Awakenings and French Songs

By Nell Iris

Published by JMS Books LLC

Visit jms-books.com for more information.

Copyright 2019 Nell Iris

ISBN 9781634868471

Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com

Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.

All rights reserved.

WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It may contain sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which might be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Published in the United States of America.

* * * *

Dedicated to anyone who’s ever been moved to tears by a great song or changed their life because of music. I feel you.

* * * *

Awakenings and French Songs

By Nell Iris

I slam the door to the men’s room stall so hard, it bounces back and hits me on the elbow. With an undignified yelp and a grimace, I close it more carefully, turn the lock, and lean against the door. Kneading the sore spot on my elbow, I groan. What’s wrong with me?

Today is my birthday and my friends took me out to celebrate as they do every year. This year, they surprised me with a foam party and a very kind and thoughtful sentiment of “even if you’re old in body, you need to stay young at heart.”

Real nice.

Usually, I’m a big fan of foam parties, even though I haven’t been to one in ages. The bubbles bring out my inner child, and I can’t help bouncing around, waving my arms, and singing along to the music like I’m a teenager again.

Most of all, I appreciate the abundance of half-naked guys getting all slick and soapy. I love sliding my chest against a slippery body and the not-so-secret hand-jobs under the foam where no one can see what’s going on.

But today, I wasn’t the least bit tempted to throw off my mesh T-shirt and fling myself in the middle of the writhing masses. As soon as my friends disappeared onto the dance floor, I stomped to the dry, suds-free bar, where I spent a couple hours dodging invites from horny guys and downing one drink after another until I remembered I had to work early tomorrow. Dealing with insurance companies sucks on a regular day. Doing it while hungover is torture.

So I downed a bottle of water, slithered away from another set of grabby hands, and marched to the bathroom. Just to take a piss, not to hide. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

I let out a sound somewhere between a huff and a groan. How come I feel so old compared to yesterday? One day older, thirty-six instead of thirty-five, what’s the big deal? I let my hand drop to my side and bang my head on the door.

To be honest with myself—and where else is a man supposed to be honest with himself except hidden away in the bathroom?—I’ve felt like this for quite a while. Like I’m unsatisfied with my life, but don’t know with what exactly. Work is boring as hell, but the decent pay and good benefits make me want to stay. It’s not like I’ve ever had any high-flying ambitions about what I want to do with my life anyway. My friends are great. My apartment is small—more like a closet than a real apartment—but it’s close to work and the rent is cheap. And how many square feet does a single guy need?

So what the fuck is wrong with me? Why am I so unhappy? Not knowing drives me crazy, and if my hair hadn’t been cropped so closely to my head, I would have pulled it out by the roots in frustration.

I heave a sigh. I might as well just text the guys and get out of here. I pull my phone from the back pocket of my painted-on jeans and start typing a message to Dylan, when someone, without warning, sticks his erect dick through a dingy-looking, duct-tape lined glory hole I didn’t notice earlier.

The head is dark purple and already glistening, a clear indication that the owner gave themselves a little hand before offering me the treat. How thoughtful.

“Suck me,” he hisses from the other side of the wall.

“What?” My question comes out like an aggressive bark.

“Suck meeeee,” the stranger repeats and waves his cock like it’s a wand, as though he’s Harry freaking Potter trying to cast a spell on me.

“How about checking if I want to first? Ever heard of glory-hole etiquette, asshole?”

“You never say no, Iggy.”

I scowl at the dick as though it can see me. How the fuck does this guy know my name? And while what he said might be true—I’ve been called a slut more than once since I discovered what my cock is for—a little common courtesy never hurt anyone. “Yeah, well, today I do.”

“Don’t be a bitch.”

“Great way of convincing me, dude.”

The erection flags a little and I fight the impulse to flick it and force it back to where it came from. Someone give me a medal for my restraint!

“Come on,” the guy whines.

Whining. A huge turn-on. Not. I roll my eyes.

“You don’t even have to get down on your knees. Just toddle over here on your short, little legs and put your mouth on my meat.”

That’s it. I’m leaving. As I unlock the door and exit the stall, I curl my hand into a fist and slam it hard against Dick-Dude’s door when I pass it. “Making fun of my height. Very original. And attractive.”

