We Have Till Monday

by Cara Dee

  King’s eyes lit up with laughter. “Young and dumb, huh?”

  I inclined my head. “Now I’m old and dumb.” I grunted as I rose from the lounger, as if to prove a point. “Where can I find a bathroom in this castle?”

  He stood up too. “There’s a guest bath in each entryway. I might as well check in on Camden.”

  “And like I said, youse don’t gotta hide for my sake,” I said on the way in. “Let the boy be a boy if that’s what makes him happy.”

  “Youse,” he chuckled under his breath. “That has to be the most New York thing I’ve heard.”

  I made a face. “I usually clean up my language a bit more and leave the slang to my brother.”

  “I find it endearing.” He brushed a hand over my back as we reached the kitchen, and he gestured toward the entryway. “Bathroom’s right around that corner. I’ll be back in a minute or two—without Camden. I appreciate what you said, but if he wants to be there at the festival tomorrow, he’ll need to decompress today.”

  I nodded in understanding.

  King and I got another hour of chilling outside before he said it was time to prepare for the barbecue. During that hour, he’d steered the conversation to me and what I did for a living, and he seemed genuinely curious about the Initiative, which I wasn’t used to. Though, that was mainly my bad relationship with Shawn speaking. I had supportive friends and family. It was just my ex who’d never given a shit.

  Family happened to be the next topic, once I’d mentioned that I now ran the Initiative together with Nicky. King learned that my family consisted of my father, grandmother, and brother. And I found out King had two older sisters, one who lived here on Littlefield, and one who lived with her family in Chicago.

  Their parents had passed away, but I got the feeling the only parent who’d mattered was their mother.

  “My immediate family was always on the small side,” King said. “Countless cousins, aunts, and uncles, but no one we see often. Camden, on the other hand. He’s the youngest of eight siblings.”

  “Damn.”

  “Mm.” King busied himself in the kitchen, pulling out bags from the fridge, and bowls and whatnot from cupboards and drawers. “They’re all scattered across the country too, so the reunions are loud affairs. Loud and…full of fightin’.” He was smiling to himself, so it didn’t sound too serious.

  “Loud is the default setting in my family,” I admitted. “Gideon, my brother-in-law, thought we fought a lot before Nicky explained to him that we just don’t know how to use our indoor voices.”

  King smiled briefly, then tilted his head at me. “Your brother’s also gay?”

  “Aye.” I pointed to what he was doing, prepping the vegetables and whatever. “Can I help? Nicky puts me on salad duty when he cooks.”

  “Has he no faith in you?”

  “None,” I laughed. “You’d be an idiot to trust me with anything of significance.”

  Fuck me. The way his eyes changed made it clear that he was up for the challenge.

  “Come here, then,” he ordered. “Let me see what I have to work with.”

  That wasn’t wise. People were actually going to eat this food in a few hours, and I was more likely to pay attention to his hands and how he sounded when he combined his Southern drawl with that low, commanding voice.

  I joined him at his side, and he shifted the cutting board and knife closer to me. He explained that the easiest job came first. A bunch of tomatoes cut in halves that he would throw on the grill later. Even I could manage that.

  He found another cutting board for himself and said he’d get started on the onions. They were to be cut in wedges so he could stick them on the skewers with the meat.

  I didn’t fuck up with any of the six tomatoes. Go me.

  I didn’t screw up with the mushrooms either, because all I had to do was cut off the stem or whatever it was called. The mushrooms would go on the kabobs too.

  Next, King placed four big yellow bell peppers and a new beer in front of me.

  “The last vegetable for the kabobs,” he said. “You want them cut into bigger chunks. Beer’s for drinkin’.”

  I stared at him, waiting for further instructions.

  Nothing?

  I didn’t fucking know how he defined chunks.

  He merely nodded at the board in a silent get to it.

  All right. It was his loss.

