by Tara Lain
Jim grabbed Ian’s tray and headed for the big, bright kitchen. “I’ve got some great tapioca pudding for dessert. Settle down and watch a movie with us.”
Ken picked up the remote. “How about Flower Drum Song?”
Ian dropped his head on the arm of the chair. “Jesus, how gay can we get?”
Three hours of chitchat over dinner. As much as he liked his new clients—still not his favorite thing. Braden opted to stay at the bar for a quiet drink after Doug and Max volunteered to ferry everyone back to the office and their cars.
The pretty blonde bartender slid a napkin in front of him. “What can I get you?” She flashed some dimples—an invitation he’d received many a time from women. Sadly, one time about fifteen years ago, he’d responded.
“I’ll take a glass of pinot noir. What do you recommend?”
“I have just the thing. I’ll bring you a taste.”
A voice over his shoulder said, “Make that two and give me the bill.”
Braden turned. Oh right, the head of the ad agency for Reading Foods. “Thanks. I thought you’d gone with your client.”
“Nope.” The medium-height, good-looking brunet with a tinge of silver at the temples extended his hand. “Yancey Hardesty, in case the name slipped your mind. I was hoping you might be open to a relaxing drink. Client dinners aren’t exactly recreation.” He laughed.
“They’re a good group, but I agree.”
The bartender poured a sip of red wine into a balloon glass in front of Braden. He took a quick sniff and taste. No use performing the whole wine-tasting ritual. He nodded. “Great. I like it. Pour away.”
She did that and held the bottle toward Yancey. “Sir, would you like a taste first?”
“Nope. If it’s okay with Braden, it’s good by me. I’m no great wine connoisseur.”
Refreshing humility for a Newport Beach kind of guy. Braden sipped his wine. “Thanks for this. I actually have to go soon. I’m picking up my kids tomorrow, and I have to turn the bachelor pad into the daddy zone.”
“Oh, kids. And here I was going to ask if you’d like to have dinner on Saturday night.”
Hmm. He covered the pause with a drink of wine. You keep saying you need practice being a gay man. This is a really impressive guy. A business owner. Successful. Good-looking. Probably well-off. Hell, why not. “I have a good babysitter. I could probably make it work.”
“Great. That’s terrific. Want me to pick you up?”
Expose the kids to a new guy? “Uh, no. I live in south Laguna. Why don’t I meet you somewhere? You choose.”
“Great. We can try The Tides at Crystal Cove. That’s halfway for both of us.”
“Perfect.”
Yancey gazed up through his long lashes. “It sure is.”
Chapter Three
Ian felt bookended with warmth, snuggled between Ken and Jim on the couch. Somewhere around “A Hundred Million Miracles,” his eyes drooped closed. Sometime after, Jim hauled Ian to his feet. “Come on, buddy. Let’s get you to bed.” He let himself be hauled, leaning on Jim’s big body. He managed to stand up long enough to pee, then collapsed as Jim tucked him in and Ken whispered, “I’m setting your alarm for school, okay?”
“Ummm.”
He snuggled under the covers, but as he sighed, Ken murmured to Jim, “You can’t tell me that little shit Rico couldn’t find a minute to call Ian.”
Ian’s eyes opened, and he stared at the ceiling for half the night.
After dragging himself through the school day and crashing early, Ian faced the bright sun of Saturday with one eye peeking from under his covers.
Jim’s voice came through his bedroom door. “Hey, Ian, don’t wake up. We’re leaving for Costa Mesa. We’ll probably stay the night, so we’ll see you Sunday, buddy. Get lots of rest. Enjoy the beach.”
Ian opened a hole in the covers. “Bye. Kiss Ken’s mom for me. Tell her three hundred guests is not one too many.” As Jim’s snort echoed in the background, he pulled the blanket over his face and listened to the sound of their footsteps, the door closing, and silence settling. Silence. Not his fucking friend.
He flipped on his back and visited his old pal, the ceiling. Anderson crawled onto his chest and made himself at home. That used to be somewhat more comfortable when he was a two-pound kitten, but as a fifteen-pound white behemoth with fur, his choice of resting places could collapse a lung. Ian scratched the furry head and accepted purr vibration therapy.
