by E M Lindsey
The words hit him a second later, and he felt the anxiety knot in his belly give way to something softer and sweeter. Wilder hadn’t been ignoring him. He hadn’t wanted to brush him off, and Lorenzo felt like an ass for not checking in. He detached one hand from Wilder’s hair to sign, ‘Do you need help today?’
Wilder grinned, but he shook his head. “Dmitri did almost all the prep work last night.” He dug his fingers into Lorenzo’s sides. “I wanted to invite you to my place for dinner.”
Closing his eyes, Lorenzo leaned in, brushing his nose along Wilder’s forehead before smudging kisses along his cheeks, his chin, his neck. He wanted to kiss his mouth, but he also wanted to breathe in the scent of him, let it wrap around him and overwhelm him.
“Is that a yes?”
Lorenzo pulled back and nodded his fist. ‘Yes.’
“Good. Kiss me then, before I have to finish this up.”
Lorenzo had no trouble complying. He laid a hand to Wilder’s jaw, dragged his thumb along his skin, then pressed their lips together—soft and chaste at first, and then deeper as Wilder opened to him—just like before, fierce and willing. He tasted sweet and fruity, and his tongue fucked into Lorenzo’s mouth before he pulled away with a gasp.
“Sorry,” he said, pressing a hand to Lorenzo’s chest. “Sorry.”
Lorenzo frowned. “What?”
Wilder’s hand drifted to his crotch and pressed to where he was hard. And there was pain, but not like the night at the aquarium. It was a dull throb, a lot like blue-balls. Nothing he couldn’t handle. Wilder’s hand made him harder though, and he couldn’t stop his groan as he pushed into it.
“It’s fine.”
Wilder frowned up at him. “I didn’t catch that.”
‘It’s fine,’ he repeated in sign. ‘The pain is better.’
Wilder’s smile after that was hungry—it was almost feral as he rose onto his toes and flipped them around so Lorenzo was pressed to the bench, and he proceeded to devour his mouth like he was starving for him. “Tonight,” he muttered.
Lorenzo pressed his hand into Wilder’s palm and nodded his fist, not wanting to pull away for sign space. ‘Yes.’
Wilder ripped his mouth away, his cheeks flushed, lips parted with his pant. He swallowed thickly once, then twice, and finally looked up. “You have to go. I’m not going to be able to concentrate at all if you stay here.”
It wasn’t exactly incentive to stay away, but knowing that he’d have Wilder tonight—in whatever capacity Wilder wanted to give himself—was enough to push him into another kiss, and then a second, and then a third before he managed to stop. They didn’t say any sort of goodbye, their gazes locked for a short eternity. Then Lorenzo turned on his heel and let himself out, and he could only breathe again when the warm air filled his lungs just outside the shop.
The day spread out in front of him with no purpose, and yet he didn’t feel compelled to fill it. He forced himself away from Indulgence only to remove the temptation to go back inside, and instead found himself wandering back toward the courtyard where all of the fire fighters had gone except Fitz, who Raphael had introduced him to the night at the Tavern, and then the tall, good looking man next to him.
Fitz’s eyes zeroed in on him, and before Lorenzo was aware of it, he was following the man’s shorthand wave to come over. The grass sank beneath his feet, and he felt only a little nervous as he approached, shoving one hand into his pocket just for something to do.
“You look lost,” Fitz said.
Lorenzo rolled his eyes. “I am lost. Not literally, but…I’m not sure what the hell to do with myself today.”
“Besides making out with your boyfriend?” Fitz offered, and the other man laughed.
“I don’t know what…” he started, but Fitz’s eyeroll cut him off.
“I’m engaged,” Fitz reminded him. “I know what it looks like when someone’s been making out for the last half hour.”
“Five minutes, maybe,” Lorenzo defended, unwilling to lie.
At that, the other man’s eyes darkened for a second, and he took an imposing step forward. “We haven’t met. I’m Birdie.”
Lorenzo’s eyes widened as he extended his hand and felt his fingers near crushed in a firm shake. “Raphael mentioned you.”
“So, you and Raph are official?”