  I did what Nicky had taught me when I made salad at home; I cut around the core and—

  “See, that’s a perfect waste of bell pepper,” King noted.

  “That’s what you get for not telling me how to do it,” I argued.

  He smiled and took over. “I want to see your mistakes before you learn from them.”

  “You wanna get a laugh, that’s what you want.”

  He chuckled warmly. “Hush, boy. Watch me.”

  Boy.

  I swallowed hard and felt my stomach clench. I hadn’t been called boy outside my family since I was in my twenties.

  “You’ll see tutorials online by people who shouldn’t be allowed to make tutorials,” he told me, grabbing one of the bell peppers. “You need a single cut, nothing more. This? This goes.” He tore off the stem, then sliced the pepper in two halves. “You remove the core like this.” With his hands. “Then you can scrape out the pith with your fingers. My mama used a grapefruit spoon.”

  “Pith? That’s the white edges inside?” I was hooked on watching him. His long, experienced fingers disappeared into the peppers and dug out those edges.

  “Correct. And there you go. Nothing goes to waste.”

  I couldn’t wait to tell my brother he’d been doing this all wrong.

  “I already have so much to teach Nicky when I go home.”

  King flashed me a grin and handed me the knife. “Each half can be cut into four chunks.”

  Finally, good instructions.

  “Thanks, Chef.” I took a long sip from my beer, no longer tired, and I was in a great mood. Fuck, this trip was already feeling like a success. And I liked King. He was friendly and funny. I felt like I could banter with him. “I’m a little disappointed I didn’t get my Ghost moment, though.”

  I shouldn’t have said that while he was in the middle of drinking. He coughed and quickly turned to the sink where he spat out a mouthful of beer, and then he croaked out a sexy laugh.

  “Whatta waste of beer,” I muttered, highly pleased with myself.

  “Can New York produce anythin’ other than brats?” King wiped his mouth on a towel and sighed good-naturedly. “Y’all come out lookin’ like bad boys who’re all cocky and rough around the edges, but when push comes to shove, you’re just sweet little shit-stirrers.”

  Was he placing me in the same category as Camden? I’d guessed he was from the East Coast already, but he’d lost a lot of his accent. And either way…uh, no. I wasn’t that kind of Little.

  “There’s a lot to unpack there.” I went back to my task of cutting up the bell peppers. “I’m not cocky. Rough around the edges—maybe. Shit-stirrer? No. But I am sweeter than sugar.” I side-eyed King and caught his little smile. “I take it Camden’s from New York originally?”

  “Indeed, he is.” He nodded. “It’s only an issue when we watch baseball and football. The poor boy wouldn’t know a good team if it smacked him upside the head.”

  I didn’t care about football, but baseball was another matter.

  “Tread carefully now, King.” I lifted a brow at him. “You’re talkin’ to a Mets fan.”

  He blanched at that for some reason, and he sent a skyward glance as if asking for strength. It was funny. “In other words, you wouldn’t know a good team if it smacked you upside the head either.”

  I withheld my humor—or I tried to, anyway. “Camden roots for the Mets?”

  “He does,” King replied somberly. “Everyone has flaws.”

  Fuck that, I was proud. “A boy after my own heart. Good for him.”

  King hummed and leaned b
ack against the counter, folding his arms over his chest. “So you’d say he’s got good taste?”

  Obviousl—wait. There was a cue I didn’t wanna miss out on, but I had to be wrong. Right? Because if he was… No. No, he wouldn’t move this into flirting territory. Would he?

  Screw it. No matter the level he was asking on, the answer was the same.

  “Absolutely,” I replied.

  He eyed me for a beat longer, frustratingly unreadable, then dropped his gaze to my cutting board. “I’m serving Hasselback potatoes with the kabobs. It’ll be up to you if you need me to be the Patrick Swayze to your Demi Moore.”

  Mannaggia. He thought I could slice the potatoes like that? I fucking loved Hasselback potatoes, but you had to slice them real thin. And not all the way through.

