Chapter 28
Ian had a waking snuggly episode on Saturday—as opposed to his sleeping ones, which he apparently had no clue about.
Even more shocking for Sam, when he got snuggly, he also got chatty.
Not just the short flashes of talkative he’d shown before, but chatty—playful and teasing and flirtatious.
A little like dinner last night, but with full-body contact.
At first, Sam was concerned that Ian had some previously unmentioned mental health issue, like maybe multiple personality disorder.
But by the time Sam had spent an hour lying on the couch, wrapped in Ian’s arms while Ian ruffled his hair and dropped periodic kisses on some sensitive, exposed bit of skin, Sam decided that if Ian’s mental illness was his cross to bear, he’d do it gladly.
He would make the sacrifice and be held until he almost overheated, and listen to that intimate voice that went soft and hoarse.
The voice that more often than not was speaking directly into Sam’s ear, about anything and everything that popped into Ian’s head.
He happily suffered Ian’s kisses behind his jaw and down his neck, the ones that made him shiver but didn’t seem to be designed to turn him on.
It was during the snuggly attack that Sam first allowed himself to think he just might be getting it. The romance hero gold standard: a perfect love with his personal prince charming. After a suitable wooing period, of course.
About an hour into his episode, Ian turned his head to look into Sam’s eyes, so close Sam could barely focus on him. “What was it like, coming out to your family?”
Sam blinked. “I never came out to my family.”
Ian pulled away and peered at him more intently. “They don’t know?”
“Of course they know! Sheesh. I mean I never had to tell anyone. It was sort of just . . . general knowledge.” Sam thought about it while Ian laid his head back on the pillow they were sharing and nuzzled at his cheek. “Well, I guess I told my grandma.”
“What did she say?” Ian murmured.
“I got to the part where I was telling her, ‘Grandma, I like boys,’ but she interrupted me and said, ‘What kind of fool do you think I am? We had fancy boys back in my day. I know one when I see one.’”
Ian laughed so hard Sam was torn between squirming pleasure at having amused him and indignation at being the subject of his laughter. Squirming pleasure won when Ian wrapped his arm tighter around Sam and squeezed him against his chest, saying into his ear, “You’re so cute.”
Sam was a fool for cute.
Ian suddenly pulled back again and gripped Sam’s chin in his fingers. “Let’s get out of here and go do something.”
Ian’s idea of “getting out of here” was going to the farmers’ market on the riverfront and buying vegetable matter.
It was strangely domestic in a way that should have been boring or disappointing but gave Sam a secret thrill instead.
Which led to him mostly trying not to overthink what it meant that Ian wanted to shop for food with him.
To think or not to think, that was the question.
Come to think of it, the real problem was just overthinking.
I think.
Possibly he should stop thinking about it now. He looked down at the shopping bag he was holding. It didn’t offer much in the way of alternative topics for thought.
We’re playing house.
No you aren’t, he just needed to go shopping.
Seriously, don’t ruin this for me. Let’s play house.
He sighed in resignation.
“What are you thinking about?” Ian asked him suddenly. He held apples in his hands—judging the merits of different varieties? Sam didn’t know; he’d been too busy playing house with himself to pay attention.
“Nothing,” he squeaked when Ian stared at him.
“Huh. Looks like you’re so busy thinking about nothing you can’t give me your opinion on apples.”
“The red ones are better,” Sam said hastily.
Ian looked down at the fruit in his hands. “They’re both red.”
“No, that one’s red,” Sam waved his hand at the right apple, “and that one’s green with red splotches.”
Ian grunted curiously, like a caveman who’d just discovered the wheel. He started to put down the red and green apple.
“Wait!” Sam said. “The red and green ones are better. The all-red are too sweet.”
Ian scrunched his brow. “Then why’d you say the red one?”
Dammit, he’d been found out. “I wasn’t paying attention,” he mumbled.
Ian smirked at him. “I knew you were thinking about something else.” He looked Sam up and down slowly, making it clear exactly what he thought Sam had been distracted by.
Dammit. Now Sam was thinking about sex. He frowned at Ian in what he hoped was a quelling manner.
Ian grinned at him and waggled his eyebrows. Sam had always thought waggling eyebrows was sort of lame and dorky, but somehow Ian made even that look like sex. When he couldn’t squelch a tiny grin, Ian seemed satisfied, finally turning back to his apples.
Oh God, how sweet, he’s indulging in unspoken flirtation with me. As if they had real intimacy and a history. A history longer than a couple of weeks.