After his crappy night on Thursday, his killer day at school hadn’t given him much time to think. Still, it didn’t take superpowers of observation to notice no texts from Mexico City. Ken’s words about the “little shit finding a minute to call” rattled in Ian’s brain like the last vitamin in the jar. If you really wanted to talk to someone, you found a way. Rico hadn’t.
Stop the fucking thinking! Ian sat up suddenly while Anderson held on, which meant claws in his bare skin. “Ow!”
“Merwaor.” Anderson leaped from his chest, leaving red marks, gave him a flick of the tail, and presented a fuzzy back as Ian threw his legs over the edge of the bed and sprang up. Beach. He needed beach.
He rushed into the bathroom, peed, did a halfhearted shave, brushed his teeth, and powered into the kitchen. Anderson sat staring at him from beside his empty bowl.
“Okay, fuzzy one.” He grabbed some dry chicken, one of the feline faves, filled the bowl, then went to find his towel and put on his board shorts. When he got to the front door, Anderson sat directly in front of it. “Sorry, buddy. I need to go to the beach.”
“Merwaowr.”
“Come on, you’re not a golden retriever.”
“Mwow.”
Hmm. “Well, hell, you want to go? I mean, they don’t let dogs on the beach after eight, but then you’re not a dog, are you?” He shrugged. “Deal.”
He pawed through the bag of miscellaneous cat toys and accouterments they kept in the hall closet for Anderson. Yep, a harness and leash still curled at the bottom from when Ian had tried to get the cat to lead like a dog—with zero success. But at least it would let him keep track of the critter.
He slipped the leather over the cat’s head, and Anderson didn’t even protest. “You must really want to go.” With the leash attached, he grabbed Anderson—which was a class in weight lifting—took hold of the tote bag he’d shoved his stuff into, and headed out the door.
Yes, plenty of looks came their way as he walked the four blocks down to PCH and then crossed over to the infamous steps carrying a fifteen-pound white cat. They called it Thousand Steps Beach. Okay, a significant exaggeration, since it was just over two hundred, except when you walked back up. Then it definitely felt like at least a thousand steps.
He bounded down, only slightly slowed by his burdens. Man, love this place. Though the steps above started only feet from the busy highway, by the time he made it halfway down, he already felt like he’d entered a different world of rumbling surf, squawking seagulls, and pure nature. When his feet touched sand, the ocean took over and all other influences paled. Even the elegant houses built on the cliffs above didn’t intrude on the sense of peace and wonder.
He found a spot close to the base of the rocks since the tide still crept far up the sand. He dropped Anderson and started to spread his towel. Anderson went nuts, rolling and writhing in the sand. Uh, damn. “I didn’t quite think this through, did I? How many hours will it take to get the sand out of your fur?” He shrugged. Oh well. Damage done now.
He flopped on the towel and let Anderson roam and wriggle to the end of his leash. Only a few other people dotted the beach so far. The steps discouraged all but the hearty and dedicated. The shade from the cliff protected him from the sun, so he pulled out his phone to read a book. Hard not to glance at text messages first. Yeah. No.
He opened his Kindle app and found the book he’d been reading. A gay romance about two straight guys who fall in love with each other. Man, he thought he had problems. Leaning against the rocks,
he tried to read, but his eyes kept closing. Hell, why fight. Two nights of too little sleep added up. He hooked Anderson’s leash around his arm, scooted down on his back, and closed his eyes. Of course, the big fella clambered aboard and was soon squashing Ian’s diaphragm. Still, warm and nice.
“Daddy! Daddy! Look at the kitty.”
The high-pitched squeal cut through Ian’s foggy brain.
Anderson shifted on his belly, then started to vibrate.
Ian opened an eye and met two gigantic blue ones only a couple of feet away. The little girl squatted down beside him on the sand in her Frozen bathing suit, gently petting Anderson’s head and getting the motorcycle response. Ian grinned. “Hi.”
She eyed him with a grain of suspicion, but the allure of the purr proved too great and she kept petting. “Hello. What’s his name?”