“No,” Lorenzo said in a rush, pulling his hand back. “No, not…I was at the bakery with Wilder.”
Birdie’s face didn’t show any ease. “Wilder’s a good guy.”
“Don’t,” Fitz warned him, and Birdie scoffed. “Why don’t you get Ruiz and finish that trimming job Mrs. Winters was asking for.”
Birdie rolled his eyes, then gave Lorenzo another sharp look before he stormed off. When he was gone, Lorenzo’s shoulders slumped, and he glanced away. He knew Birdie wasn’t romantically interested, but it was very obvious he was protective—and that he didn’t like Lorenzo much.
“He gets that way with everyone,” Fitz said, his tone surprisingly gentle. “I’ve only seen him go easy on one guy before, and that’s because he wanted to sleep with him.”
Lorenzo’s cheeks pinked. “I can’t tell if that’s supposed to make me feel better or insult me.”
Fitz chuckled. “Neither. He has specific taste. But for what it’s worth, Wilder was smiling this morning when I ran into him on my way to Levi’s truck, and I haven’t seen that look on him…maybe ever.”
Lorenzo’s stomach twisted with worry and pride. He liked that he could give Wilder something—but the pressure was a lot. “We’re not…I mean. It’s new.”
“I know,” Fitz said with a gentle smile. “I’m not trying to make it more than it is. I just want you to know that I noticed. And I’m happy for you both.”
Lorenzo didn’t know what to make of that, but he thought it was probably time to stop searching for hidden meaning in people’s words. At least here, people didn’t play those same games as they did back in Malibu.
Which, really, was starting to feel less and less like home.
“So, you know the uh…goat farm?”
“Collin’s place?” Fitz asked, the corner of his lips twitching.
Lorenzo let out a heavy sigh. “You know.”
“Parker is my best friend. And by that I mean he’s been one of my soul mates since we were eight years old. So yes, I know.”
Lorenzo wanted to be angry—it was private, medical information, and no one had the right. But Fitz wasn’t looking at him with pity, rather more sympathy and apology. And he just didn’t have the energy to care. “Do you think he’d mind if I went back there?”
Fitz laughed. “Who, Collin?” When Lorenzo nodded, Fitz dragged a hand down his face. “He would love it if you went back. I haven’t seen him in town in a while, but he’s probably a mess about what happened. He’s a good guy, and he takes it pretty personally when people get hurt out there. Especially by Robert.”
“I’m not angry with him,” Lorenzo said—and he meant it with every word. He had been in too much pain at the time to be disappointed that his trip to the farm had been cut short, but he was thinking about it now, as the entire day sat before him with nothing to occupy his time.
He was beyond the ridiculous idea that he could find himself by digging his hands into dirt, but he wanted to present himself as a person willing to bounce back when everything fell apart. He’d never done that before, and he needed to know he was capable.
“You good, man?” Fitz asked.
Lorenzo smiled. “Actually, I think I am.”
Chapter Twelve
Wilder drummed his fingers on his leg, nervous energy rippling through him, threatening to trigger his vertigo, which was teetering on the edge of another attack. He hadn’t had a day like this in a while—not since he left home. Stress was one of his biggest triggers, but he had never considered how badly he could stress over getting something he wanted. Mostly, he thought with a sardonic, quiet laugh, because it rarely happened.
He was comfortable and settled in Cherry Creek, but the town had never inspired such hunger or desperation in him before. In fact, he wasn’t sure he’d ever wanted something as badly as he wanted Lorenzo—and the thought didn’t scare him as much as it should have. Lorenzo had asked him not to cook, but Wilder hadn’t thought about his own restrictions until half an hour before Lorenzo was supposed to show up.
Which was why he was standing outside of Levi’s truck waiting on a container of rice, plain grilled chicken, and a couple of Israeli salads. He felt like an ass for picking up a plan B, but he didn’t want anything to ruin what the night might become. He wasn’t ready for everything—hell, he wasn’t ready for much—but he was ready to prove to himself that he could move on. That Scott hadn’t robbed him of a future with someone else.