Sam was so far gone. This had better turn out all right or his damn heart was going to hemorrhage. Don’t think about it. “Why are we doing this again?” he asked quickly.
Ian made a face, digging out his wallet to pay. He handed the fruit to the stand attendant for weighing. “Because I promised myself I’d stay healthy and eat better.”
“That’s three fifty-eight,” the girl running the scale said.
For four apples? Sam was about to ask her if she’d maybe made a mistake on her big, huge calculator with the big, huge buttons when Ian muttered, “Damn organic fruit.”
“Whoa, you’re really trying to eat better.” He almost poked Ian in his nonexistent gut, but he still hadn’t figured out if touching was okay in public and if so, how much.
Ian’s teeth flashed in a quick smile while he dug through his wallet. “Yeah, well don’t do it if you aren’t going to do it right.” From where he stood, Sam could see the corner of his eye crinkling in little laugh lines he’d never noticed before. Oh, and an elusive dimple.
Sheesh, that was sexier than the eyebrow waggling.
At the exotic fruit stand—did they fly it in from some small Hawaiian farm to this little, local farmers’ market?
It was messing with his definition of “local”—Sam was looking at pineapples when he felt Ian just behind his shoulder.
Ian’s hip nudged Sam’s ass, and his hand landed on Sam’s biceps, then made a slow trip down his arm, his thumb tickling Sam’s palm for a split-second before he whispered throatily in Sam’s ear, “Why don’t you let me carry that bag? ”
Apparently, covert touching was okay. Sam heartily supported that.
At the weird knickknacky stand that sold just .
. . stuff, Ian cornered him in the back of the stall, behind some kind of concealing sculptural object.
He placed a hand on the small of Sam’s back, slipping a couple fingers into his waistband and teasing the skin just above the crack of his ass.
“What do you think of that?” he asked Sam in a low voice, breath brushing the nape of his neck.
Sam tried to focus on some strange sculptural thing. “What is it?” It was made out of cut-up plastic soda bottles. Maybe.
“I don’t know,” Ian murmured, leaning in close enough to nip his skin. “Does it matter?”
“No,” Sam whispered, trying not to melt.
Ian chuckled and withdrew his hand, leaving Sam feeling flushed and dizzy.
Guh. Who knew shopping could be foreplay?
By the time they were done buying all of Ian’s fruits and vegetables (how many could he eat in a week?), Sam was abuzz.
Drunk on Ian and on being with Ian in public—a straight-people-abound public—and on being touched by Ian.
His skin was fairly humming with the possibility of being touched more—their little gay sex secret, surrounded by all those ignorant straight people.
It was possibly pathetic, but he’d never been on this kind of date.
He and his first boyfriend Bryce had dated much like prey animals on the African savannah must—amidst a vast herd of their kind, hoping the cheetahs would find someone weaker to pick on.
They’d never ventured out to the waterhole alone.
Marley had never taken him on a date, or vice versa.
Unless visiting Marley’s pot dealer counted as a date.
That guy was straight, and as far as Sam could figure, 90 percent of his clientele was equally hetero.
Not that he’d gone there with Marley much, just a couple of times in the beginning.
Marley had called him a “drag” because he wouldn’t smoke up with them, and he never wanted to hang out.
Sam hadn’t understood why they needed to hang out and offer to smoke some of the marijuana with the dealer from whom Marley had just bought it.
That question had earned him a lecture on the etiquette of buying drugs. That had been Sam’s last trip to the dealer’s house.
An errant Frisbee hit Sam in the chest, bringing him back to the present with Ian. It dropped onto the path at his feet, and Ian laughed.
“Still thinking about nothing?” he teased, bending to pick up the Frisbee. Sam watched his shirt ride up just enough to show a brief slice of skin. Yummy.
Focus. “That thing just hit me,” Sam said, tuning in to what was going on outside of Ian’s pants.
Ian stood up, smiling. “Yeah, it did, kiddo. I better figure out who this belongs to. You want to keep heading back to the truck, and I’ll catch up?”
They were standing in the middle of the walking path, a large sloping stretch of grass to their right and the river to their left. It was a nice day, so people were around, but not too many. “I’ll wait,” Sam said.
Ian nodded, looking uphill at a guy jogging toward them. “That must be the owner of the Frisbee, anyway.” The dude had on sandals and shorts, and a dog with a bandana around its neck trotted in front of him. Your standard Frisbee-playing neo-hippie.
“Hey, you wanna play, man?” he yelled at Ian.