Nesting Habits

by Charley Descoteaux

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Note from Charley Descoteaux

  Read on for Chapter One of the USA Today Must-read Romance, Buchanan House!

  Buchanan House: Chapter One

  More by Charley Descoteaux

  About the Author

  Copyright

  For everyone who’s ever wished they were just like everyone else.

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to everyone who has supported me and my writing. If I could, I’d knit something naughty for every one of you.

  Special thanks to Holly. Bruce digs his name.

  Phil

  HE BENT low over the desk, even though he was alone and no one could see his face. Scan; file; shred. Scan; file; shred. He derived a peaceful satisfaction as the banker’s boxes slowly emptied and the computer’s hard drive filled, little by little, with the product of a legal career.

  Scan; file; shred; clunk.

  He froze as he was about to pull a sheet of paper from the file folder lying open in the box. The sound of rushing water filled the basement, and a wet stain cut across the cement floor. For a moment he remained still and unbelieving, but only a moment. One by one, he moved the banker’s boxes to safety and then the equipment—computer, scanner, external hard drives.

  The last of the equipment was safe on the first floor when his boss returned from lunch with a client.

  “What’s all this?” asked Jerry.

  He glanced up. Jerry’s confused frown made his heart race, and he returned his eyes to the floor between his bare feet. “The basement’s f-flooding.”

  Jerry made a startled sound and raced toward the basement door. He returned to the kitchen more slowly. Water squished from his shoes onto the floor so he leaned against the counter and took them off. “The pipe feeding the water heater burst.”

  Jerry pulled a fat phone book off the top of the microwave and soon was on the phone with a plumber. When the conversation ended, he sighed. “You didn’t have to move everything, Phil. You could’ve just turned off the water.”

  TWO DAYS later he was busy again—scan; file; shred—when unfamiliar footsteps entered the garage.

  “Sorry to bother you, but would it be okay if I used the phone in the kitchen?”

  His hand shook when he reached for the next sheet of paper, so he pulled it back empty. After a quick glance up to make sure the guy was looking, he nodded.

  “Thanks….”

  The guy didn’t leave.

  “Say, this is the part where you tell me your name.”

  He waited, but still the guy didn’t leave. He took a slow deep breath and rehearsed it silently first. “Phil.”

  “Hey, Phil. I’m Lee.”

  He glanced up again. Lee’s smile—patient; kind; happy—wasn’t like anything he’d ever seen before. Lee had arrived in the plumber’s truck, with his worn jeans and his surfer hair. Lee. Lee had laughed at Jerry’s silly story about the case that made him want to retire. Lee still wore that same smile when Phil tilted his head to the side just enough to see that Lee’s eyes were brown. He returned his gaze to the floor beside his feet. “H-hey.”

  “So I’m half brain-dead from lack of sleep and forget to charge my phone.”

  Lee laughed, and the sound felt so good in his ears Phil wanted to laugh along with him. He settled for a strategic head-tilt that allowed him to watch Lee while keeping his face mostly hidden.

  “What’re you doing with all these boxes?” Lee twisted to look around the small garage at the Bankers Boxes lining the workbench and sitting in stacks on the floor.

  “S-scanning the d-documents.”

  “Why? I mean, this is a lot of documents to scan.”

  Phil sidestepped behind a stack of boxes and glanced up again. Lee’s smile dialed up a notch. He was so close, Phil could see the outline of his body beneath his T-shirt—the muscular body of a guy who ate like a guy. How was he supposed to get anything out with that in front of him? Talking was difficult enough anyway.

  Lee leaned over an open box and looked inside.

  “Th-those are p-priv—They’re c-confidential.”

  “Oh, sorry. I didn’t see anything.” He took a step back and wiped his palms down the front of his shirt. “Are you a lawyer too? Jerry’s a cool guy. I bet he’s fun to work for. Or with.”

  Phil shook his head. “N-not a…. Jerry’s great.” The corner of his mouth twitched into something like a smile.

  “Well, I better make that call. Thanks. You really saved my bacon, Phil.”

  Lee grinned and took a few steps toward the door. He looked over his shoulder just before he disappeared in the direction of the house.

  After he left, Phil leaned against the table holding the computer and scanner to catch his breath.

  SATURDAY. HE should be finishing cleanup on his apartment. It comprised half of the basement, and the water had invaded enough to soak the rugs and just about everything within four inches of the floor. Instead, he was stretched out on his stomach in the damp grass behind his tripod, staring through his Canon EOS 5D Mark III with the EF 75-300mm f/4-5.6 III telephoto zoom lens. A hummingbird zipped back and forth across the yard on a different trajectory each time, gathering materials for her nest, and Phil shot her construction work. He didn’t have to lie in the grass—the bird probably wouldn’t have cared if he walked around searching for a better angle—but he wanted to see how far away he could get and still freeze her wings. It wouldn’t be easy, but he had the time.

  She zipped away and over the fence seconds before he heard someone coming up behind him. Jerry would have called first, but Phil’s pocket hadn’t vibrated. His chest tightened, and he knew he should start employing strategies to avoid a full-on panic attack, but then two things happened at once.

