Recipe for Romance

by Snyder, J. M.

  Leaning forward, Preston smiled against Cam’s lips. “I don’t know about you, but the back seat of my Civic is pretty big. It’s warm, and padded, and we can talk a bit more in comfort, if that’s what you want to do.”

  Cam’s arm dropped down behind him to his waist, and he pulled Preston closer. “Actually the Sentra has a larger backspace. I know, I compared both vehicles when buying a new car last year. I can almost stretch out along the entire back seat comfortably, too. If that isn’t incentive enough to use my car instead, well…”

  Preston laughed. “So much for only talking, eh?”

  “We can talk on the way,” Cam pointed out. “What do you want to talk about?”

  They were strolling at a leisurely pace, the Bistro nowhere in sight, but the promise of making out in the backseat like a pair of randy teenagers made Preston want to quicken his step. It took all the strength he had not to run on ahead the way Abby liked to, calling out behind him, “Race you to the car!”

  Instead, he held both of Cam’s hands in his own, savoring the quiet moment between them. After the heat of their first kiss, the touch of Cam’s body seared against his and gave him something to look forward to. Talking would help make the time pass quicker without having to rush through to the payoff.

  “You said this was your date, in how long?” Preston had told Cam earlier of his dating history, or lack thereof—nothing in high school, a smorgasbord of new experiences and gay delights in college, then next to nothing once he came home after his parents passed away. When Abby was born, fatherhood took over and he grew too busy to date. She was only now old enough for him to be able to start enjoying himself again.

  Cam shrugged. “Well, you know, who really keeps track of things like that?”

  With a sideways look of disbelief, Preston told him, “It’s been nine years, five months, and six days since I last had sex. That’s not counting getting off on gay porn, or the time I jerked off into a container at the fertility clinic where Tess was inseminated. But hey, like you said, who’s counting?”

  “Okay, you’re right.” Cam sighed, then gave Preston a quizzical grin. “Nine years, seriously? That’s like forever.”

  Preston laughed. “No shit. But what are you going to do when you have a toddler whose mother’s deployed overseas and your parents aren’t around to babysit? A few times I tried taking Abby with me on lunch dates and such, but nothing kills the mood between two men like a crying baby. Nothing, trust me.” He nudged Cam in the ribs gently with his elbow. “But I was a new father, figuring it out as I went along. What’s your excuse?”

  “You know I have my own studio, don’t you?” Cam asked with a grin.

  “You might have mentioned it, yes,” Preston teased.

  Cam nodded. “Well, the place doesn’t run itself. Two things I’ve learned since starting my own business are you work twenty-four seven, and most of the time you live off your credit cards. If I’d have known that before I quit my day job at Olan Mills, I would’ve tried to pay them down a bit more first.”

  “Then you’d be like me,” Preston told him. “Stuck somewhere you don’t want to be dreaming about opening your own place one day and knowing it’ll never happen.”

  “Don’t say that.” Cam stopped, forcing Preston to stop, too. The restaurant was up ahead; the lights strung along the patio were visible through the leaves of the trees lining the sidewalk. “Look at me. You can’t give up. You’ve known what you’ve wanted to do your whole life, and every day you’re a little closer to getting there. You’ll make it, I know you will.”

  Preston sighed. “Yeah, right. At my age? Forty’s around the corner.”

  “Forty’s the new thirty,” Cam said. “We’re in the prime of our lives, you and me. Young enough to be able to do what we want, and old enough to actually afford to do it now, and no one can tell us not to. It’s never too late to take a chance on what you want.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Preston sighed. “I’ve heard it all before. Tess tells me all the time. If I don’t like the River City, I should find something new, but it’s easier said than done.”

  “Bullshit.” Cam spat out the word, his eyes flashing. “If you really want to leave, you can. Do you own stock in the place?”

  Preston shook his head. “What? No.”

  “Do you owe your boss anything?” Cam persisted. “Any money, or a loan, something like that?”

  “God, no.” Preston didn’t ask Roger for anything other than his paycheck and the occasional day off, and even that was like pulling teeth.

