What the Heart Wants

by Jerry Cole

  “Now I am impressed,” Marc said. “A hockey fan?”

  “I lived in New York,” Brent pointed out. “I was surrounded by six hockey teams and that’s without the fans coming through Champlain for games.”

  “Doesn’t mean you have to be a fan.” Marc nodded his head in the direction of the window. “Though you have joined a hockey city.”

  Brent had seen the jerseys and the memorabilia. Chicago was a hockey city. “Think I’ll stick to warm sports. I don’t do well in the cold.”

  Marc winced. “Moving to Chicago probably wasn’t the smartest move.”

  Laughing again, Brent stretched out on the floor in front of the couch to better attack Stanley with scratches. He had flopped onto his back and was currently enjoying the belly rubs Brent was bestowing upon him. “Cute dog.”

  “He’s amazing.” Marc’s voice was low and fond, his eyes soft as he stared at Stanley. “I don’t know what I’d do without him.”

  It was on the tip of Brent’s tongue to ask why Marc needed him at all, but they were still effectively strangers. It wasn’t the kind of thing someone asked. Marc had avoided the subject with the harness, so Brent did the same now.

  “Juliette’s a pain in the ass.”

  “And yet,” Marc said, raising his eyebrows, “you adore her anyway.”

  Brent made a face, so he wouldn’t have to answer but he was sure he was giving it away with the dopey smile. “Eh.”

  “Whatever.” Marc stared at him impassively, not buying Brent’s nonchalance. “We live in the same building. I’ve seen how you are with her—and with the other dogs.”

  Not sure what to make of the fact Marc had been watching him—and Brent didn’t feel as creeped out by that as he probably should, especially considering how often he’d stared at Marc—Brent shrugged with one shoulder. “What can I say? I’m a dog person.”

  They lapsed into silence, Stanley shifting onto his stomach and decided he should probably let Marc have some scratches too. Juliette sniffed Stanley’s face and Brent rolled his eyes.

  “Juliette, nobody wants your muzzle in their face, not even Stanley.”

  Though she ignored the admonishment, she came over anyway, shoving at his face with her muzzle. Brent pretended to hate it, shoving her away, but she just crowded closer, whining and tail thumping against the couch.

  “Are the other dogs yours?” Marc asked, startling Brent out of his distraction.

  “The other dogs?” Brent frowned.

  “Yeah, you bring other dogs here sometimes. I just didn’t know if they were yours.” Marc didn’t meet his eyes, a pink tinge to his cheeks, and Brent smothered a smirk. It wouldn’t be fair to tease Marc for something he was guilty of himself.

  “Oh, no, those are my clients’ dogs.” Brent took a few sips of beer. He didn’t know whether he wanted to admit to Marc he was a dog walker. Not that it wasn’t a lucrative career if you wanted it to be, but part of Brent was still annoyed at himself for not snatching up a journalism job right out of college. “I’m a dog walker.”

  Marc didn’t look like he was judging Brent. He looked at Stanley and then at Juliette. “You’re good with dogs. I can see why you’d do that.”

  “Thanks,” Brent said, feeling his own cheeks heat up. He ducked his head and buried his face in Juliette’s neck for a moment, so he wouldn’t have to come up with a reason to avoid looking at Marc. When he finally risked it, Marc was making faces at Stanley, eyes darting to Brent occasionally. It didn’t feel as awkward as it could have. It felt charged, a thrill running up Brent’s spine and he swallowed around the lump in his throat. “Do you—”

  “You’re not—” Marc started, and they both broke off, laughing gently. Brent waved a hand for Marc to continue and he did. “You’re not going to ask what I do?”

  “I figure you’ll offer it when you’re ready.” Brent nodded to the harness currently hanging off the couch. “Some things you keep to yourself. I get it.”

  “Thanks,” Marc said quietly. “Most people don’t care.”

  “Then most people are idiots,” Brent pointed out without missing a beat. It wasn’t a lie; most people he knew couldn’t shut up enough to realize when they were insulting someone. “I have a sister with anxiety. People think they know about her and what it means, but they don’t. I’ve seen how much it irritates her and can imagine it’s the same for you.”

