert.
Sam tried to relate it to rugby, but since he didn’t know anything about the sport—and Ian refused to help him—he ended up saying only, “You don’t just play the game to win, right? You also play to play.”
Which made total sense, but Ian refused to admit it. He couldn’t kill his grin though, even as he argued right up until Sam gave in, throwing a piece of bread at Ian and then blushing furiously, looking around to see if anyone had seen.
It was so cute, Ian laughed. Fuck it, Sam was darling. That didn’t mean anyone had to know Ian thought that. As long as he never slipped and used the name—or any other similar term of endearment—he’d be golden.
“Okay, kiddo, you ready to get out of here?”
Sam smiled up at him. “Thank you.” Then he stood, giving Ian a few necessary seconds to recover from the wattage of the kid’s gratitude.
Weird how, on a real date, all he really needed to get out of it was making Sam happy.