  One corner of Cam’s mouth twitched. “And you aren’t sleeping with him or anything?”

  Preston burst out laughing. “Oh, Jesus Christ, hell no!”

  Cam grinned. “Then you owe him nothing more than two weeks’ notice. You said you work what, mornings?”

  “Eight to two,” Preston said. “While Abby’s at school.”

  Counting on his fingers, Cam said, “That’s six hours. Which leaves you eighteen hours of the day when you aren’t at work. Subtract another six for sleep, two more to talk to me on the phone in the evening—”

  “So that’s a thing now?” Preston joked.

  “I have it scheduled on my calendar,” Cam told him, “so yeah, it’s a thing. What I’m trying to say is, you get off work a good three hours before most businesses close at five o’clock, so that’s time you can be looking for another job. You said when you first came back down here, no one would pay you for your New York experience. But you’ve been working eight years in a local restaurant. Maybe it isn’t the Jefferson downtown, but it isn’t McDonald’s, either. So put some feelers out, man. I don’t know food like you do, but I know a lot of high end eateries have popped up around the city over the past few years, and it wouldn’t hurt to see what your options are.”

  He was right. Preston knew he was, and it felt good to hear the words spoken out loud. They were a verbal kick in the ass, the prod he so desperately needed. When had he let himself become complacent? When had he given up?

  Cam took both of Preston’s hands in his and held them as he looked into Preston’s face, searching, trying to see if his words had had their intended effect.

  Slowly, Preston began to nod. “You’re right,” he said, softly at first, then louder, his voice strengthening. “You’re absolutely right. I’ve been going through the motions, I guess. Getting by. I shouldn’t have to settle for less, should I?”

  “No, of course not,” Cam told him. “You deserve to be happy.”

  “I do.” Preston nodded, vigorously this time, as the idea took hold. “Yes, I deserve to get what I want, don’t I?”

  Cam’s smile returned. “Why do I get the feeling you’re not just talking about a new job anymore?”

  Closing the distance between them, Preston brushed the tip of his nose against the mole on Cam’s lip. “Because now I’m talking about you,” he murmured.

  Then his mouth covered Cam’s to claim a passionate kiss.

  * * * *

  Preston felt like a lovesick teenager all over again, hands fumbling under clothing, bodies pressed together in the backseat of Cam’s car. As roomy as Cam claimed it might be, the automobile makers at Nissan obviously hadn’t had envisioned two full-grown adult men making out when they created the backseat of the Sentra, because the limited dimensions left much to be desired. There was something to be said for stretching out side by side on a full-size bed, where each could explore the other at his leisure, instead of the cramped interior of a car.

  Still, by the time ten o’clock rolled around and Preston had to head home—he’d promised Mrs. Schroedinger he wouldn’t keep her out too late—his lips were numb from Cam’s kisses and his balls ached in frustration. He wasn’t the only one, either. The front of Cam’s pants strained against an erection Preston had rubbed until it was as hard as the cock shoved down the front of his own jeans.

  A quick jerk would get them both off, but would leave them dissatisfied and wanting more. When Presto
n suggested it, Cam shook his head. “Call me a romantic,” he said, holding Preston’s body tight against his in the close confines of the car, “but I want our first time to be something special, not a handjob that’ll stain my backseat.”

  “You want what, me reading to you in French, right?” Preston teased. “I’ll have to brush up on my enunciation and see if I can’t find a book that’ll turn you on.”

  Cam laughed. “Dr. Seuss will do it, I promise. Just make sure it’s in French and it’ll be sexy enough for me. I don’t care what it’s about. You’re enough to get my motor running.”

  “Plus we’ll both be naked,” Preston pointed out. “Or so you said.”

  Cam’s hand eased between them and kneaded the front of Preston’s jeans, which bulged with an erection as hard as his own. “I can hardly wait.”

