by John Inman
“No problem,” Milo said, readjusting his legs to get them out of the way.
Silence settled over them, and suddenly Logan felt uncomfortable. Well, not uncomfortable really, just anxious. Maybe even a little guilty. It had been a long time since he found himself interested in another man. And it had certainly been a long time since he had asked one out for a meal.
After fiddling with the salt shaker for a minute and taking another glance at the menu on the little sandwich board sitting on the table because he didn’t really know where else to aim his eyes, Logan cleared his throat and asked, “What made you want to be a writer?”
“Are we doing an interview?” Milo asked.
“No. Just chatting. So are you working on something new?”
Milo groaned. “Sounds like an interview. And if you really want to know, I’m always working on something new.”
“Good. You’re far too talented a writer not to be writing.” Logan could tell his words had hit home. An appreciative light hit Milo’s eyes, and before he could say “Thank you” or any other of a hundred mundane things people say when they’ve received an unexpected compliment, Logan crowbarred his way back into the conversation. “So answer my question. What made you want to be a writer?”
Milo smiled. It was a truer smile this time, Logan thought. With less shyness in it, he was happy to see. It never ceased to amaze him how a heartfelt compliment affected people.
“I suppose you want the real answer,” Milo sighed, a tendril of ginger hair falling over one eye before being impatiently tucked back into the mass of curls atop his head.
Logan returned the smile. Gently prodding. “Of course.”
Milo readjusted his silverware, then twirled the ring on his finger, which Logan noticed was a gold and onyx number. Quite nice. Simple and masculine. For some reason, Logan tucked his hands under the table to hide the silver band on his own finger. He didn’t bother to analyze the psychology behind why he did it. Instead, Logan watched as Milo gazed out the restaurant window for a second. When his eyes returned to Logan, he appeared resigned.
Milo fiddled with his fork while he talked. “Well, since you want the truth, I won’t give you the long-suffering artist baloney about leaving my mark on a heartless world and struggling to write tales that will last and how my books are my only progeny, what with me being a fruitcup and all. I’ll just tell you the truth. And the truth is—I don’t know why I write. It’s simply something I’ve always done. Something I’ve always loved. It’s been my outlet since grade school. It’s a tough business, but I can’t imagine living my life outside of it.” He paused, looking a little embarrassed, as if thinking maybe he had said too much. Then he leaned in, settling his eyes on Logan. “My turn. What made you want to be a reviewer?”
Logan laughed. “Oh, believe me, I’d rather be a writer than a reviewer, but I don’t have the talent or patience for creative writing. Still, I love books, so being a reviewer is my way of staying close to them, I guess.” He studied Milo with an admiring gleam in his eye. “Of all the writers I’ve spoken to over the last couple of years, you’re the first to ask me why I wanted to be a reviewer.”
“I’m nosy.”
“No. I think it’s more than that.”
“Well, whatever it is, I’m glad our two livelihoods brought us together. If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t have made any sales today at all, and I’d probably be sitting at home eating a bologna sandwich.”
Logan pouted like a three-year-old, or pretended to. “And here I thought you liked me for my critiquing skills. Now I learn it’s only my Visa card you’re enthralled with.”
Milo laughed. “The tennis shorts didn’t hurt either.”
To Logan’s amusement, Milo instantly looked appalled by what he’d said. His ears went fiery red, and his mouth formed a horrified little O. In fact, he looked so shocked, Logan almost burst out laughing.
“I’m sorry,” Milo said. “I don’t know why I said that.”
Logan reached across the table and patted Milo’s hand, still trying not to laugh. “Don’t look so embarrassed. I forgive you. Trust me, it’s nice to know I can still turn a head now and then.”
Logan stared down at his hand. The way Milo’s skin felt beneath his fingertips was something he could not have anticipated. It was—electric somehow. He yanked his hand away.
“Yes, well…,” he stammered, flailing around for something to say before spotting the waitress wending her way in their direction between the tables, laden with plates.
