A new bridge. Shit, that was sad. I had been kind of hoping to cross that old bridge again, Khalid’s strong hands guiding me across. He placed the coffee and baked goods to the round metal table, and then his eyes met mine. This was so awkward. I’d fantasized about throwing myself at him, his mouth crushing against mine, the kiss so demanding and so arousing that we’d then end up in bed, fucking like wild rabbits. I mean, I’d seen that happen in a movie I’d stumbled upon on Netflix. Of course, since it was a gay movie, the men ended up apart because one was secretly married, which would tend to put a damper on the reconciliation. Seems gay men in film were destined to be unhappy so maybe I shouldn’t be patterning this delicate visit on some late-night, wine-induced film binge.

  “I’m not still married,” I told him then cursed myself for being a dunderhead. He quirked an eyebrow. “You look amazing. Just like you did ten years ago but better.”

  “The sun must be in your eyes,” he teased, both of us seemingly riveted to the ground.

  “Actually, no, the sun is on the back of my head.”

  “Well, then all that time at the keyboard has impaired your vision. My hairline is giving me the shits. Another five years I’ll be half bald like Dad was.”

  Okay yes, that high brow of his was a tad higher, but it worked for him. “It suits you. Such a regal brow, like a Persian prince.”

  That made him snort laugh. “You always did know how to align your words for maximum impact. You’re just as I remember.”

  “Uhm no, not even close.” I took a step forward while poking at my stomach. “I’ve got the dreaded author paunch starting even though I walk every day. And I drink too much wine. I cuss a lot as well. I also masturbate far more than I probably should. Fuck. That was not supposed to come out.” Heat raced to my face.

  “Ah well, in my eyes you’re still beautiful.” He smiled then walked right up to me, opened his arms, and drew me to his chest. Feeling him pressed to me was like falling into a memory. I slid my arms around his waist, closed my eyes, and breathed in Khalid.

  “You don’t smell like chlorine anymore,” I commented beside his ear, sad beyond measure when he slowly drew away.

  “No, my time at the pool is limited to doing laps after morning prayers if I can wiggle it in. Place is a bloody madhouse.” He patted my biceps, his smile bright but guarded. “Let’s grab a Danish and drink this coffee before my phone rings with some sort of emergency or another.”

  The metal chair was cool on the back of my legs. He handed me a coffee and a raspberry Danish which I devoured like a hyena as he sipped and watched.

  “They’re quite good, aren’t they?” he asked when I was wiping frosting from my lips with a cloth napkin, also deepest green like his shirt.

  “They’re okay.” I washed the first Danish down with some amazingly tasty coffee.

  “Just okay? Our bakery chef will be devastated.” He studied me over his steaming cup, the sounds of creek and kids shouting as they raced past the front of the cabins easing me out of some of my tension.

  “Well, in all fairness, I live in Paris. And those walks I take?” He nodded when I peeked up from nabbing a second Danish from the bag. “They’re to the corner every morning for fresh eclairs, brioche, mille-feuille, or baba au rhum.”

  “Ah, well, who are we to think we can compare to French anything?”

  Ouch. Well, okay, that snipe hit the mark. “Do you have something against France?”

  Khalid wrinkled his nose, an action that I still found enchanting, and sighed as if the weight of the world rested on his broad shoulders.

  “Actually, I’ve never been there.” He glanced from me to the trees behind me, or perhaps the tennis courts that were packed with guests in startling white shorts and skirts. “I think I’ve just come to hate the country because I equate it with losing you.”

  “Oh.”

  His attention fell back to me, my face, my lips in particular. “It’s foolish, I know, but whenever I think of France, all I can hear is your husband’s—”

  “Ex-husband,” I was quick to interject.

  “Right, yeah, your ex-husband’s stupid French accent telling me that you were in his bed, and perhaps it would be best for me, the bad boyfriend who does not love you as he does, to stop calling. Then he went on to tell me all he planned to do to you once he won you from me.”

  My mouth fell open. Khalid stared at me openly.

