Page 63 of Rhett & Moses
“I know exactly what you mean,” I told him, cupping his face in my hands. “It feels like... completion. Like something that was missing has finally clicked into place.”
Moses leaned into my touch, his eyes never leaving mine. “Precisely.”
The kiss that followed was gentle, unhurried, a reaffirmation rather than an ignition. We had time now. No need to rush, tograsp desperately at moments before separation. For the next two days, we had the luxury of simply being together, learning the rhythms of each other’s daily lives.
Dinner was a leisurely affair, eaten at my rarely-used dining table with the city lights spread out below us through the wall of windows. We talked about everything and nothing, his bar, my current projects, the property in Carolina that had become a symbol of our shared future. The conversation flowed as easily as the wine, punctuated by comfortable silences that required no filling.
Later, as we prepared for bed, I was struck again by the rightness of Moses in my space, his toiletries beside mine in the bathroom, his clothes hanging next to mine in the closet, his presence filling the rooms that had sometimes felt too large, too empty.
“What are you thinking?” he asked, catching me watching him from the doorway as he turned down the bed, a domestic gesture that seemed both ordinary and profound.
“That I could get used to this,” I admitted. “You, here. Us, together. Not just visits, but... permanence.”
Moses’s expression softened, his eyes reflecting the same longing I felt. “Me too. Though I’m trying not to get ahead of myself. Three-month plan, remember?”
“I remember,” I assured him, moving to join him beside the bed. “Doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy imagining the possibilities while we evaluate the practicalities.”
“Always the architect,” he teased, pulling me close. “Balancing vision with structural reality.”
“It’s served me well so far,” I pointed out, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth.
“Can’t argue with results,” he agreed, turning his head to capture my lips properly.
The next two days passed in a blur of activity and contentment. I showed Moses my Boston, not just the tourist landmarks, though we did walk the Freedom Trail and visit the Museum of Fine Arts, but my personal landmarks. The café where I sketched preliminary designs, the small bookstore with the architecture section I’d helped curate, the park bench where I’d decided to start my own firm rather than continuing with a larger company.
Moses, in turn, explored Boston’s craft cocktail scene with professional interest, critically evaluating gin selections and mixing techniques with an expert’s eye. We visited three different establishments specializing in artisanal spirits, each time leaving the bartenders slightly starstruck after realizing they’d been servingtheMoses Morley, whose small-batch gins that I had made and developed had become something of a cult following among enthusiasts.
“You’re a celebrity,” I teased after the third such encounter, where the bartender had practically begged for Moses’s opinion on a house-infused botanical blend.
“Hardly,” Moses scoffed, though I could tell he was pleased by the recognition. “Just respected in very niche circles.”
“Don’t downplay it,” I insisted. “What you’ve created in Atlanta is impressive. You should be proud.”
He smiled, a hint of shyness in the expression that I found endlessly endearing. “I am. It’s taken years of experimentation, failures, refinements. But I’ve built something that’s truly mine, that represents my vision and standards. That means something.”
“It means everything,” I agreed, understanding completely. We were alike in that way, both creators who had poured ourselves into our respective crafts, building businesses that were extensions of our passions and principles.
On Moses’s final evening in Boston, I took him to dinner at a small, exclusive restaurant overlooking the harbor, a place that required reservations months in advance, though the head chef was a former client who had been happy to accommodate me on short notice.
“This is incredible,” Moses commented as we were shown to our table, the prime spot with unobstructed water views. “How did you manage this?”
“I designed his house,” I explained. “He was pleased with the results.”
“I’m beginning to think you know everyone in Boston,” Moses observed with a smile.
“Not everyone,” I corrected. “Just the interesting ones.”
The meal was exceptional, course after course of beautifully presented local cuisine, each paired with wines selected specifically to complement the flavors. We lingered over dessert and coffee, neither of us eager for the evening to end, for tomorrow’s separation to begin.
“I’ve been thinking,” Moses said as we walked along the harbor afterward, the lights of the city reflecting on the dark water. “About the property. About our three-month plan.”
My heart rate picked up slightly at his serious tone. “Oh?”
“I think we should make an offer,” he said, stopping to face me directly. “Sooner rather than later. Before someone else snaps it up.”
I blinked, surprised by the decisiveness of his statement. “Are you sure? We agreed to take three months to think it through, test the waters.”
“I know,” he acknowledged. “And maybe that was the right approach a week ago. But being here, seeing your life, showing you mine when you visit Atlanta next month... I think we already know this is what we want. The property is exactly right forus, location, character, and potential. Why wait if we’re both certain?”