“Anderson.”
“That’s a most unusual name for a cat.”
He snorted, and one of her little brows rose in an expression so far beyond her years—which appeared to be somewhere around five or six—that Ian almost snorted again. Almost. One didn’t face such disdain lightly. “Yes. I suppose it is. Have you ever heard of Anderson Cooper?”
“Uh, I believe so.” She raised her head, looking behind Ian, and said, “Have I heard of Anderson Cooper, Daddy?”
Daddy? Okay, he hadn’t moved so as not to disturb the petting frenzy. Now he scrambled to sitting, getting a yowl from Anderson, and looked behind him. Well, holy shit.
Braden Lord leaned against the rocks, one hip cocked slightly, and Ian knew that because he wore very little on those hips. Just a pair of slim-fitting board shorts that cupped an ass on its way to legend and thighs Ian could only imagine in X-rated postures.
“Hi. I mean, I didn’t see you there. Sorry.” Ian brushed sand from his legs and tried to find some moderately respectable posture that wouldn’t show his half-masted cock.
“Providing a resting place for fifty-pound felines does tend to keep you in one place.” Lord laughed. “Don’t see mountain lions much on the beach.”
“Never know when you might need protection from small angels in Frozen bathing suits.”
The little girl had flopped on her butt and now proceeded to pile sand on top of Anderson, who cooperated by stretching to his full, massive length. She gave Ian that eyebrow again. “Are you referring to me?”
Best sidestep that one. Ian extended a hand. “How do you do. I’m Ian Carney. I work for your—” He glanced up at Braden. “—daddy.”
She took his hand and shook it seriously. “I’m Mireille Lord. And I really like your cat.”
“What a pretty name.” It sounded like Mir-ray. “I’m sure Anderson likes it too.”
“Thank you. My daddy picked it out.” She glanced up at Braden as she piled more sand on the cat. “Have I heard of Anderson Cooper, Daddy?”
Braden replied very seriously, “He’s a news reporter, Mireille. You might remember him because his hair is the same color as the kitty.”
“I see.” She gave Ian an approving grin. “How very clever of you.”
Ian bit his tongue to keep from rolling on the ground.
Braden squatted beside Mireille. “Sweetheart, it might be difficult to get all that sand out of Anderson’s fur.”
“Yes, that may be true. I’ll be happy to come to your home and brush Anderson for a long time, Mr. Carney.”
“You’re welcome anytime.”
Braden looked at Ian—their faces now level. Good thing his eyes were so compelling, or Ian would have been turned to stone by the way the board shorts cupped an impressive package. He’d definitely been celibate too long. Braden glanced up toward the rocks and the house above. “Do you live near here?”
“Yes. About three blocks up the street. You?”
He pointed at an ultramodern architectural masterpiece clinging to the cliffs. “That’s us.”
Ian smiled. “I could have guessed that. Great house.”
“Thanks. I’ve always loved this beach.”
“Me too. My brother and his husband own a midcentury house I helped renovate. It’s been a labor of love.”
“You live with them?”
Ian nodded. That must seem childish to Lord, but hell, he was young. “Yeah, my brother took me in at eighteen, and I’ve lived with him ever since. Then he fell in love with Ken Tanaka and—well, they kept me.” He grinned.
“The cardiologist?”
“Yes.”
“I know of him and hear he’s a great doctor.”
“Yes, I hear that too. He’s been a lifesaver for my brother—in more ways than one. Looks more like a rock star, though. Or a hero in a graphic novel.”
“Guess I need to make a point of meeting him.” Braden laughed.
“Daddy, may I go in the water?”
“If I go down to the water’s edge with you.”
“Can Anderson come?”
“I doubt he likes water. Most cats don’t.”
“Perhaps Mr. Carney could carry him so he could watch me swim.”
Ian laughed. “Excellent idea.”
Braden stood and escorted the bouncing Mireille down to the water’s edge. Ian followed with Anderson, trying not to stare at the ass of the Lord. Braden once again squatted on the wet sand, the foam rushing around his feet, as Mireille fearlessly plowed into the surf. She dove like a damned seal into an oncoming wave.