  “I did not know he said all that to you.” He lowered his eyes for a moment. I leaned up in my chair, the metal creaking a bit which brought his sight back to me. “Khalid, I swear to you that we hadn’t done a thing. I’d gotten drunk, which seems to be my default setting when I’m upset so maybe I should work on that, but I wasn’t that shitfaced that I didn’t know what I was doing. We did not have sex. Not for a month after you broke up with me. I need you to hear me and believe me when I say that.”

  “I do.” Now it was my turn to arch an eyebrow. “No, I do. Honestly, I do. Now. For years I didn’t but now that we’ve started talking again, I do. Still hate France though.”

  I gave him a crooked smile, hoping it was so amiable he’d have to drop the hate. “Maybe you should come visit me sometime. Trust me, Paris is beautiful and loving, filled with good people who are accepting and gracious and a bit surly at times but that snap to their personalities just adds to their appeal.”

  “I think I’ll pass. Not sure I could get past the accent, which even you have a bit of now.” He continued to stare at me from behind his coffee.

  “Do I? Is it appealing?” I blinked at my stupid attempt to lighten the mood. “Don’t answer that. I was trying to be coy or something, but it just sounds horrid when it flops out of my mouth like a dead bird.”

  “You do have a way with words.” He snorted, the fine lines at the corners of his dark brown eyes crinkling. Jesus wept the man was so fine. “I’ve read your books. The picture on the back cover? Not your most flattering look.”

  “It’s the beard, right?” He nodded then, finally, lowered his coffee. “My sister-in-law told me it was scraggly and made me look old. I thought it was rather dashing in a Walt Whitman kind of way.”

  That made him laugh. Oh, rapturous day! That deep, pure laugh of his was truly one of the most beautiful sounds to ever tickle my ears.

  “Well, if you were aspiring to look like Whitman you were well on the way. I like you cleanshaven much better. It allows your cute chin to be seen.”

  I sat back in my chair, the rounded metal back making a soft grating noise as my weight settled against it. This sudden leaping back and forth from simmering anger to playful flirting was giving me whiplash, and a small stress headache.

  “What are we doing here?” I bluntly asked. His eyebrows lowered a bit. “Are you trying to give me a brain bleed from the sudden sharp veers from flirtatious to hate that this conversation is taking?”

  He frowned a bit deeper, bit down on his lower lip, and then exhaled, his fingertips resting on his cup of coffee.

  “I have been flipping a bit, haven’t I?”

  “Just a little.” I pinched some air between my thumb and forefinger, my second Danish sitting on a napkin still uneaten but drawing the attention of a honey bee. I waved a hand at the bee then tore a chunk off and popped it into my mouth. “Maybe coming here was a bad idea…” I murmured after I swallowed.

  “No. It’s me. I’m all over the place mentally.” He leaned into the table, his chest moving it an inch or so, the grating sound of steel legs on flat stones unpleasant in comparison to the soft bird song and gentle flow of water. He reached for my hand when I went to rip off another bite of Danish before the honey bee laid claim to it. “You coming here has just…it’s knocked me off my pins a bit is all and not all in a bad way.”

  His fingers slipped in between mine. The bee buzzed around the table, I could hear him, but Khalid’s eyes held mine tightly. We sat there, my hand in his, a bee on a mission buzzing around the table, lost in each other’s eyes.

  “I’ve never been the word wizard you are,” he said, his voice now lower and peppered with feeling. “I look at you and there are so many things I want to say—need to say—and yet when they hit my mouth they knot up somehow. Then they come out tinged with anger that I have no right feeling because I pushed you away.”

  I shook my head, ready to counter his words with my own admission of guilt, but he pressed on, not allowing me to bicker with him.

  “No, I did. I prayed and asked for guidance…for a clear vision of my past deeds, one free from the jealousy and hate that had been driving me.” He tightened his hold on my hand slightly. “When I finally opened my heart to your side of things…when I stopped being petty and righteous because Allah knows Khalid Novak never did anything wrong in his entire life, I began to see your truth, and it shamed me.”

  “Khalid, I was wrong too,” I whispered, unable to speak more boldly with my throat constricting as it was.