Wilder started when the window slid open and Levi leaned out, a plastic bag looped around his wrist. ‘Finished,’ he signed.
‘Thank you.’ Wilder took it from him and swiped a hand over his brow which was sweating, but not from the short burst of late afternoon summer heat. He noticed when Levi became aware of the tremble in his fingers, and he held his hand behind his back. “Sorry.”
Levi’s eyes narrowed, and he shook his head at him. ‘Don’t.’
Wilder felt another ripple of anxiety, and he breathed through it, giving a tense, nervous laugh. “I should go.”
He started to back away, but Levi waved at him, and he turned. Levi’s signs were amateur at best, but he got his point across. ‘Relax. It’s going to be fine. Rocco loves his little brother. He’s a good person.’
Wilder nodded, but it didn’t help. Lorenzo wasn’t the end-all, be-all of his potential love life, but Wilder had come to realize he wanted him to be. He wanted his happy ending, and he didn’t want to slog through more bullshit and pain to get there. He wanted to go to bed and wake up to his sleepy brown eyes and slightly crooked smile. He wanted to feel Lorenzo’s warm hands on him and the way his shoulders shook when he laughed, and he wanted the shy look on his face all the time when he tentatively asked for validation.
He wanted to grow with him—to see what new shape he would take post-Scott as he shed the last of that life in the wake of something new and wonderful. And he thought maybe that could be Lorenzo, but he had never been good at predicting the future.
He’d be damned if he didn’t try, though.
He offered Levi another thanks, which was waved off, and he felt better about himself as he headed back to the apartment. Making his way upstairs, he grabbed his phone and shot Lorenzo a text, letting him know he was home and would be ready for him whenever.
Lorenzo: I told you not to cook, right?
Wilder: You did, and I didn’t.
He contemplated telling him now that his restrictions were annoying, but important. Lorenzo would get it—he had an allergy that could kill him if he wasn’t careful. He wouldn’t mock Wilder for it. But he hated needing to be accommodated.
Eyeing the bags of food on the table, he shoved them into the fridge, then began to tidy up until the light by the door flashed. His heart hammered in his chest for a minute, but he breathed through it, then walked downstairs and let Lorenzo in.
He looked good, more dressed than he’d been that morning in the bakery kitchen, but not as fussy and put together as before. His hair was wind-swept, and his t-shirt was only half tucked into his jeans, and he was effortlessly gorgeous. He had a scarf hanging over his arm, and a couple of silver rings on his fingers, and his arms were loaded with Tupperware.
They said nothing, but they locked eyes and smiled for far too long before Wilder turned and led him up the stairs. He could feel Lorenzo directly behind him, a sort of warmth taking up normally empty space, and he wondered if it was something he’d ever get used to.
It was odd having anyone but Theo in his place. Apart from wine nights and the occasional trip down the hill for a movie, Wilder wasn’t the most social person in Cherry Creek. And he didn’t mind that life. He liked his safe space. He liked that he could trust his apartment would always be his—and he liked that he had control over who he shared his world with. The moment became sweeter when Lorenzo dropped everything on the table, then reached for Wilder and drew him close.
His palms were heated from the food he carried, and they seared through Wilder’s thin shirt, right into his hips as Lorenzo lowered his head and nuzzled their lips together. He felt a moan drag from his throat, his lips parting, letting Lorenzo’s tongue inside.
His head spun—but for the first time that day, it wasn’t vertigo. It was happiness, so alien to him, he almost didn’t recognize it.
“Hey.” At least, that’s what he thought Lorenzo said, the breath of the word brushing against his mouth. He gave Wilder a series of pecks, then gently pulled back for sign space. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Better,’ he answered, glad he could be honest about that for once. He had stopped feeling like he was walking sideways around one, after he’d eaten his lunch, and even with his heart thumping wildly at the feeling of Lorenzo standing so close, he had never felt steadier. ‘What did you bring me?’
Lorenzo stepped back and flushed. ‘I’ve never had to surprise anyone with dinner, and I…you’ll think I’m weird.’
Wilder cocked his head to the side. ‘I won’t.’