  Marc nodded. “Sorry for your sister, but yeah, it’s the same.”

  “Well,” Brent said, latching for something else to talk about in case it became awkward again. “What do you do for fun, Marc?”

  Marc snorted, tipping his head back against the chair cushion. “We having a bonding session?”

  “We’re neighbors,” Brent pointed out needlessly. “If we get to know each other, we won’t end up on of those real-life crime programs where neighbors kill each other.”

  Looking startled, Marc’s expression relaxed into amusement. “Murder? How did you get from neighbor bonding to murder?”

  “You never know.” Brent waggled his eyebrows, knowing he looked like an idiot, but it made Marc laugh, so he counted it as a win. “Not that I was planning to murder you.”

  “Always good to know.” Marc’s smile was soft and surprised, his eyes crinkled at the corners, and God, Brent loved that smile a whole lot.

  He was fucked.

  Chapter Eight

  Brent’s phone sat on the coffee table, taunting him.

  Well. Marc’s number being in his phone was taunting him. The guy lived next door, but Brent found having Marc’s number was more distracting. It wasn’t like he could just pop over and check on Marc without looking like a creep. That was less likely with texting; there were limits, of course, to how many times he could text someone without edging into stalker territory.

  That didn’t explain, however, why it was so hard to send a simple hey to Marc. It had been at least a day since they’d hung out, and even though Brent was supposed to be looking after a couple of dogs for Alonya, he had managed to get thoroughly distracted. He was only snapped out from his phone, glaring, when something crashed from the kitchen and he winced, hoping he wouldn’t have to replace anything too expensive.

  The three dogs—Juliette, and the two huskies, Geno and Lika—where currently attacking the food Juliette had conveniently spilled across the floor. Brent would have put that back properly if he hadn’t been preoccupied with his damn phone.

  “I know it was you,” he snapped, as he shoved Juliette out of the way. “I’ve seen you open the doors in the apartment, you pain.”

  Juliette tried to muscle her way back to the food, but Brent hauled her into the hall, slamming the door in her face and doing it twice more with Geno and Lika. Honestly, dogs were such a chore.

  Or, he chastised himself angrily, maybe he should be paying attention to his job instead of mooning over Brent. He was literally turning into a lovesick teenager. By the time he’d cleaned up the mess, throwing out the waste and putting what was salvageable back in the plastic box, he made a mental note to shoot Alonya a text to let her know what happened and that he’d replace what she lost.

  When he opened the door, all three dogs were laying in the hall, heads on their paws, contrite and apologetic. Brent rolled his eyes, knowing he was weak, but he’d never been great at staying mad at dogs. “Come on, let’s take you kids for a walk.”

  Shoving his phone in his back pocket, resolving only to take it out for photo reasons, he grabbed the three harnesses and leashes. Immediately, all three dogs started to kick up a fuss, and Brent had to snap at them to shut up before they caused a riot with the neighbors. It worked long enough for him to harness and leash them and then they were happily pulling him out of the door and onto the street. Alonya had a house in a pretty prestigious area of Chicago, and Brent loved walking the streets. It was a quiet neighborhood, grassy areas more frequent than in his own district.

  It was chilly outside, but Brent had remembered his jacket and sca
rf. He still didn’t own a pair of gloves, however, and would have to buy a pair. A dog walker without gloves working in Chicago? His mom might not have raised a fool, but Brent still managed to be one occasionally.

  Thankfully, the dogs calmed down once they were outside, more interested in sniffing everything around them. That led more to Brent pulling them to get them to keep up than them pulling him in different directions. It was a task to keep dogs occupied on walks, but that was what most of his clients required of him, so he did it.

  Perhaps Brandon was on to something with the doggy day care, though. He was sure there were people out there who had dogs they couldn’t watch every hour of the day for whatever reason. Maybe he should inquire with his current clients if they wanted—or knew somebody who wanted—a dog walker slash doggy watcher for extended periods of time.