Milo didn’t seem to notice anything amiss, and for that Logan was grateful. He swallowed his surprise at the rush of desire that had surged through him, brought about by nothing more than touching Milo’s hand.
Resurrecting his beaming smile for the waitress’s benefit, Logan exclaimed, “Ah, here we go. Food!”
MILO WAS down to dragging his last french fry through a raggedy puddle of ketchup when Logan collapsed back into his seat and patted his belly.
“God, I’m stuffed.”
“Me too.” Milo grinned as his final bite of lunch disappeared between his lips. “I’ll have to come here again,” he mumbled, chewing and then tucking his mouth behind his fist to disguise a delicate burp. “Good service. Good food.”
“Good company,” Logan added. He patted his mouth with a napkin and puckered his lips over the end of his straw, slurping the last of his soda, making as much racket as a four-year-old. Over the fountain glass, Logan’s gaze fell squarely on Milo’s face. “So do you live in Coronado?” He plunked his glass down and pushed it aside.
Milo shook his head, admiring for the umpteenth time the warmth that radiated from Logan’s hazel eyes. He admired, too, the little golden flecks he could see in them when the light fell on Logan’s face just right. “No,” he said, blinking himself back to the moment. “I live across the bay. A little gentrified section of San Diego known as South Park. You?”
“Manhattan.”
Milo blinked in surprise. “Then what are you doing here? And how in the world did you manage to cross an entire continent and end up stumbling onto me sitting all alone in that stupid bookstore?”
Logan shrugged. “Just luck, I guess.” Then he laughed. “Actually, I’ve been apartment hunting. I’ve decided to move here. The New York winters are frankly killing me. Do you realize that at this exact moment in time while it is seventy-three degrees here in the merry month of January, it is five degrees below zero in Manhattan, with a foot of snow clogging up traffic and making life miserable for millions of grumpy, frostbitten New Yorkers?”
“No kidding?”
“No kidding. And you may not know this, but at that temperature your boogers freeze inside your nose in ten seconds flat. It’s most disconcerting.”
Milo snorted in merry disgust. “I guess it would be. So you’re packing up and moving all the way to the West Coast just to keep your boogers from freezing?”
A playful grin twisted Logan’s mouth, causing a dimple to kick in. “Do I need a better reason?”
Milo shook his head and chuckled. “Nope, I guess not. I complain when the temperature in San Diego drops below sixty.”
“Pansy. And actually I’ve already moved. Everything I own is sitting in a van not more than two miles from here at this very moment. I’m just trying to find a place to put it. A place that feels like home. And by the way, I don’t recommend driving across the country while towing your car behind a moving van. It’s a pain in the neck.”
Milo eased back in his seat, studying Logan more closely. He offered up a cluck of sympathy. “I’ll bet it is. But that still doesn’t explain how you ran across me sitting like a lump inside that bookstore.”
Logan shrugged. “I keep track of my favorite writers. I knew you were signing today. It had been on my agenda all along to stop by and meet you. Having a bite to eat together was a spur-of-the-moment decision. And a pleasant one.”
Milo’s ankle touched Logan’s foot under the table. He pulled it a
way, although he certainly didn’t want to. “Pleasant indeed,” he said. “And thank you for asking.”
Again Logan shrugged, but Milo thought he seemed pleased. “Don’t mention it.”
A friendly silence settled between them before Milo asked, “And you’re moving to San Diego alone? No lover? No better half? What about your mother? Is she boxed up in the moving van, or did you leave her to freeze like a Popsicle in a New York City snowdrift?”
To Milo’s surprise, Logan paused for a couple of ticks, as if something Milo had said disconcerted him. He recovered quickly enough, but Milo thought he detected a little bit of forced good cheer in Logan’s answer when it finally came. Or maybe it was just Milo’s overblown writer’s imagination tinged with the inferiority complex he had been battling since grade school. Both had been known to show up at odd times before.
“No lover,” Logan said, his gaze steady again. “No better half. As for my mother, she lives in Florida. I’d rather set myself on fire than live in Florida. In fact, for the better part of the year, you might as well. It’s hotter than hell in Florida. Strangely, elderly Jewish ladies don’t seem to mind the heat. And just between you and me, I’d also rather set myself on fire than live in reasonable proximity to my mother.”