“Fucking midget.” Dick-Dude’s roar makes everyone standing at the urinals turn and stare.

I shrug at them and roll my eyes again. I’m surprised I haven’t made them pop out of my head these last couple minutes. “Because calling me a derogatory name so makes me want to suck your small-ass dick,” I throw back and storm out of the bathroom. I want to add that five-three is way taller than the average little person, but I stop myself. Arguing the finer points of being short versus being of short stature with a belligerent idiot seems futile.

Fuck this shit, I’m going home.

* * * *

I’ve never in my life been so glad to see my apartment building. It took forever to get an Uber, and for a second, I’d contemplated walking, but my knee-high platform boots are made for looking hot on a dance floor, not for trekking miles and miles in the dark. The elevator is broken as usual, so I sit on the stairs, pull down the zippers, and free my poor feet before walking upstairs. I wiggle my toes and glare at the boots. They pinch something fierce, but they add four well-needed inches to my height, so I endure them. Also, my legs and ass look amazing in them.

I jog upstairs with the offending footwear in my hand. Once I’m a floor up, someone else enters the building and walks up the stairs, and when my key is in the lock, my neighbor emerges on our floor.

He rubs his eyes, but his face breaks out in a smile when he sees me. “Hiya, Iggy!”

“Ronan! You’re out late.”

His chin is covered in a five-o’clock shadow, his ocean blue eyes are tired, and it looks as though he’s run his hand through his dark brown hair repeatedly because it sticks out every which way. He’s still hot as fuck, though. Tall—of course, everyone is tall next to me. Slender and wiry, and with an ass that fills out every pair of pants he owns and looks like it would fit perfectly in my hands. Sadly, I’ve never tested the theory.

“Late shift. I had to cover for a coworker since no one else could do it.”

“Really? Where’s Emery?” Emery is his daughter. She just turned eleven but is way too mature for her young age. She’s fearless, smart, and never stops talking.

“Maya’s mom agreed to a sleepover, even though it’s a school night.”

“That’s nice.”

He nods. “Hey! Happy birthday! I thought the shenanigans would last all night long.” He eyes my boots and waggles his eyebrows as he unlocks the door to his apartment across the hall from mine.

“Eh.” I shrug.

“Uh-oh. Did something happen?”

“Eh,” I repeat, not really knowing how to voice my emotions. Talking about my feelings has never been my strong suit.

“You…” He opens the door and nods in the direction of his home. “You wanna come in for a cup of tea before bed? And tell me all about it?”

His offer unravels the knot of dissatisfaction in my stomach, as though I’ve waited for it all night long. “I’d love to. I’ll just dump the boots and peel out of these pants and I’ll be right over.”

“Great. I’ll leave the door unlocked. Just walk in when you’re done.”

I nod. “I’ll only be a sec.”

Inside my apartment, I drop the boots. Then I step into the bathroom, where I wiggle out of the pants and throw the see-through T-shirt into the hamper before I wash the yucky staircase floor grime off my feet.

When my club wear is replaced with warm socks, a plain tank top, and my favorite sweats, I let out a happy sigh. A few years back, I would rather have died than be seen wearing sweats. These days, I’m pondering whether sweats would be appropriate to wear for a night on the town. Maybe by the time I’m forty, it’ll be the only thing I ever wear.

“Let’s not exaggerate, Iggy,” I tell my reflection in the bathroom mirror and stick out my tongue.

I grab my phone and jam it into my pocket, but with my hand on the door handle, I hesitate. I fish out my phone and toss it on the kitchen counter. I can survive without that thing for an hour or so, can’t I?

* * * *

The sound of an accordion and someone singing in French drifts out from my neighbor’s kitchen as I step into his home. “Ronan?”

“In here!”

A few moments later, I’m sitting at his round kitchen table with a steaming cup of tea in front of me, and everything feels right for the first time all day. Maybe even all week.

Ronan and Emery’s kitchen is truly the heart of their home, with traces of them strewn all over the place. On the table stands the old pickle-jar-turned-tea-light-holder that Emery painted in the colors of the sunset sometime during kindergarten. It casts a warm lovely light, making the kitchen feel homey and cozy. Drawings made by a young artist, an invitation to a birthday party, and a few bills are stuck to the refrigerator with colorful magnets. A couple plain shelves screwed to the wall are loaded with Ronan’s cookbooks, and jars of homemade cookies line the kitchen counter.

