Page 55 of Summer Lessons
Apparently Terry couldn’t think of anything else.
“Thanks, Mike,” Mason said quietly, waving off Mike’s attempt to explain why he’d detained a friend of one of the VPs. “Terry, this is Mrs. Bradford. She should actually be making all the big money, because without her, I couldn’t do my job. Mrs. Bradford, Terry Jefferson.”
Terry turned around from his contemplation of a seascape—one that Mason had actually chosen—and smiled at Mrs. Bradford tentatively.
“Uh, nice to meet you?” Oh hells. He was really nervous—and so uncertain.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she said, inclining her head regally. “Mr. Hayes, since you seem to be eating, I’ll take myself out to my own lunch hour.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Bradford—enjoy.”
“Mr. Bradford is meeting me,” she said, and for Lillian Bradford, her expression was almost girlish.
She left and closed the door, and Terry looked around disconsolately. “This is really nice,” he muttered. “They almost didn’t let me in through the door.”
Mason grimaced at him. “You’re cold,” he said at last, and used his hand to balance on the chair in front of his desk while he hopped closer. Terry bridged the gap, and Mason rubbed Terry’s arms with his palms. “Why don’t you ever wear a sweater?”
Terry smiled hesitantly at him. “I just never remember,” he said after a moment. “I remember yours most often, but it needed to be washed, and I forgot to get it out of the dryer.”
Mason wrapped his arms around Terry’s shoulders and pulled him against Mason’s chest. “I’ll keep you warm,” he said, and then he remembered his gym bag in the far corner of the room. He’d had to have Skip go get it out of his locker in the company gym that morning because he didn’t want to just leave it there over another weekend. “Or better yet—here, help me balance; I left the damned crutch back at the table.” He held out his hand, but Terry rolled his eyes.
“You sit and eat, I’ll fetch and carry.” He helped Mason into the closest chair—notthe one behind the desk—and then went to grab the bag.
“Just unzip it—there’s a sweatshirt in the top,” he said, setting up the sandwiches, chips, and sodas on napkins. “These look good. Where are they from again?”
“Mr. Pickles.” Terry came back wearing Mason’s green track jacket zipped up to his neck. It was too big and did nothing to change the criminal waif vibe that had so freaked out Mike Buford, but at least he was warm. “Are you happy now?” he asked, leaning over Mason’s shoulder to switch the sandwiches. “I got you the teriyaki chicken, and I’ve got the pastrami with cream cheese.”
Mason closed his eyes and shuddered. That sounded heavenly. “Probably a good idea,” he conceded. “I’m going to be fat at the end of the month.”
Terry dragged another chair so they were sitting knee to knee. He unwrapped his sandwich while studying Mason’s face curiously. “That wouldn’t be so bad,” he said after a moment. “Your chin won’t disappear. I’d still do ya.” He grinned then and took a bite of his sandwich.
Mason bit his lip, a little shy because from Terry that was damned near poetry. “Well good,” he said after a moment of feeling dumb. “Because my ankle will be up to somereallyrocking sex by the time the month is done.”
Terry’s eyes went to half-mast—in slow motion. It was like watching a squirrel turn into a napping panther. “Ireallywant to get you into a bed again,” he said, voice all breath.
Mason swallowed.I will not give him a blow job in my office. I like this job and I want to keep it.“Yeah. Uh, so tomorrow night? After the game and beer and pizza?”
“Yeah?” The jungle cat went away, and Terry looked around the office furtively. “I, uh… doesn’t take a genius to figure you have better choices than beer and pizza.”
Heat crept up Mason’s face. “The furniture is really ugly.”
Terry bounced. “But comfy!” he said, but his acknowledgment that this wasn’t his usual lunch digs was still there.
Mason turned and took a bite of his sandwich. “This is pretty good,” he said. “I’ve never heard of this place.”
“It’s local.” Terry unwrapped his own sandwich uncertainly, but Mason didn’t know what to tell him. It was just an office. Nothing about it was as awesome as having someone who would bring him lunch for no other reason than awkward conversation.
“I don’t know any of the good local places,” he admitted. “In the Bay Area, I knew all the cool places to eat. I… I knew where to bring a date to impress him, and I used to read all these magazines for new places to try.”
Terry looked more disheartened with every word. “I… I like my basic places. Mr. Pickles. I get a number fifteen every time.”
Mason nodded. “Yeah. See, me and Dane—we’ve been getting used to it here. And… we like it. I mean, once in a while, I wouldn’t mind going down to San Francisco to do something fun, but… most of the time, living your life, if I’m having fun doing the basic stuff, then that’s all I really want.”
The rigid set of Terry’s shoulders relaxed, and he picked up his sandwich and took a bite. “I could probably use some horizon expanding,” he admitted when he’d swallowed. “I mean… my whole life has been in this town.”
“I’ve never been with someone who liked to travel,” Mason said. “Ira’s idea of a good time was a cruise.”
“That’s traveling!” Terry laughed.