  When they finally kissed goodbye at Preston’s car, Cam suggested they meet the next day for another date. This one would be an afternoon get-together, to include Preston’s daughter—Cam had been serious about offering to photograph Abby wearing her fairy wings, and Sundays the studio was closed to the public. Wouldn’t that be the perfect time for an afternoon photo shoot?

  Preston agreed. He had to work until two, but he could be home and showered in a half hour, then back out the door and across town to the Short Pump shopping center where Cam’s studio was located by three. Abby would love a second chance to prance around in her fairy costume, so he knew she wouldn’t need any convincing to come along. Cam thought he could talk his sister into dropping by with Jocelyn, as well, which would allow the little girls some time to get to know each other, too. He seemed convinced they would be best friends if they only had a chance to meet.

  “We can make it a double date,” Cam suggested. “I’m sure there has to be an animated movie playing at the theater there, something kid-friendly the girls will like, and then we can take them out to dinner afterward. It’ll be a lot of fun.”

  “So I take it we’re not going to be reading French naked in bed then?” Preston teased. “I mean, this would be our second date. You sort of promised.”

  Cam laughed. “This is the setup to that date. It’s introducing my niece to your daughter so they become BFF and have a sleepover so my sister will babysit so we can have a sleepover where you’ll read me French naked in bed. “

  “Oh la la!” Preston shook his head. “I hope my rudimentary French skills don’t disappoint you after all this.”

  “I’m not worried about that. You’ll be naked, which will more than make up for it. You can be speaking Greek, for all I care.” Cam laughed. “My main concern is what if Abby and Jocelyn don’t like each other? You know how girls can be!”

  * * * *

  Saying goodbye took longer than Preston thought it would—there always seemed to be something else to say, and one more kiss to chase down the words. By the time he pulled into his driveway, he was already wondering how he’d apologize for keeping Mrs. Schroedinger up so late. But he needn’t have worried; Abby was tucked in bed, fast asleep, and their neighbor sat in the living room in front of the television, watching the local news as her knitting needles clicked furiously. When Preston tried to explain the late hour, Mrs. Schroedinger waved him away. “Nonsense, dear,” she said, gathering her knitting. “You need to get out with your friends now and then. I remember being your age once.”

  “I hope Abby didn’t give you any trouble,” he said as he walked her to the front door.

  Mrs. Schroedinger shook her head. “That child is a dear. I’ll be here in the morning, same as usual, I ‘spect?”

  “That’d be great, thanks.” Preston pulled the door shut behind them and helped her down the porch steps, then walked her to the end of their walk. There he waited, watching her until she made it to her own stoop. Only after she disappeared into her own home and the light flickered on inside did he head back in and lock up himself.

  His first stop upstairs was Abby’s room. Though his daughter prided herself on being a big girl at eight, she still slept with a nightlight, a small round LED bulb that turned on automatically in the dark and cast a cool blue glow beneath her bed. It barely illuminated her sheets, or her slumbering face resting on the pillow, though for some reason, Preston could easily pick out the beady eyes of the stuffed bunny she cuddled with as she slept.

  Sinking down to sit on the edge of her mattress, he brushed the hair from her brow and leaned over to kiss her temple. “Night, baby doll,” he whispered.

  Abby stirred. “Daddy?” she mumbled, half-awake. “Zat you?”

  “Go back to sleep, honey,” he told her. “Goodnight, sleep tight.”

  With a cavernous yawn, she finished their saying. “Don’t let the bedbugs bite. Love you.”

  “Love you, too, sweetie.” He smoothed down her hair, then tweaked her nose.

  Snuggling closer to her bunny, she sighed into her pillow. “Did you have fun with your boyfriend?”

  Preston grinned. “He isn’t my boyfriend.” Not yet, he added silently.

  “He’s a boy,” Abby argued. “He’s a friend. Boyfriend, duh.”

  If only it were always that simple. Though the way he and Cam had left things at the end of the evening, Preston hoped they were headed in that direction.

  “When’s he going to take pictures of me with my wings?” Abby asked, her voice fading as she drifted back to sleep. “You said he could.”

  “Tomorrow,” Preston promised. “Get some sleep first.”