  Lika started sniffing in a circle and Brent sighed, tugging Juliette and Geno back from their exploration. The worst thing about walking dogs was poop duty, but at least Marc wasn’t around this time to make it awkward for everyone. Brent rolled his eyes at himself, somehow managing to bring it back to Marc yet again, but he supposed he could be forgiven for it. He remembered Polly’s first boyfriend and the amount of times she had managed to work Will into the conversation.

  By the time Brent wrestled the three dogs into Alonya’s house, he managed to distract himself four times with Marc and resolved to send him a text as soon as he freed all the dogs of their leashes. Juliette was easy enough, but Geno and Lika were excitable, even for huskies, and Brent breathed through his nose as calmly as he could to keep from getting angry. It wasn’t as if the dogs could help it, they were just being dogs, and he didn’t need to take his frustration out on them.

  The three dogs raced through to the living room and how they still had energy to burn, Brent didn’t know, but he leaned against the wall in the hall, rubbing the palm of his hand against his eyes. Tugging his phone out of his pocket, Brent brought up Marc’s number and formed a text message box. He stared down at the keyboard, wondering whether a simple hey would be enough for a conversation starter.

  He settled for Hey Marc, it’s Brent. That would leave the decision to talk in Marc’s hand. It seemed natural to let Marc lead the pace, considering the circumstances and the fact Brent was content with whatever Marc wanted from him. If that was friendship, so be it, but he could still hope for more.

  “Snap out of it.” As much as he’d like to keep staring at his phone, waiting for Marc to answer, he had a job to do. The dogs would only remain quiet for so long. Brent was due to leave, and he still needed to wrestle Geno and Lika into the back yard, something they were both opposed to when they realized he—and what he assumed was any human—was leaving them alone. It was only for a couple of hours, but they still made it seem as if they were being abandoned forever.

  Juliette usually kept out of the way, stretched out in the living room and watching the proceedings with fascination, and Brent was already worn out by the time it came to leave. She never put up much fuss on these days, and Brent was grateful for it. He was grateful for a lot of things, not least that she seemed to get on with most of the dogs on his client list. There were a couple she had problems with, and those were the days he left Juliette alone in his apartment, hoping she wasn’t too noisy. At least he had Marc’s number now, and Marc had his, so he would let Brent know if she was being a pain.

  As he and Juliette made their way to the train, the sky started to turn dark, and Brent made a face, knowing from the smell of ozone in the air, he was going to get rained on before he made it home. Like gloves, he had yet to purchase himself an umbrella. He’d always been inclined to live with a little rain, but Chicago was proving to be an exercise in frustration where his weather knowledge was concerned.

  Not that he didn’t love the place, but seriously.

  Juliette, by contrast, loved the rain. When they burst out of the station, Brent was mostly tugged along by her, and it was all he could do to protect himself from the rain and keep a hold of Juliette.

  Thankfully the station wasn’t far from the apartment building. As the two of them skidded under the shelter of the overhang, Brent was soaked through. Even more so when Juliette started to shake off the rest of the rainwater.

  “Dammit,” Brent muttered.

  He tried to get most of the water off, wringing his clothes and wiping his sneakers as best he could, before walking into the foyer. He didn’t want to drip too much on the floor, though there were a couple of wet floor signs up. He trudged toward his apartment, keeping a tight hold of Juliette’s leash to make sure she didn’t run her wet and muddy footprints into his carpets, and dug around in his pocket for his keys. It took a few tries, thanks to his cold-numb hands and the fact Juliette kept pulling on the leash, whining to get inside.

  “Hold on,” Brent snapped, feeling a headache blossom at the base of his skull. The day couldn’t possibly get any worse.

  There was the sound of something knocking and then, “Brent, you all right?”

  Great.

  Brent thumped his head against the door, letting out a groan. He was sure Marc seeing him wet and bedraggled wasn’t nearly the disaster he was making it out to be, but still, Brent was supposed to be suave and cool. Or something. That’s what he was always telling his sisters anyway. “M’fine.”

