Page 31 of Just A Little Fling

After a particularly athletic twirl, he finally noticed me watching him in the doorway. Babbo immediately hurried over, wrapped his arm around my shoulder, and gave me a quick hug.

“Morning, Sweet Boy. How’s your head feeling?”

His kiss on my temple made me feel loved and wanted and little and middle and all the other things I rarely wanted to put into words. There was no escaping the fact that now that I knew him for who he was, I also clearly knew Babbo wasn’t one-night stand material. He was an all-in Daddy, through and through. He wouldn’t believe my lie that I felt fine, so I might as well be honest.

“I could use a little aspirin. My head isn’t feeling so great.”

“I’m not surprised, Sweet Boy. How much did you have to drink last night?”

“Too damn many for my own good. I had a couple of shots, went to the dancefloor, and had a few more. They were the ones in the little test tube thingies.”

“Oh damn. You’ve got to watch those. They taste like fruit punch and fuck you up.”

“Yeah, I figured that out after, like, the fifth one, but I was already too far gone.”

“Lucky for you, pancakes are a surefire hangover cure. Do you have plans this weekend?”

“Just hang around the house. You?”

“I might, but I’ll tell you after breakfast.”

“Why then? What happens after breakfast?”

“I’m hoping I can convince you to spend the weekend with me after charming you over breakfast. By the way, did you decide whether you wanted orange juice, chocolate milk, or coffee?”

“May I please have some coffee and chocolate milk? Is two okay?”

“Anything you want, Sweet Boy.”

Babbo immediately went to work, preparing my coffee after double-checking that I really said three sugar substitutes and two teaspoons of sugar with lots of cream. He shook his head at my coffee formula and muttered under his breath about me being best friends with Wilford Brimley. Never heard of him, but Babbo made my coffee as requested. He had more words when I requested my chocolate milk with a few extra scoops. Sue me, but I liked my chocolate milk extra chocolatey.

My head hurt too much to talk, so instead, I watched Babbo work around the kitchen while he prepared breakfast. He was an efficient worker. All of his movements were measured and purposeful. It was very much unlike me when I was in the kitchen. I usually went back and forth, back and forth with no real plan, and mostly just made a mess. It took forever to get anything out of the kitchen, so by the time I was finished making it, I wasn’t even hungry anymore.

But that wasn’t a problem with Babbo. In short order, I had my requested drinks, two aspirin, and my pancakes in front of me. Without asking, he buttered my pancakes, cut them up, and then poured syrup over the top. A part of me wanted to tell him I could do it myself because I wasn’t a little. I was perfectly capable of doing it, but I kept my mouth shut instead because it made me feel wanted. I shoved the fluffy goodness in my mouth.

The claim about pancakes being a hangover cure, although maybe it was the syrup he poured on top and the extra generous pat of butter, was true. Whatever fixed the problem, my headache disappeared and my stomach felt like all the alcohol was being soaked up. Babbo cleared my dishes and refilled my coffee cup. It wasn’t as sweet as the first cup he made, but it involved much less muttering.

Once the table was cleared, Babbo made his pitch. “Nico, since you said you didn’t have plans, I’d really like it if you’d spend the weekend at the house with me.”

I’d known this request was coming, so I was surprised by my very uncool response to his plain-spoken request. I stared at him with my jaw open before saying, “Pardon me?”

“Sweet Boy, I am tired of the awkwardness. I’ve only seen you on your way to work or coming home. I have no idea what this is going to look like or how it’s going to work. You’re absolutely opposed to commitment, and I know that, but I miss hanging out with you. I’m sick of pretending I don’t miss the hell out of you. So unless you’ve gotten a better offer in the last thirty minutes, I would really like it if you would hang out with me at the house this weekend.”

“Don’t you have to work?”

“Why would you think that?”

“Because you used to talk about how much work you were taking home on the weekends, and it seemed like you were always busy and stressed.” Now that I’d said it out loud, he did seem more relaxed than I’d ever seen him. “Does this have something to do with the rough day you had?”

“Indirectly, yes, but I’ve decided that clusterfuck can wait until Monday. Nothing can be solved this weekend, so I refuse to think about it. So what do you say?” Babbo looked happy and carefree like he knew what my answer would be before I even said it.

“I’d really like to spend the weekend with you, Babbo.”

* * *

“I’ll start rinsing dishes. Do you mind putting the syrup in the pantry?” Babbo nodded toward a door in the small hallway that separated the kitchen from the rest of the house.

The nice thing about these historic homes was all the walls that still existed. I liked it. There wasn’t any part of the house that I didn’t think was pretty. Owen, in a surprise to no one, had done a beautiful job in here too. It was bright and airy despite having a distinctly Pacific Northwest vibe. He’d kept the character and amped up the convenience. Last night, Rory mentioned asking Owen to help make the bungalow mine. Would he? He’d left his big furniture, but all the stuff that made a house a home was missing. It was basically an empty shell.

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