“So you’re Jewish and your mother’s annoying. No clichés there. Any pets?”
“Nary a one. Is that a character fault?”
“Well, it is, but a few of your other attributes nullify it.”
“I hope you’re not talking about my tennis shorts again.”
Milo grinned. “Well, now that you mention it. And by the way, if you just came from the frigid East, how can your legs be so tanned?” And sexy, he didn’t add.
Logan grinned as well. “Bloodlines. My mother’s parents were Egyptian. They migrated to the States during the Suez crisis.”
“After the founding of Israel.”
“Exactly. Anyway, nice coloring, Egyptians. Saves me a fortune on sunlamps and Coppertone.”
“I imagine it would,” Milo said. “Prying question number two. If you haven’t unpacked yet and all your stuff is still sitting in a moving van across town, how can you be dressed for Wimbledon?”
“I spotted public tennis courts on El Cajon Boulevard.” He vaguely waved a hand eastward. “Somewhere in that direction. After manhandling that bigass truck for days on end, I needed to unwind and stretch my legs, so I dug through my luggage to find tennis clothes, then stopped and played a few games with a nice old lady whose legs looked like matchsticks and who beat me two sets out of three.”
Milo laughed. “What a bitch!”
“That’s what I thought.”
Milo sat quietly for a moment, both men smiling at their easy banter. Then he asked, “And how exactly did you know I’d be book-signing today?”
Logan gave a lazy shrug. “Being a reviewer, I keep up with things like that.”
“I hope you won’t let the reading world know what a horrible flop it was.”
“Your secret is safe with me.”
“Phew!” Milo leaned in closer, his eyes delving. “Is that all you do? Review books? I mean, is that enough to pay the bills?”
“You’re right. You are nosy. But no. I also edit for a select group of writers, I submit book reviews for a variety of publications, and I write business copy for an ad firm in New York. All of which are jobs I can perform online. Away from the snow. Anywhere, in fact. Or more precisely, here. In close proximity to one of my favorite novelists.”
Milo’s cheeks heated. “Flatterer.”
Oddly, Logan blushed again too. It was a sight Milo was beginning to enjoy. He also enjoyed the way Logan’s eyes squinted at the corners when he laughed. And the way the bridge of his nose wrinkled up when he smiled. Milo rested his elbows on the table and studied Logan’s face more closely. It really was a hell of a face. And that five-o’clock shadow was sexy as hell.
“I can’t believe you’re not taken,” Milo heard himself say. “And yes, I’m still being nosy.”
To his surprise, Milo caught a glimmer of unease in Logan’s eyes. He had spotted a couple of them during the course of their conversation, but this one beat the others hands down. He was about to apologize for going too far when Logan’s eyes drifted to the window, as if something there had captured his attention. As Milo’s gaze followed, Logan began to speak. Milo turned back to listen, but Logan’s eyes never left the window. His voice was a little breathless, as if he were looking back, at his past, at his life, at something only he could see.
“I had a lover. We were together for three years. Last March—I can’t believe it’s been almost a year already—Jerry died in a car crash. In the snow, in fact. During a blizzard. He was twenty-seven at the time. I think maybe that’s another reason I’m leaving New York.”
“Too many memories?” Milo quietly said.
“Yes. Too many memories.”
Logan shifted his gaze back to Milo as a drowsy smile returned to soften his face. He heaved a quiet sigh. “Now you know everything there is to know about me. What about you? No exes I should hear about? No romances in the works?”
Milo ran his fingertip through a ring of moisture on the table left there by his soda glass. “I really didn’t mean to snoop that much, Logan. I’m sorry. And I’m sorry for your loss too. I can’t—I can’t imagine what that must have been like for you.”
Logan gave him an accepting nod, his eyes fixed on the table now, on his hands resting there in front of him. For the first time, Milo noticed the silver band on Logan’s ring finger. Somehow he knew there was a story behind that ring, a story he would love to hear but knew instinctively not to ask about.