  It was mostly slurred thanks to the numbness now spreading to his face—could Chicago get any colder?!—but he was saved from having to fumble yet again for his keys when fingers pried them from his hands.

  “Let me help,” Marc said.

  Brent stared up at him, frowning, because he was quite capable of doing it himself, thank you. He didn’t realize he’d said the words aloud until Marc was smirking at him with raised eyebrows.

  “I watched you try to do it three times.”

  Brent resisted the urge to stick out his tongue. Marc wasn’t Polly, and he was certain it wasn’t polite. Marc rolled his eyes and shouldered Brent out of the way, slipping the key into the lock. While Brent still had a hold of Juliette’s leash, Marc fumbled for the towel Brent always kept by the door. “How did you know that was there?”

  “I saw it yesterday,” Marc told him. He cleaned off Juliette’s feet, rubbed her down gently with the towel. “You should probably take your coat off.”

  “Can’t let Juliette go,” Brent mumbled.

  “You can now,” Marc assured him. He took the leash from Brent’s hand and let Juliette out of her harness. Brent hoped she was completely dry because post-walk she always leapt up onto the couch.

  Brent stared dumbly down at his feet, where water was pooling around his sneakers. The weather was starting to catch up with him, and he was shivering.

  “You’re really not used to this are you,” Marc said, with thinly veiled amusement. He tugged Brent forward, into the apartment.

  “Where’s Stanley?” Brent asked, finally shrugging out of his coat. He shot Marc a look when he reached over to help, because he was more than capable of doing it himself. Marc held up his hands in surrender and took a step back, regarding Brent silently.

  “In the apartment. It’s not like I need him going from one apartment to the next,” Marc pointed out.

  Brent refrained from mentioning he brought him over the night before, because he didn’t think that was appropriate, and didn’t want to upset things between them before they had even started. If they had started. He hung his coat on the hook by the door, lamenting the fact his carpet was about to get very wet, and dumped Juliette’s towel on the floor to pick up most of it. He toed off his sneakers and then turned to look at Marc. “Thanks.”

  “No problem”, Marc said with a shrug. His eyes kept darting down to Brent’s chest, where his sweater was tight over his skin. His coat was clearly not suitable for heavy downpours. Brent wanted to ask Marc if he was staring because he was interested, but even numb from cold and desperate for something, he didn’t have the courage to ask.

  Instead, he ran a ha
nd through his wet hair. “Think I’m gonna go and have a shower.”

  Marc nodded, eyes landing back on Brent’s face with a soft smile. “I got your text, by the way.”

  “Good,” Brent said. “Feel free to use it whenever you like.”

  “I’ll hold you to that.” Marc stood in the doorway a little longer, hesitating enough that Brent wondered if he couldn’t bring himself to move. Brent didn’t particularly want him to move either, but he was still wet, and he needed to get dry and make something to eat and—

  “You should stay,” he said.

  “I should go,” Marc started, then cut himself off. Then, “Um.”

  “I mean,” Brent continued, feeling the flush rise on his face. “I’m sure you have things to do, and I’m just gonna be showering and—”

  He trailed off, unable to look Marc in the eye.

  “Brent,” Marc said, softly enough Brent wanted to raise his head, but couldn’t. There were fingers on his chin, raising his head so he had no choice. “You’re cold and wet, and it would be awkward.”

  Brent nodded, feeling shame and sadness pool in his belly.

  “But,” Marc continued, lips lifting in a small smile. “That doesn’t mean I don’t want to stay.”

  Eyes widening, Brent hardly dared hope. “So, you, you’re—?”

  “I mean, I don’t advertise it,” Marc said, apparently a mind reader as well as insanely attractive. “But yes, I’ve been known to date a guy or two in my time.”

  “Good,” Brent said, feeling braver now the hard part was out of the way. “Because I thought you were hot that first day, and I’ve been trying to figure out the best way of saying, ‘I find you attractive’ without sounding like a dick.”

  Marc snorted. “You did just fine.” He dropped his hands and jerked his head in the direction of the living room. “Go make sure Juliette isn’t soaking your couch cushions.”