Page 19 of Meeting Mr. Adorkable
“Doesn’t that make you the rarest of beasts, an American with a passport?” Lucian cringed. He’d done it again, opening his mouth without thinking. He sucked in a deep breath. This was one thing he didn’t need to think about first. “I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to be judgmental or—”
Arlo shrugged. “No need to say sorry, even if by your own admittance, sorry so rarely means an apology in Brit-speak.”
“Ouch. But yes, I said that, didn’t I? I deserved that, I suppose, even if I really am saying sorry. As in apologizing.”
Arlo laughed. “Yes, you deserved it. But what you say is true. I am well traveled, both for pleasure and business, which makes me a distinct oddity around here, which I didn’t appreciate fully until I came back.”
“You’re an oddity? Really? Makes two of us, then.”
“I think so. Perhaps we’re more alike than we realize.”
Moments later, they came to a stop.
“This is me,” Lucian said.
The street light was out, casting a pool of shadow; they both moved into it. The houses all had their drapes and blinds closed, and nobody was out and about. They were alone with no eyes looking on.
“Thank you for walking me home.” Lucian slapped his hand against his forehead, groaning as he held it there. “Could I sound any more like a 1950s prom queen?”
They both loitered, neither making any attempt to move.
I should say goodnight and go… But Lucian didn’t want to go, he didn’t want to climb the stairs to his little, empty, silent apartment. He didn’t want this evening to end. His heart thudded deep in his chest.
“We’re being spied on.” Arlo inclined his head slightly. “Look, but carefully, at the window by the front door. An old, bald guy’s twitching his drapes.”
Lucian groaned. “Mr. DuPont. I’m renting the apartment from him, which is really nothing more than a tiny bedsit. I swear the old codger can hear an ant fart. I’d invite you in, but he’s strictly no visitors after 9:00pm. God alone knows what year he’s living in. But the apartment’s cheap. I’d like to, though. Invite you up, I mean. You know, for a cup of tea. And a Hobnob.” A Hobnob…? Oh, fuck. “That wasn’t some weird euphemism for… for anything that isn’t a Hobnob.” Please, ground, open up under my feet.
“A Hobnob. Hmm, fortunately I know that’s an oat cookie, otherwise I’d think you were inviting me to take part in some weird English toff ritual.”
Lucian chuckled with relief. “Tea and biscuits are a ritual, for toffs and everybody else, and a rather marvelous one. And absolutely, definitely not weird. And a Hobnob is a biscuit, not a cookie. Full stop. Period. The end.”
Under the street lamp, Arlo’s answering smile sent a ripple of warmth deep into Lucian’s stomach. If Arlo thought he was an oddball, he wasn’t enough of an oddball for him to be running for the hills.
A movement out of the corner of his eye snagged Lucian’s attention, as his nosy landlord twitched the drapes too hard, partially pulling them off the rail.
“Maybe affordability isn’t everything,” Lucian muttered, turning back to gaze up at Arlo.
“Are you working tomorrow? Because if not, and you’re free, perhaps you’d like to meet for brunch?”
“What? Erm, yes. Please. Thank you, I mean. That would be. Erm, yes…” Lucian stumbled to a stop.
“I’ll meet you outside CC’s at 11:00am — if that works for you?”
“It does. Sounds good. So, well, goodnight then.” Lucian shuffled from one foot to the other. He really should go, but his feet hadn’t got the message.
“Bye.”
“Yes, er, bye then.”
Arlo nodded, hesitating for a moment before he swung around and strode off. He didn’t look back, but if he had, he’d have found Lucian staring after him, not smiling but beaming.
CHAPTERTHIRTEEN
Lucian glared at the heap of clothes on the bed, hands on hips, as he stood in nothing but his boxers. He’d tried them all on, in all combinations, once, twice, a hundred times. Brunch. What did one wear for brunch with Arlo McDonald?
He picked up his one pair of good, expensive pants. Fine, dark gray wool, they were the bottom half of a suit, the jacket long since ruined. No, too formal. It would have to be jeans as there was nothing else left to choose from other than sweat pants and a pair of chinos that bore the ghost of a stain over the crotch, from a spilled cup of coffee. Very, very hot coffee. Black jeans. Nice and tight. And his dark blue shirt.
Exactly the same as he’d worn yesterday. Shit, Arlo would think he’d slept in his clothes. He threw the shirt in the general direction of his laundry basket, catching the faint odor of BBQ.