  Lee’s voice said, “Hey, Phil,” and a jeans-clad bottom dropped onto the grass beside his head. “What’re you up to? Or maybe I should ask what you’re doing down here.”

  He turned his head just enough to see Lee’s knee peeking through a hole in his jeans, and then he dropped his face into the crook of his elbow. After a few slow deep breaths, he lifted his head, and Lee was still there. Phil looked up farther, and there was that smile again, making him sweat.

  “Geez, did I mess up your shot? Sorry about that. I don’t see what you’re shooting, though.”

  Steady; breathe; rehearse. “It’s o-okay. Sh-she’ll come back. Lee.”

  “Who? It’s an animal, right? Not some girl next door, right?” Lee laughed, but it wasn’t the same one he used before. He wasn’t breathing through it.

  Phil rose onto his elbows and turned on the view screen. He felt Lee’s eyes on his fingers as he scrolled back to a shot worthy of sharing. Close enough, anyway.

  “Her.”

  He pointed at the screen, and before he could move out of the way, Lee stretched out beside him and zeroed in on the screen. Phil gasped when Lee leaned so their shoulders and upper arms touched. He was busy processing the sensation of having someone touch him casually—even through the fabric of his shirt, he was reduced to staving off the hyperventilation he feared was inevitable—so he missed what Lee was saying. Lee was clo
se, so close, but his voice was far away.

  “Hey, Phil? You okay?”

  Lee moved away, just far enough so their bodies weren’t touching anymore.

  Phil nodded but couldn’t make himself turn to look at Lee.

  “Your pictures, they’re amazing.” Lee said, his voice calm and steady and filled with sincere awe. “What’s this in her beak?”

  Lee carefully scrolled forward, and Phil realized Lee had thumbed through all the pictures from that morning and some from last evening as well. He’d been out of it longer than he thought.

  “It’s a spiderweb. Hummingbirds use them to build their nests.”

  Two sentences. Phil couldn’t remember when he’d last gotten two sentences out just the way he’d intended. He smiled and raised his eyes to Lee’s. They seemed to mirror what he was feeling. Relief; happiness; desire. The next thing he knew, Lee’s lips brushed his lightly. Phil trembled but didn’t pull away. Pride in his perfect speech along with the giddy feeling inspired by Lee’s smile allowed Phil to give in to desire, just for a moment, to take a chance it would end well. Lee leaned toward him, but not so their shoulders touched, and kissed him just a few seconds longer. He kept his mouth almost completely closed, but Phil tasted a hint of hot chocolate. Or maybe the heat came from Lee.

  “Whoa,” Lee sighed as much as said.

  For a moment they just breathed. Lee sounded like he’d just run up the stairs. He crossed his arms on the grass and rested his cheek on them. His arm strained the sleeve of his T-shirt. That smile was back.

  “You really had me going there for a minute. I was afraid you were snapping pictures of your neighbor girls in various stages of undress. Wouldn’t that be a drag? I mean, I’d probably have a black eye right now, right?” Lee laughed.

  Phil cut Lee’s melodious laughter short when he jumped up and grabbed his camera and tripod, then cradling them in his arms, he stumbled backward, toward the house. “I-I g-gotta g-go.”

  He heard Lee behind him—calling out but not getting any closer—and then he was inside, his feet pounding down the concrete steps. He barely made it to the safety behind his door before the panic gripped him so hard he could barely breathe through the terror. He curled into a tight ball on his bed and let it wash over him. “Let” wasn’t quite right, but the harder he fought it, the longer it would last. Eight years should have been enough, but obviously it wasn’t. The panic was still stronger than he would ever be.

  THE WAVES battering him from within began to subside. Before he was able to let go and sleep, he remembered a therapist who’d said to picture his anxiety as harmless as smoke passing through a screen door. Because smoke never hurt anyone. No, smoke is perfectly harmless; it’s the cigarettes generating it that’ll do you in.

  At least all of the advice he’d gotten hadn’t turned out to be as worthless. He’d learned to breathe through it and hadn’t become physically ill for—for a few years at least. He was finally able to get through a panic attack without actually feeling the fists and boots, the two-by-four, or the dog. He held on to the hope that one day he wouldn’t even think about them during a panic attack. And that one day he would hear about or see a triggery act and not feel the invisible fingers of panic squeezing his throat and lungs.

  PHIL WASN’T able to leave his tiny basement apartment until late that evening, and he only did then because his fridge was empty. Once he raided Jerry’s kitchen, the crushing weight of his disappointment in himself forced him back down the stairs. Jerry had left a note—he was on a date.

  The thought of going on a date, of getting dressed up and being with someone in a public place—someone with expectations aimed right at you—weakened his legs and for a moment he was afraid of passing out. But just for a moment. He ate a sandwich and drank a Mountain Dew, even though he wasn’t officially supposed to ingest caffeine. Even if he didn’t quite behave like an adult, he was twenty-four and would drink a pop when he wanted to—which was at least once every hour or so of wakefulness, but he kept from burning through it at that rate on most days.