  He smiled sadly, his fingers still resting between mine. “We were young, Dane. We thought only of ourselves as youth does. Now that we’re older and, I hope, wiser.” I gave him a shaky smile. “Maybe we can get past the hurt and possibly find a new us among the ashes.”

  “And you say you’re not good with words. I’d love to find a new us. A stronger one, a more mature one.” I squeezed his fingers and felt a lightness enter me.

  He opened his mouth to speak only to be cut off by a phone ringing in his pocket. “This phone,” he growled, pulled it out of his back pocket and pretended to throw it into the creek. I chuckled lightly and released his hand so he could take the call. The bee had found his way to the Danish, so I sat there, humming internally as if someone had struck a tuning fork inside me, and watched the worker bee enjoying the bounty he’d discovered.

  “Yes, fine, give me five minutes.” I glanced up from the bee to Khalid. His lips were paper cut thin. “I hoped to get more time with you, but the weekly produce order came in and there’s no lettuce, so I have to call the produce delivery company and be mean to them.”

  “Go, fix the lettuce problem. We can talk later.” I sat back as he slowly rose, his phone still in his hand.

  “I’m done at five. Why don’t I come fetch you, and we can go to dinner in town? I can show you my house while we’re in Silver Fir. It’s not a musty Parisian chalet, but it’s cozy and all mine, well, all mine in twenty-five years when I pay off the mortgage.”

  “You have a house in Silver Fir?” He bobbed his head then slid his phone back into his pocket. “I would love to see your house. Maybe we can grab a pizza over in Poplar View and take it to your place. If that pizzeria is even still there.”

  “Oh, it’s still there. I’d love that. Be ready to roll at five minutes after five.” He was on the cusp of reaching for my face, but his hand dropped back to his side. “It really is wonderful having you here, Dane.”

  I blushed a little and smiled a lot. Watching him walk off was enjoyable. His ass was still high and firm, his legs long, and his walk masculine. I had to push the heel of my hand against my half-hard dick to be able to sit comfortably. I let the bee have the Danish and moved inside after my erection went away, to find my laptop and the bright purple flash drive that I’d thrown into my bag. My feet were chilly from the damp patio stones, so I pawed around for socks but found none.

  “Great, so you brought your laptop and this stupid flash,” I shook the drive at my own nose, “but not socks. Christ, Dane, you are such an author.”

  Hopefully, I packed underwear. Oh good. I had. Two pairs and one I was wearing. Shaking my head at myself, I went back outside in my sandals, grabbed my coffee before the bee laid claim to that too, and pulled a chair from the patio set to the edge of the creek bank. There beside Cranberry Creek I opened up the dusty file containing the love story of Odom Knight and Cyran Aradi. Also starring Dale, the trusty mulish sidekick. I blinked at the mule’s name.

  “Huh, that’s awfully similar to your name, Dane. Do you think you’re a jackass?” I enquired of myself.

  Judging by some of my past romantic decisions, yes, I was a much bigger jackass than Dale could ever hope to be.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Khalid’s home was lovely. Nothing too big, but not too small. A modest ranch house with two bedrooms and one and a half baths. He’d decorated it well, not at all flashy, but it was kitted out and homey. It sat at the far end of Silver Fir, the last home on a small side street, with a big yard that ended with Cranberry Creek cutting through the property. On the other side of the creek was a thick patch of woods that seemed to be the breeding grounds of a thousand fireflies. The glowing little insects broiled out of the woods as darkness enveloped the yard. Khalid and I were sitting at his picnic table, a sturdy redwood one with room for eight adults. The pizza had been devoured and we were now sipping wine, talking about our careers and enjoying the dancing flames of a dozen citronella candles placed at various locations on his massive back porch. Music played inside, some of his playlists as there was no DJ chatter or commercials. The chosen tunes were perfect for the night, mellow songs that spanned the past twenty or so years.

  “Why does a single man need this big of a table…or porch for that matter?” I asked, after my second glass of a feisty little rosé we’d grabbed at the liquor store in Poplar View.

  “Someday I hope to have a family here.”

  Ah. Well, sure he did. That was a subject best left for another day and time. “Do you miss having siblings?”

