Page 28 of Lorcan
After a moment, he nodded. “I usually have grape or blueberry. I was just…wanting something comforting.”
“I think, for most Canadians, maple syrup is comfort food.”
“I love maple-flavored bacon. Oh, and maple donuts. I have to sort of watch what I eat, though.”
“Oh?”
“Cholesterol. Mine’s okay but not great. Dr. Raymond has asked me to pay more attention to what I eat. That was before, you know…” He scratched his chin. “And I’ll admit I haven’t done such a good job the last couple of years. I’m endeavoring to do better now, though.”
“Meatloaf was okay?”
“Yeah. Not too much meat, though. Especially red meat. I’m supposed to have moreplant-basedfoods.” Lorcan shuddered.
“I have better-than-meat veggie meatballs. I cook a mean spaghetti.”
He patted his stomach. “Still digesting lunch.”
“I’m thinking ahead.”
“Oh.” He frowned a little. “I’m out of my depth here. I only had hookups before and then was married for most of my adult life. Hell, I haven’t had sex since my ex robbed me. The last thing on my mind has been risking myself by being intimate with someone.” He regarded me. “I think I used up all my courage going to pup night at Kink.”
I smiled. “I don’t know. I’d say meeting a virtual stranger for a walk in the park and then coming home with him and eating meatloaf and a maple-walnut milkshake takes guts.”
He tilted his head. “I guess…when you put it like that.”
“Well, I choose to put it like that. I choose to see you as brave, bold, and beautifully audacious.”
“Oh?” His expression held vague amusement as he scrutinized me with those oh-so-deep-brown eyes.
“You tried my milkshake.”
Lorcan chuckled. “I did that.” He sipped. “I think I’m pretty much done.”
“As am I.” I held out my hand to take his cup.
Our gazes held.
I swallowed. “So, what would you like to do?”
“I dunno. I sort of feel like I should be going or something. You know? That I’ve overstayed my welcome.”
“Never.” I said the word with vehemence. “If I ever need you to leave, I won’t hesitate to ask. I’m always very honest about that. Just like I would expect you to be honest with me and to let me know when you need me to leave.”
Surprisingly, he chuckled. “You’re never coming to my apartment, Cody. So you don’t need to worry about me needing to ask you to leave.”
I wasn’t offended by his comment. Likely it had nothing to do with me or our relationship—more likely because his cramped space held one couch and the view was of a dumpster. Nodding, I headed to the kitchen. I rinsed out the drink containers and tossed them into the recycling bin. Then I grabbed two glasses. “Ice?”
“Yes, thank you.
I poured two glasses from the sink and added ice. I met his gaze. “Do you want to sit on the couch or at the table? The barstools aren’t the most comfortable—although I did buy padded cushions. Sometimes I sit there and work while I’ve got the TV on.”
“What do you watch?” He accepted the glass I handed him. “Couch is fine.”
I liked that he felt comfortable enough to sit closer to me. Not putting a table between us. After I took a sip, I put my glass on a coaster on the side table.
He took a sip from his and did the same. He had to reach over, though, to put his on that side table. Then he sat on the couch—close but not touching me—and turned his body so he faced me. Casually, he put his arm on the back of the couch.
I also turned to face him.