  He pulled his laptop from its place on the bookshelf beside his bed and plugged in the camera. One of the pictures showed the neighbor’s cat crouched in the corner under the blue spruce, waiting for her chance to pounce. He had nothing against cats per se, but that one would have to hunt elsewhere.

  He grabbed his shoes and headed for the backyard. The cat had always run away as soon as he made it halfway across the yard. She’d never stayed for a photo session before, though, so he wasn’t sure what to expect. The cat wasn’t there, but a piece of paper sat on the porch rail, flapping in the breeze. A purple heart-shaped rock sat on top of it. That was from the garden. He eased up beside the page and tilted his head to read it. It flapped too much to see more than that it was addressed to him. The note read “Phil,” with a heart over the “i” instead of a dot. That heart was bigger than it had to be and looked more like a doodle than something planned—the outline left a dent in the page.

  Hey Phil,

  Thanks for letting me see your pictures. You’re an amazing photographer.

  My band’s playing Sunday night. It’s not as amazing as pictures of a hummingbird using spiderwebs to build a nest, but I hope you’ll come to Backspace around 8 anyway. I’ll leave your name at the door so you won’t have a cover.

  See you!

  Lee Redding

  Phil tried to remember if Lee said what kind of band he played in, but he’d been too distracted by the way his T-shirt stretched across his shoulders and the skin peeking through holes in the knees of his jeans. Great. It was bad enough when he couldn’t talk right, but now he couldn’t even listen right.

  HE DIDN’T think much about the practical reality of it, even though he spent many hours between Saturday evening and Sunday evening contemplating what kind of band Lee would play in and what he wore onstage. He’d never been to Backspace but found the address easily enough. It was only a few blocks away, and the neighborhood was usually mellow at that time of day, so he walked. Halfway there, a light mist started to fall, so he slipped off his jacket and used it to protect his camera. Phil broke stride when he realized he worried about looking dumb if the shoulders of his denim shirt got too wet before he got there.

  His heart rate sped up when he made it to the door and the name on the list was Phil Callahan. He had to force himself to pick up his foot, and then the other, and walk through the door. His life would have been very different if Jerry was his dad. Even though he liked women too, Jerry had never been married and had no kids.

  It was a relief to get inside, to find the music filling the large space, up to the ceiling, with no room to spare—definitely too loud for conversation. People usually didn’t notice him, but it still took some of the pressure off. Lee’s band was already on stage—he didn’t want to be too early, so it was nearly eight forty by the time he looked for an out-of-the-way place to stand and listen.

  Lee looked like he had in the backyard: happy and gorgeous. His hair was wild from all the head banging, and when they reached the end of a song, he jumped high into the air at just the right time to land on stage when the last note sounded. Phil wished his camera included audio. For that one note, anyway.

  The band congratulated one another to a smattering of applause and then went into another song. Phil hoped it would be the last. He’d heard some Metallica before but wasn’t quite sure what to make of this type of metal—the singer growled and screamed and pounded his bare chest, and Phil had to look away or he wouldn’t have been able to stay. He hadn’t come to see that guy, though.

  Lee saw him and smiled a little too broadly, and when he walked to the end of the stage nearest where Phil stood, some of the crowd—he’d used the word “crowd” as loosely as he had the word “song”—turned and looked at him. Unfortunately, he stuck out like a neon sign in his light blue button shirt. The denim was worn almost white, and he stood with his back against a dark wall. He knew he looked as scared as he felt, b
ut guys who stand five seven and have elfish features probably had to work at looking tough even when they actually were. Phil shivered at the memory of being called “hobbit” at the group home, or maybe it was to the way one guy in the crowd didn’t turn to face front again at the same time everyone else did.

  Thankfully, the next time they stopped, the singer growled something that sounded like thanks and good night, and then they started putting their instruments away. The singer grabbed Lee’s shoulder and said something into his ear, but Lee’s smile never faltered, so maybe that’s just the way that guy was.

  Lee put his bass in a long flat case, wound a cord around his arm, and then bounded off the stage. He came toward Phil with a bounce in his step and a huge grin on his face. The case looked heavy, but he carried it like a lunchbox. Lee started to speak but stopped to pull plugs from his ears and stuff them in the front pocket of his jeans.

  “Hey.”

  Phil nodded.

  “Let’s get out of here. I need a coffee.”

  Lee’s feet barely stopped, and Phil was pretty sure something had just sailed right past him. He didn’t have time to process the whole scene before they were outside, and then he didn’t care anymore.

  “How’d you get here?”

  “Walked.”

  “Cool. Come on. I’m parked around back.”

  They walked side by side. Phil wanted to watch every muscle and memorize the way they moved but already felt out of his depth, so he kept his eyes forward. Mostly. They rounded the building, and Lee gently bumped his arm against Phil’s shoulder.

  “So, what’d you think of the music?”

  Phil shivered with the effort to keep from laughing out loud. “It was horrible.”

  Lee made a loud questioning sound and turned to walk sideways beside Phil. “You’d better be smiling when you say that.”

  “Oh, I w-was.”