  He ran his finger around the edge of his wine glass, his face stunning and raw in the candlelight.

  “Sometimes, yes. After Dad died, and it was just me there to take care of Mum, I wished I’d been blessed with a brother or sister to help with the burden, but you know what they say about beggars and wishes.”

  “There’s a horse in there somewhere, but yes, I know what you’re saying.” I turned on the hard bench to gaze on the million flickering lights filling his backyard. “I can loan you a younger brother whenever you want. He comes with a wife now but he’s a good man if you can get past his snoring and the way he eats spaghetti.”

  “Is he a cutter?”

  “Yes. It’s so shameful. I’ve tried to stop him from cutting his spaghetti. My mother has done her best to teach him to twirl. My father even tells him that only poofs twirl.” And wow, that came out of nowhere and knocked all the wind out of my sails. “Shit.”

  A moment passed as Khalid let me work it out. “Are you and your father still not talking?”

  “He talks, a bit, when he has to. But meaningful conversation? Nope. He sure does love James though. The good son, you know, straight and all.” I closed my eyes for a moment. This was not how this night was supposed to go. It was supposed to be about good times. Khalid rose from his spot across from me and circled the table to sit beside me. He looped an arm around my neck and my head just kind of gravitated to his shoulder. “Sometimes, at book signings or those stupid little parties publishers put on, I tell people who ask that yes, my parents are quite proud of me. It’s a rancid tasting lie.”

  “Your mum is, right?” His fingers held my bicep firmly. I nodded and let his strength soak into me. “Then it’s not a lie, not really. Just drop that pesky ‘S’ from parents and you’ll be golden. Not like you Americans aren’t always dropping letters where they’re needed.”

  “Said by a Brit who feels the need to shove a ‘U’ into words that are perfectly happy without a ‘U’ in them.”

  He tugged on my arm, bouncing me lightly off his side, and the dark moment lifted from the patio. I opened my eyes and let the cricket call and frog song seep into me.

  “Your mother remarried. Is she happy?” I asked, his arm still resting on my shoulder.

  “Quite happy, yeah. He’s a good man. She met him at a fundraiser at the mosque. They dated for over a year and then he asked her to marry him. I like him. Nice fellow who laughs a lot and has no issue with me being gay.”

  “That’s great. Does your grandfather like him?”

  “He passed away six years ago.”

  “Ah damn, I’m sorry.” I lifted my head from his shoulder and tried to make out his expression, but the candlelight was too faint now.

  “No need to be. He was a bitter and hateful man who used his religion to batter people he didn’t like.” He shifted a bit on the bench, his nose now a few inches from mine. “Kind of like your father in that regard.”

  “My father lost his shit when I married René. I mean he went off the deep end.” He nodded silently and looked from me to the darkened yard. I winced internally for bringing up my ex. “I know it hurts you to hear me say his name, but he was a part of my life for years. Some of that time was actually lovely, and some was horrible. I can’t just pretend he never happened.”

  “No, I understand and I’m trying not to throw up in my mouth whenever he comes up.”

  That made me chortle a bit. “Yeah, I kind of have that same reaction now too.”

  Khalid shot to his feet, kicked off his floppy leather sandals, and offered me his hand. “Let’s dance.”

  “Uh, okay.” I stood up and toed off my dorky black espadrilles. I slid my palm over his. The grass was cool and dewy, dampening my soles and toes quickly. A mosquito whined past my right ear. We walked until we were about ten feet from the creek and then he turned to me.

  “Who leads?”

  “You.” I placed a hand to his hip and stepped into him so close I could feel the heat of his body and smell the traces of a crisp cologne he’d applied after his morning shower. It was a much nicer smell than chlorine. He moved effortlessly, his body picking up the slow beat, and I followed, the night laying heavy around us, this part of the yard on the fringes of being utter darkness, the candlelight weak here and the moon just a sliver in the velveteen sky. “This reminds me of when you’d slow dance me across the bridge.”

  “Mm, yeah, me too a bit. We were humming Purple Cows music then, not Coldplay’s “In My Place”.”