  “I reckon I should take a step back on that one,” I said hesitantly. No matter how much I most likely would’ve enjoyed my Ghost moment.

  “Where’s the fun in that?” He smirked and opened one of the drawers where they kept their knives. They had countless of them. “You won’t learn if no one gives you a challenge.”

  “Right, but baby steps—”

  “Are for babies. Watch me first. Then you try.” His assertiveness made it impossible to argue.

  I watched as he grabbed a few potatoes from one of the bags and placed them on the board. Then he bent down a little and started slicing the first potato with perfect accuracy, stopping about half an inch before he would hit the board.

  It was porn. His fingers gripping the razor-sharp knife, the blade slicing through the potato, each slice about two or three millimeters thick, the muscles moving sensually along his forearm.

  “I’ll just keep watching you,” I murmured. I bent down too, my elbow hitting the counter, and my cheek in my hand.

  I’d thought about music before, idly, that we coulda used some, but now I was thankful I hadn’t suggested any. It was enough to hear his calm breaths and the faint sound of the knife sliding through the potato.

  “I don’t think so.” When he’d finished three of them, he said it was my turn. “I’ll grab a couple baking sheets—you get started.”

  Fuck.

  For having watched his hands so closely, one might think I knew exactly how to hold the knife.

  I didn’t.

  I had to get closer too. I didn’t know how he’d managed to cut with such precision without eyeballing the potato two inches away, but that was going to be my approach. Okay, maybe not two inches. Eight or nine.

  Carefully, slowly, holding my breath, I cut into the potato and stopped before I was all the way through. The middle would be easier, I hoped. The ends were rounded and narrower, and it was difficult to know when to stop.

  A breath gusted out of me. Next slice—two or three millimeters thick.

  Slow and steady wins the race, right?

  After King set two baking sheets on the counter, he leaned closer to inspect my work, and I was granted another whiff of his masculine scent.

  “That looks great,” he complimented. “Continue exactly like that and we can have perfect Hasselback potatoes by next week.”

  I cut straight through that motherfucking potato, clanked the knife against the board, and straightened up to scowl at the chef.

  He was doing his best not to laugh, failing miserably. “Well, you weren’t supposed to cut through it.”

  “I fuckin’ swear,” I grated. “You had to ruin it!”

  While laughing even harder, he closed the distance and guided me back into position, and I sorta checked out. His hands were on me, one on my back, the other along my side. He was touchy-feely, wasn’t he? Was it a Southern thing?

  “It’s time for Ghost. I’ll show you.” Mr. Chuckles sidled up slightly behind me so he could line up his right arm alongside mine and adjust my grip on the knife. “You’re a musician. Camden told me you play the piano.”

  “Among others,” I muttered, wondering what he was getting at. It would be close to impossible to concentrate if he was going to stay where he was. I felt his body heat through my T-shirt.

  “So you should be good with your fingers,” he said.

  “You have no fucking idea.” Yeah, I went there, despite that his tone indicated he was only talking about…well, slicing potatoes.

  King exhaled a chuckle but made no further comment. “Then use that. But instead of knowing exactly how and when to hit the keys, you turn the knife into an extension of your fingers. Once you can control the knife properly…”

  I’d know exactly how far it could go. Understood.

  I readjusted my grip on the knife, but I caught the shake of his head in my periphery when I slipped my index finger onto the back of the blade.

  “Your finger will go numb after ten minutes,” he told me. “Use your thumb. It’s stronger.”

  Fine.

  I took a deep breath and did my best to ignore his close proximity.

  “You can steer the knife with the heel of your hand.” He gently brushed his thumb against the fleshy part below my little finger. “Your grip will be the tightest between your forefinger and thumb. It makes the knife easier to maneuver.”

  If he said so.

  Christ, he was close. His chin almost at my shoulder.

  “Remember to breathe, Anthony.”