  Opening one eye, she looked up at her father and asked, “Do you like him?”

  Preston nodded. “Yeah, I think I do.”

  A slow smile spread across his daughter’s face. “Good. Then I like him, too. Night, Daddy.”

  “Night, Abby.”

  Chapter 9

  Sundays were usually busy at the River City, and this one was no exception. Crowds made the time pass quickly, which Preston liked; it helped that Roger never worked weekends if he could help it. In no time at all, two o’clock rolled around and Preston shucked off his apron, eager to head home and shower the stench of grill off of his skin and out of his hair.

  He couldn’t wait to see Cam again.

  Abby was playing with her dolls in her room when he came home. After seeing Mrs. Schroedinger on her way, Preston told Abby to change into her fairy dress while he washed up. As he was in the shower, lathering his hair, he felt a chill cut through the hot water and saw the shower curtain billow slightly, then heard his daughter call out, “Daddy?”

  Peering around the edge of the curtain, Preston blinked soap and water out of his eyes. “Honey, what is it? I’m a little busy here.”

  She was wearing the same shimmery dress she’d worn to school on picture day. Her hair was mussed and tousled—he’d have to comb that out before they left—but at least she hadn’t tried to struggle with it herself yet. In her hands were the pair of wings that had caused so much consternation at school. Not on her back, they looked small and forlorn, like a wounded butterfly unable to take flight. There was nothing magical about them now; they were little more than sheer fabric stretched over bent scraps of wire and sprinkled with glitter. Nothing but make believe.

  But when she looked at them, they were so much more. It was obvious in the reverent way she held the wings, so careful not to damage or crumple them. Here was a child who couldn’t walk down the hallway without tripping over her own two feet sometimes; she tore through clothing and toys as if they were made of paper, knocked over plates and drinks on a regular basis, and had been banned from eating anywhere in the house except the dining room until she could prove she could use a cup without spilling it. Yet she held the wings delicately, as if afraid they would break, using both hands in an attentive way Preston wished she would use all the time.

  “Daddy, can I really wear my wings today?” she asked, as if daring to believe it might be possible. “Can I really get my picture taken with them on? Can I?”

  He laughed. “Yes, honey, you can. Be careful�
�”

  With a whoop, she raced out of the bathroom, bumping into the walls as she headed for her bedroom to finish getting dressed. Even over the sound of the shower, Preston could hear her laughter. “I’m gonna be a fairy!” she crooned to no one in particular.

  He hoped the wings survived long enough to be in the pictures.

  * * * *

  Richards Studio was easy enough to find; it was part of a strip of small storefronts facing Short Pump Town Center, a large pedestrian mall on the northside of Richmond. Even on Sunday, the streets around Short Pump were congested, though most of the stores in the strip where the studio was located were closed for the day, which helped with parking. The only places open nearby were a Starbucks coffee shop at the end of the strip, and a Sweet Frog frozen Yogurt next door.

  Preston spotted Cam’s car already parked in front of the studio as soon as he pulled into the parking lot, though he didn’t recognize the minivan beside it. The open side door indicated whoever owned the van was someone Cam knew; he leaned out the window of his car, talking with the van’s occupants, and without even seeing inside, Preston thought it had to be his sister’s vehicle. Something about it screamed Mom Car to him. So Jocelyn had made it, after all.

  Suddenly he was nervous all over again. It was silly, really. He and Cam had had a great time the night before. Why worry now?

  Because Abby might not like him, Preston thought, pulling into an empty parking spot directly behind Cam’s car. When Cam glanced in the rearview mirror, Preston waved. She and Jocelyn might not get along. What if they fight over the stupid wings and Abby gets in a snit for the rest of the day? How sexy am I going to look trying to deal with her when she’s in one of her moods?

  After turning off the car, he sat for a moment and watched his daughter in the mirror. She was reading another of her chapter books, blissfully unaware that they had reached their destination. She didn’t even seem to notice him looking at her. Finally he cleared his throat and softly called her name.