‘I looked up your disease?’ He signed it like a question, but Wilder wasn’t sure he meant it that way, or if he was just struggling with his facial expressions. ‘Google said that sodium is a big deal.’
Wilder flushed, his guts twisting in the best and most painful way because no one ever—ever—asked him about it. ‘Yes. On bad days like today I generally avoid all salt.’
Lorenzo nodded, and he bit his lip as he went on. ‘Italian food without salt is…a crime, according to my mother. But I tried my best, and I think it tastes okay. If it’s awful, we can order out or cook something. Whatever you want…’
That might have been the end of his rambling signs, but Wilder would never know. He gave in to the rush of desire to grab him, to hold him, to kiss him deep as he backed Lorenzo up all the way to the table, fingers digging into his hips. He broke apart, breathless and trembling, and he laid his head on Lorenzo’s shoulder. “It’ll be perfect. Thank you.”
He felt a soft vibration, heard a faint tone, but he didn’t think it was words. A soft groan, maybe, as Lorenzo curled his hands into Wilder’s shirt and just held him. It was nothing like he expected—and he wasn’t sure what to do with it, but he knew he was right in not wanting to let him go.
He pulled back after a minute, offering Lorenzo a sheepish smile, and he shrugged. ‘I like you.’
Lorenzo chuckled. ‘I can tell.’
Wilder felt a pang of something uncomfortable, an old, broken fear left over when Scott had used his body against him. If Wilder was hard, it was obvious he wanted it. If Wilder wanted it, he had no right to tell Scott no. It had taken him years to stop being afraid of his own body, to reclaim the idea of consent. But showing physical desire still terrified him a little.
The look in Lorenzo’s eyes was nothing like Scott, though. It was soft, it was wonder, it was hesitance. It calmed him and took away some of the trembling in his hands when he lifted them. ‘We should eat, yes?’
‘Yes.’ Lorenzo looked almost relieved, and he quickly took the containers of food to plate everything, moving around Wilder’s kitchen like he’d been there a dozen times. He turned around, a small grin lifting the corners of his mouth, making him look young and a little unsure.
Wilder moved around him for water before leading him to the living room and easing down with his legs stretched under the coffee table. It was small, barely room for both of them, but it felt good to have Lorenzo pressed against his side like he was always meant to be there.
“So, tell me,” Lorenzo started, then froze.
It took Wilder a second to realize why Lorenzo hesitated, then he shook his head. “There’s no background noise. I can hear you.”
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Lorenzo’s voice was muffled, but he could make out all the consonants and most of the vowels as he leaned in to finish what he was saying. “You can tell me if the food sucks. I promise it won’t hurt my feelings.”
Although Wilder had a feeling that was at least partially a lie, he nodded. “Trust me—my diet is bland. This…does not look bland.” He wasn’t making that up, either. He ate a lot of fresh fruits and vegetables, but his proteins were always lacking when he had to forgo all seasonings and salt. Even the low-sodium soy sauce was too much on most days, and he had never been very creative when it came to meals.
His baking—that was different. But he had resigned himself to a diet without any real pleasure behind what he was eating. Until now. He could smell the richness of it—the bite of wine, the mushrooms, the garlic. He took some onto his fork, then ate it, and his eyes shut with real pleasure.
It was good. He didn’t have to lie or placate. It lacked the sort of tongue-curling sharpness of salt that he missed and craved too often, but in place of that was a sort of richness that brought him something like comfort.
“Wow.”
“You’re not just saying that?” Lorenzo asked.
Wilder set his plate down and turned to face him. “Did you try it?”
At that, Lorenzo scowled. “I always taste my food when I eat it. But it isn’t the recipe I’m used to. It’s not how I’m used to cooking. If I told my mom no salt and no parm, she’d cry. And this really isn’t as good as hers.”
Wilder grinned and shook his head. “I probably won’t get the chance to compare. Even on my good days, I have to be careful. So, in our world,” he reached over and laid his hand to Lorenzo’s cheek, “this is the best risotto recipe ever made.”
Lorenzo swallowed thickly. “So, eat it, then.”