“Thank you, Milo,” Logan said, jarring Milo’s attention from the ring. “And don’t be ashamed of snooping. That’s what writers have to do, I think. But still, it doesn’t let you off the hook. I want to hear about your love life. How many lovers have you driven mad tap-tap-tapping at your keyboard day and night while they’re trying to sleep? How many partners have you pissed off by tacking their most annoying faults onto a character in one of your books? And how, pray tell, does someone who looks like you find himself living with a dog named Spanky and not a handsome, worshiping Adonis?”
Since the tip of his finger was wet already, Milo flipped the moisture at Logan’s face, making him jump. After they’d both chuckled at that, although Milo knew he was being infantile and no doubt Logan knew it too, he decided to share a few secrets. It was the least he could do after Logan had revealed so much to him.
“Thanks for the compliment, if that’s what it was,” Milo said, grinning. Then his face grew more serious. “My Adonis and I broke up a long time ago. His name was Bryce. Another writer.” Here, Milo rolled his eyes. “Well, he was trying to be. He never got the breaks, though. Couldn’t make his first sale. I’m not being catty when I say his stuff wasn’t good enough, but truthfully, it wasn’t. I never quite had the nerve to tell him, though. I loved him, after all. At least I thought I did. I didn’t want to hurt him. Still, I think now it would have been better if I’d been honest.”
“So what happened?” Logan asked. He was leaning forward with his elbows on the table, his chin in his hands, taking in every word.
It almost embarrassed Milo that Logan was so absorbed in what he was saying. But he couldn’t stop now. He might as well finish the story. Logan had been open with him. Tit for tat, and all that.
“Bryce just up and left. No, that’s not right. I suppose we sort of left each other. Truthfully, our relationship seemed to meander into self-destruct mode without any help from either one of us. He eventually moved away. Left San Diego, I heard. I’m not sure where he ended up. It could have been anywhere. Bryce had money he’d inherited, so that was one thing he never had to worry about. Anyway, I hope he’s happy. We had a good time together for a while, and I know a lot of gay guys who haven’t had that much. So I’m not complaining.”
He pulled himself out of his own thoughts an
d looked at Logan as if they were good friends already and this was the first time he had seen him in a while.
A kind light warmed Logan’s eyes, like he knew the exact moment when Milo pulled himself away from his memories and back to the present. He reached out and patted Milo’s hand.
“Thank you for sharing that with me,” Logan said.
Milo nodded. “You too.”
Suddenly Logan sat up straighter. He glanced at his watch. When his gaze traveled back to Milo, he appeared saddened by what he was about to say. Saddened but still determined. “I’m going to have to leave. I have an appointment to see an apartment in thirty minutes. I don’t want to be late.”
Milo jumped. “No. Of course not. Here, let me get this.” He reached for the tab, but Logan beat him to it.
“No. I invited you,” Logan said. “Dinner’s on me.”
Milo sat back. “Well, if you insist.” A moment later he added, “It was nice meeting you. And thank you again for the reviews.”
Logan gave a cavalier shrug. “Hey, it’s what I do.” He glanced at his watch again. “I’m going to have to run. I don’t want to lose a chance on snagging that apartment. It’s perfect.”
“Yes, of course. Go. Run.”
Milo watched as Logan laid some bills over the tab and scooted it to the edge of the table for the waitress. He rose and hovered over Milo for a second. He stood silent, shuffling from one foot to the other, as if unsure what to say.
Finally, he asked softly, “Can I call you sometime?”
Surprised by the shyness in Logan’s voice, Milo looked up and said without thinking, “Of course. I’d like you to.”
“Oh good, then,” Logan said, the relief evident on his face, although he still looked incredibly embarrassed. His eyes skidded away from Milo to take in the restaurant and the diners scattered here and there.
Before Milo could reply, before he could think of a single thing to say, Logan laid a gentle hand on his shoulder, the lightest of touches, before hurrying away, weaving between the tables and slipping out the front door without a backward glance.