Page 42 of Finding Michael

“That happens. Might be gooey, too.” Michael hefted his jeans up over his hips, then zipped and ditched his shirt. “We’ll go topless together.”

“Sweet.” He snagged Michael in his arms again. “I do like your cock and I love the way you smell.”

“You’re silly.” Michael didn’t pull away. He laughed. “So, what did Dicey tell you? What exactly? She’s protective of me. I love her devotion, but she can be a little too…Dicey.”

“She means well.” Tristan shrugged. “She said she’d hurt me if I messed with you. It didn’t matter who I was or how much money I had, she’d tear me a new one.” He laughed. If nothing else, he appreciated Dicey’s friendship with Michael. He missed having close compatriots and wished he had more. “I believe her.”

“You’re better off if you don’t discount her, yeah.”

“Or you.” He curled his fingers under Michael’s chin. “I know you’re tense. Being here has to have you on edge. I’m guessing there are more memories than you want to deal with.”

“It’s odd…but it’s not. There are reminders here. Lots of them, but it’s not the same. His touches are everywhere, but so are yours. I see things and it makes me think. This was his place, but it doesn’t have to be justhis. You rearranged the living room. He refused to do that, even though I mentioned moving the couch would make watching thunderstorms easier.”

“You thought of that, too?” If he hadn’t started falling for Michael, that comment would’ve been the kicker to push him over the edge. “If the couch is against the wall, you can sit there, cuddle and watch the rain.”

“And the lightning coming from the west.” Michael paused. “But like the rearranging, you made the house yours. Not gutting. Just moving things around and changing it up.” He smiled. “You’re getting used to Sullavan.”

“Mostly, but you’re the biggest part of it.” He kissed Michael. “I’m not the settling down type. I might be the boyfriend one, but I hate being stationary. Home has never been a thing for me.”

“Ah. I can’t make much, but I’m good with mac and cheese.” Michael splayed his hands on Tristan’s chest. “Where’s the saucepan? If we don’t make this, the milk will curdle.”

“Huh?”Milk curdling? Saucepan? Fuck.He didn’t cook. That was Dennis’ job. He could, but he hated burned food. Besides, he wasn’t sure where the pans were.

“Saucepan? You put water in it. About so big.” Michael held out his hands. “Have you seen one?”

“No. I didn’t look below the counter. All I cleaned out was the pantry, spice cabinet and fridge.”

“Then I’m guessing it’s still where Al left it.” Michael disengaged from Tristan and pulled the pan from the lower cabinet. He filled the pot with water. “Won’t take long.”

“I didn’t think it would. Mind if I watch?” He sat on the counter. “I like to watch cooks.”

“By all means.” Michael opened the package of noodles. “I never really learned to cook. Not from my family. Mom didn’t think it was something I needed to know. She was wrong, but she had her issues with me. Once I graduated from high school, I got out.”

“That sucks.”

“It made me self-reliant.” Michael shrugged, then sprinkled salt into the water. “Hand me the olive oil. I can’t cook very well, but I can take care of myself.”

“Sure.” He offered up the bottle. “What’s that for?”

“To keep the pasta from sticking.” Michael grinned, then poured a dollop of oil into the water. “I learned that from one of the cooking demos I saw on television.”

“Huh.” He watched Michael with awe. He wished he could be like Michael. “I was never self-reliant—not until I got older.” He fixed his gaze on Michael. The man moved around the kitchen like a dancer, all grace and fluid gestures. He looked like he should’ve been there all along. Like he’d fallen into the same routine as before. So comfortable. Tristan grinned. A new feeling washed over him—exciting, bold and a little scary. He and Michael were on the cusp of something fantastic. Not just tall words from him in the hopes he’d get what he wanted, but honest-to-God almost relationship status.

“Why weren’t you?” Michael asked.

“Huh?” Shit. He’d forgotten the topic of conversation. “I’m sorry. What?”

“Why weren’t you self-reliant?”

Tristan chuckled. He should’ve shared this before, but he’d worried Michael would run the other way. “I’m a rich bitch.”

“What?” Michael stepped back from the steaming water. “My turn to be lost. I missed something.”

Time to bare his soul. “I was a poor kid and my mother, when she was younger, came from poverty. My grandmother was widowed at the age of thirty and expected the kids to support her. My uncle did woodworking and odd jobs to bring in a little cash. My mother found rich boyfriends and eventually started escorting. Guys were a challenge. Find one, milk him for all the money she could, then get the hell out before someone got ideas. Then she met my dad. Why they fell in love is a mystery. I guess he was the one john she liked. Anyway, they had nothing in common and usually fought. Most nights, she threatened to leave. He is rumored to have had at least a dozen affairs. I came along shortly after they decided to get married. My mother liked to remind me I was the reason the love affair broke down.”

Michael stirred the pasta into the water. “That’s rough and nothing a kid should hear.”

“Like your mother was better?”

---