Page 21 of Meeting Mr. Adorkable
Arlo opened the door, and Peanut slunk in, cautiously sniffing at Lucian’s outstretched hand before retreating behind Arlo’s legs. He bent down and rubbed behind the dog’s ears.
“You’re honored. He’s not too good with anybody but me, and will avoid contact with most other people, but with you…”
Lucian looked up, a shaft of sunlight picking out the deeper, darker tones of his hair, almost blue black, and begging to be touched.
“… knows I’m a friend.”
“What? Sure, I expect so.” Arlo scrambled to fill in the blanks he’d missed as he’d stared at those glossy strands he knew on every level would be warm and soft and would slip through his fingers like spun silk.
Arlo sucked in a deep, quiet breath, unnoticed by Lucian who’d managed, for a second time, to entice his normally reticent, nervous dog back to him and who’d now flopped down on the tiled floor, happy to be patted and scratched behind his large, floppy ears.
“I’ve got salads and cheeses, dips and various items from the deli,” Arlo said, returning to the refrigerator, glad of the second icy blast against his burning face. Lucian made a vaguely appreciative sound in answer, all his focus on Peanut.
Lucian declined the offer of beer or wine, and so Arlo filled two tall glasses with sparkling mineral water, adding lemon, and mint leaves. Refusing Lucian’s offer of help and leaving him to return his attention back to Peanut, Arlo let his mind settle as he chopped and sliced and grated, and whisked up a couple of salad dressings.
Piling up trays, they took everything out to the porch. Peanut trotted behind and slumped down — at Lucian’s side, pushing hard up against his leg. Arlo shook his head. His battered and bruised rescue dog, who kept his distance so as not to get hurt again, was learning how to trust once more. The sentiment hit him in the chest, smashing the air from his lungs. Keeping his distance… wasn’t that what he should be doing?
“Wow, this is delicious. Thank you so much. I’m rather glad the coffee shop was closed, because they could produce nothing as good as this. You’re an excellent cook.”
“Thanks. But this is assembly, not cooking,” Arlo said, his voice raspy. He grabbed his water and gulped some down, its icy tingle bringing instant calm.
“Whatever you want to call it, it’s miles better than anything I can do. I can fry eggs and not ruin too many pans in the process. Frozen pizza is touch and go as I either incinerate or under cook them, so they’re soggy and cold in the middle. I can, however, make a cheese sandwich — just so long as I don’t grate the ends of my fingers off in the excitement of my accomplishment. But,” he said, leaning forward in a conspiratorial manner, “what I’m really a dab hand at is… Marmite on toast.” Lucian grinned and, looking very pleased with himself, sat back in his seat.
Arlo could feel the horror crawl across his face.
“Marmite. That’s the scrapings from old beer barrels. You know that, right?”
“Yeast extract is the correct term, and most delicious it is too.”
“No, it’s…” Arlo wasn’t sure a word existed to aptly describe the thick salty paste Brits readily slathered over their morning toast and which he’d tried once — which was one time too many — on a long ago business trip to London.
“You’re nothing but a savage, Arlo McDonald. Nothing but a savage.” Lucian dug his fork into his plate, the loud huff belied by the good humored twitch of his lips.
They fell silent as they concentrated on eating. Arlo threw him surreptitious glances. What was it Francine had said when she’d thrust the Tupperware into Lucian’s hands? Too thin. Maybe not too thin, but Lucian couldn’t afford to miss many meals. And he certainly couldn’t afford to live off toast and rank leftovers from the beer making process.
With their plates cleared, without a word, Arlo retreated to the kitchen and returned with a tub of caramel ice cream and a couple of bowls. Piling up the ice cream, he raised his brow in challenge. Lucian huffed, pulled a bowl closer, and dove in.
“What were the chances that you had exactly my favorite flavor? Honestly, I could eat every kind of ice cream they sell, and probably some they don’t, but this…” Lucian said with a groan, “is. The. Best. Ice. Cream. Ever.” He closed his eyes and licked his lips, the pink tip leaving a damp smear as he slumped back into the seat. Arlo couldn’t drag his gaze away. Lucian looked full, sated… Arlo’s breath caught. He looked—
Lucian’s eyes fluttered open, their blue startling even behind the horrible, heavy glasses. Arlo’s fingers itched to lift them from Lucian’s face and throw them aside.
“You’ve missed a bit,” Arlo croaked. A tiny speck of ice cream clung to the outer edges of Lucian’s lips, begging to be wiped away, licked away. Kissed away.
“I have?”
Lucian leaned forward, just as Arlo did, bringing their faces closer, closer still, a ripple tumbling down Arlo’s spine, his breath catching as Lucian’s eyes grew darker and his glossy lips parted.
“Yeah, just here,” Arlo murmured as, tilting his head, he moved closer still, breathing in the heady sweet sugar rush of ice cream on Lucian’s quickening, warm breath.
“Better wipe it away, then,” Lucian, just a kiss away, whispered. Lifting his head, leaning forward a little more.
“Guess I better.”
“Guess you should.”
And Arlo did want to kiss Lucian, he’d wanted to kiss him from the moment he’d stared down at him, splayed out on the floor in Randy’s. It was a truth he couldn’t deny. His breath hitched. Lucian was just a warm, sweet breath away, and an invisible rope Arlo had neither the will nor the strength to resist pulled him forward. He tilted his head one way, Lucian the other, both of them ready for — a hard, bone crushing clash of noses.
“Ouch!”