Ian stood beside Braden, holding a slightly anxious Anderson. “Who does she think she is, Missy Franklin?”
Braden nodded. “Exactly. Actually, she’s on a swim team already. She’s been in the water since she was born.”
Ian squatted. “Does your wife like to swim?” Yes, that was a loaded question.
He barked a laugh. “She doesn’t like anything that messes up her hair. No, I’m the one who brings Mireille to the beach.” He never took his eyes off the bobbing figure as she crawled through the light chop beyond the breakers. “How’s Anderson doing?”
The wife issue lay there like a turd with no poop bag to retrieve it. Ian petted the big, sandy feline now lying over his shoulder. “He’s kind of freaked, but he’s getting used to it. I think he has an eye on some of those seagulls.”
“He’d have to be brave to take them on. Nasty cusses.”
Mireille bobbed up and waved. “Daddy!”
Braden waved back, and Ian joined in. He turned Anderson to face her and waved a paw. She looked like she was giggling, but he couldn’t tell. Anderson wriggled to get down. “Sorry, guy. You’d hate it down there. Too wet.”
“I apologize for the sand all over him.”
“No problem. Not much worse than what he did to himself the moment we got here. I brought him on a whim because he seemed to want to come with me. He’s never been to the beach before.”
“Is he your brother’s cat?”
“Kind of. Really mine, I guess. I found him outside my brother’s apartment the night I showed up on his doorstep with no place else to go. I brought him in, and he took over the place. That was three years and fifteen pounds ago.”
Lord flashed a frown before returning his eyes to the sea. “No place to go?”
“Yeah. My father didn’t really appreciate me being gay. I had a whole future mapped out and poof. Just like that, gone in one night. But Jim and Ken made my life so much better in so many ways. I wouldn’t trade it for three more years of hiding.”
Braden’s chest rose like he was taking the world’s biggest breath. “Shit, tell me about it. At least you had the balls to declare who you are and let the damned chips fall. I had to waste half a life.”
So he’s gay. Rumors confirmed. “Hey, man, nothing’s wasted.”
Braden skewered him with those deep eyes. “You really believe that?”
Did he? “Yeah. Look what you’ve got. This great kid, a wonderful business, the chance to do what you love. Who knows how that would have come out—if you’d come out?” Ian chuckled. “Anyway. Sorry for my two-bit philo
sophy.”
“No, you’re right.”
“And you’re not exactly ancient. I imagine you’ve still got time to hump a hunk or two.” He grinned.
Braden mirrored his smile. “Ya think? Every gay guy’s not going to be counting my crow’s-feet?”
“Well, I didn’t say that, but they’re such cute crow’s feet.” Well shit, if he hadn’t been flirting before now, that certainly established a benchmark. “Uh, I mean, with such a cute kid, who wouldn’t love you?”
“Hey, Dad.” The voice came from farther back on the beach.
“Daddy!”
Ian looked around at the echoing cries. Mireille burst out of the surf. “Did you see me? Did Anderson see me?”
Ian turned Anderson toward her. “Absolutely. He told me he’s very impressed, and if he wasn’t a cat and hated the water, he’d ask you for swim lessons.”
She giggled and patted Anderson’s big head. He barely shied from the drips of cold, salty water—a testament to his instant adoration of the small human.
“Hey, Dad.”
Ian looked around.
Mireille glanced up and smiled. “Have you met my brother? He works for Daddy sometimes too.”
Walking toward them came a tall, lanky kid, somewhere in his midteens, carrying a Frisbee and wearing an expression between cynical and miserable.
Okay, the daddy gig just got serious.
Chapter Four
Mireille continued petting with one hand and waved with the other. “Jo-Jo, come and pet Anderson. He’s the best cat ever, and I get to go to Mr. Carney’s house to brush the sand from his fur.” She flipped her head to Ian. “And this is Mr. Carney. He named Anderson after Anderson Cooper. Don’t you think that’s clever?”
The brother gave Ian a look before smiling at his sister. “Yeah, that’s pretty good.” He knelt down and patted Anderson’s fur, earning the smile he’d obviously hoped for from Mireille. “Cool cat.”