Page 18 of Sexted By Santa
“When’s the last time you had a date? Not just a hookup you met at a gay bar, but an actual date?”
“A while,” I said reluctantly.
“A while like three years?”
I shrugged. “Maybe. I’m not keeping count.”
Barry squeezed my shoulder. “Fair enough. You’re not ready until you’re ready. But you’ve kind of painted yourself into a corner with Ella. Might be time to put yourself out there, if only for a short while?”
“Yeah.”
“But hey, maybe you’ll meet someone great. You never know. They won’t all be like your ex.”
“I know.” Because, for one thing, I’d be setting those damn filters to make sure of it. No one under thirty-five. No more men who were into the arts scene. I’d had enough art shows and galas for a lifetime. And no one unemployed. Even for a date of convenience, I had standards. Standards I’d cast aside for Fynn. Standards I wouldn’t compromise again.
Barry patted my arm on the way to the door. “I know you think the hookups are all you need. But you deserve more than the minimum, Christian. You deserve to be happy.”
He left before I could tell him that I was exceedingly happy. Probably for the best since we both knew it was a lie.
* * *
I could hear Sir Elton John yapping as I approached the ornate front door. The door was thick, meaning Sir Elton wasloud.
“Christ,” I muttered as I twisted the key in the lock. “Shut up, you high-strung little hyena.”
Sir Elton didn’t take offense at my insult, instead dancing in a circle when I opened the door, his nails click-clacking over the entryway tiles. I shook my head. “You are a plague upon this house.”
Yip!
“What did you destroy today?”
Sir Elton ran back and forth in excitement as I let myself in and placed my briefcase full of finals on the table. I had a lot of grading ahead of me this week, but I wasn’t ready to face it. Sir Elton yipped again and jumped on my leg.
“Get down, you ill-mannered mutt!”
He grinned up at me, not the least bit troubled by my words. Probably because I couldn’t manage to inject the proper amount of sternness into them. I wanted to hate Sir Elton—he certainly gave me plenty of reason—but it wasn’t his fault that Fynn had purchased him without consulting me, brought him home, and then proceeded to abandon him when he decided to leave me.
I sighed and crouched down, giving Sir Elton the attention he so clearly desired. I stroked his ears and patted his back. “He left us both, didn’t he?”
Sir Elton’s tongue lolled out of his mouth as he panted happily.
“He doesn’t deserve this cute face.” I loved on the long-haired Yorkie a bit more. “Even if you do look like a dust mop. Yeah. You’re my dust mop now.”
Yip-yip!Sir Elton clearly agreed with me.
I stood with a groan and headed toward the kitchen, where I refilled Sir Elton’s water bowl, then to my bedroom, where I stripped off my suit jacket and tie and bent to exchange my dress shoes for tennis shoes. Sir Elton would want a walk.
“Oh, what is this?!” My slippers sat just inside my closet door, mangled from a chewing and still wet with dog saliva. “Bad dog!”
I picked up a slipper and waved it at Sir Elton. “No!”
Sir Elton ducked his head slightly, but then bounced up as full of excitement as ever, tail wagging. I huffed. He was in desperate need of some obedience training—had been for the full three and a half years I’d known him—but he was Fynn’s dog. Not mine. Even if I let him stay here, he wasn’tmydog. Not my responsibility.
“You’re a spoiled brat,” I told him as I slipped my shoes on. “Just like your original master.”
I took Sir Elton for a walk, returned home to heat up a frozen meal in the microwave, and graded a few finals before getting too depressed with the state of my students’ intelligence. I gave up and watched some television while playing a game ofget off my leather couchwith the pesky dog. Eventually, I gave up, and Sir Elton warmed the cushion beside me, occasionally nudging my hand with his cold nose when he wanted attention.
It wasn’t until I was changed and settling into bed—without Sir Elton, who’d been firmly shut out due to his propensity for attempting to sleep on my head—that I finally opened the app that Barry had installed on my phone.