  Right.

  As I exhaled, I put pressure on the knife and stopped a few millimeters before it went through. And I catalogued the way my arm felt right at that point, then moved the potato just a little bit and sliced again.

  It was kinda working. They were nowhere near as good as his results, but it was definitely an improvement.

  “You’re doing great,” he murmured.

  His praise heated me up, and for a quick second, I wondered what it would be like to have him call me a good boy. Which, just the following second, made me feel like an idiot. I was over forty, for chrissakes. I shoulda grown outta that shit ages ago.

  Three potatoes later, I decided I was done for now. Improvement or not, they didn’t look awesome, and I wanted to spare the guests tonight my handiwork.

  “You do the rest,” I said quietly.

  “All right.”

  I felt instantly bereft when he moved away. His last touch was another brush up my back, and a shiver tingled its way down my spine.

  My mouth was completely dry, so I drained half my beer.

  Chapter 5

  Multiplied

  Half a minute into “Multiplied,” the music faded except for Sylvia on the organ, and I delivered the drawn-out chorus with only the choir as backup. I heard Matt and Maria, an octave higher than my own singing, and how the crowd went nuts.

  Then it was Nicky’s turn to shine. My brother plucked at his guitar as I did my best to seek out faces in the sea of people. Two faces, in particular.

  Fitting with a song about surrender, ’cause it was the only thing I felt.

  Today was playing out a lot differently than I’d anticipated.

  An hour and a half before everyone was due to arrive, we’d finished meal prep. I’d stepped outside to call my motel and say I’d be checking in late, and I’d showered in one of their guest rooms on the first floor.

  The ranch had four guest rooms in total, and each one had its own patio door, something I discovered when I walked out there after my shower. It led to the same view, the same deck, the same pool as before, and it was another thing that made me wonder about King’s comment regarding entertaining guests. That many guest rooms and they’d obviously put a lot of thought into comfort. Two chairs and a small table outside each guest room’s patio door too. And I didn’t know if King had set an ashtray on my table or what, but it was there.

  Suddenly I was extra thankful I’d been smart enough to bring a gift for King and Camden, because this trip was turning out to be precisely what my soul needed.

  The sun was dipping lower over the hills, painting the sky orange and purple.

  I hadn’t gotten dressed yet. I’d taken one l
ook at the sky once I was outta the shower, wrapped a towel around my hips, and brought my smokes outside.

  I was responding to a text from Nicky when I heard the main patio doors slide open, and King stepped out, dressed and ready for a barbecue. He had to be one of the most beautiful men to walk this earth. Jeans and flannel had been replaced by dark dress pants and a light-blue button-down tailored to his body.

  “There you are,” he said. “I’m already regretting gettin’ dressed.”

  “I couldn’t help myself,” I responded honestly. “It’s fucking gorgeous out hea’.”

  He smiled and came to a stop next to me. “May I?”

  He held out two fingers, which meant only one thing. I handed over my smoke, wondering—but never mind. He took a drag from it.

  “Don’t tell anyone.” He coughed a little and returned it to me. “Camden and I both quit four years ago.”

  Shit. “My bad, I didn’t mean to tempt—”

  “It’s fine.” He waved me off and sat down in the other chair. “My sister smokes, so I keep the ashtrays around. And sometimes I sniff her a little bit.”

  I let out a laugh.

  “You know, for claiming youse don’t entertain much, you’re kinda treating me like royalty,” I said. “I’m a simple man, King. No need to roll out the red carpet.”

  “Like royalty?” He was going to argue with me… “I was just thinkin’ in the shower—I haven’t even had the decency to ask if you’re hungry.”

  My turn to be dismissive. I happened to be hungry as fuck right now, but it hadn’t crossed my mind before. Besides, work was always too busy, and I hadn’t exercised, according to the shitty diet I’d been keeping since Nicky moved out. I could stand to lose a few.