Their space couldn’t be more different than my own “kitchen,” which is a sad excuse for a kitchenette, and the only things stuck to my fridge are takeout menus. I can make toast in a pinch. And bacon. But that’s about it.

Ugh, I’m a sad, lonely, old man. My throat closes up as though I’m about to cry. What the hell, I never cry.

“I love your kitchen,” I blurt.

Ronan looks around as though he’s trying to see what I see. “Thanks,” he says with a smile full of pride.

“Am I keeping you from your bed?” I lift the World’s Greatest Dad cup—he has several with the same message—and inhale. The citrusy, floral scent of bergamot makes its way into my nose, and I hum. Earl Grey is my favorite tea and the appreciation for the beverage is something I’ve acquired here in Ronan’s kitchen.

“No, it’s okay,” he says. “I need to unwind after a shift anyway.”

I nod, and we drink our tea in silence. A French woman—maybe Edith Piaf?—sings something I don’t understand on the stereo. Aside from the tea candle, the only other light source is a lamp hanging in the window, creating an intimate atmosphere. The stillness soothes me after the mayhem at the foam party.

“This is nice,” I mumble.

“Mmm.”

We do this a lot, me and Ronan, hang out together without talking, sometimes with music playing, sometimes not. It’s never uncomfortable, I never feel the need to talk just for the sake of talking. I can relax in his company in a way I’m unable to around anyone else. I’ve come to cherish these moments and I crave them more and more.

“Thanks for this,” I say after a few minutes.

“Anytime. Tell me about the ‘eh’ night.”

I sigh and rub my palm on my head. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“Who says something’s wrong?”

“It must be, right? I don’t like doing the stuff I’ve always loved anymore. The guys brought me to a huge party tonight. I’m not kidding when I say ten guys threw themselves at me during the first hour. And what did I do? Declined their generous offers, drank sugary drinks, and hid in the bathroom where Dicky Potter tried to get me to suck his cock by waving it in my face and insulting my height.”

“Oh, no! Not your height,” he says with a faux horrified expression. “He must’ve had a death wish.”

“Ha ha, very funny.” I throw a mock glare at him. He knows that being vertically challenged is a sore spot for me, but he’s the only one who can get away with making fun of it. Also, anyone with two brain cells can probably figure out why I wear boots that add four inches. Hint—it’s not for comfort.

“And…Dicky Potter?” He rises an eyebrow.

“Yeah, you know. He waved that thing at me as though he tried to Wingardium Leviosa me.” I show the motion I’ve learned from the movies with my finger.

Ronan presses the heels of his hands to his eyes and his shoulders shake.

“What’s so damned funny?”

“I shouldn’t have let you watch Harry Potter with Emery and me. I will never be able to look at them again without thinking about Dicky Potter,” he chokes out between chuckles. “And then Emery is going to ask what’s so funny, and—”

“Stop!” I hold up my hand. “Not another word!” My eyes are about to bug out of my head at the thought of sweet Emery hearing about that. Ugh. I shiver.

He peers at me and we burst out laughing.

The silence returns after our merriment fades. A new song starts playing on the stereo. A haunting violin and a lonely piano is followed by a guy singing. His voice is so full of emotion, I can’t help wondering what he’s singing about. The words hit me right in the heart and make my chest ache with loneliness. A lump appears in my throat and I swallow to keep it from spilling out of my mouth.

I can feel Ronan’s eyes on me. Can he see my weird mood? The shine in my eyes caused by French words sung with a desperation I’ve never heard before? I suck in my lower lip to stop my chin from trembling.

“Would you like more tea?” Ronan’s voice is soft, as though he’s addressing a scared kitten.

I don’t trust my own voice, so I nod. The familiarity of his movements when he fixes my tea reassures me. The care in which he adds loose tea leaves to the infuser and pours water of just the right temperature over them. The way he patiently waits three minutes while it steeps. The gentle smile he gives me as he sets the mug in front of me.

The French guy agitates my heart with his singing, and Ronan calms it with his kindheartedness. The contrasts are intense, making my skin feel too snug for my body, my chest tight, and my stomach worried. My pulse flutters in my neck, and I worry that Ronan will see it. I don’t know what to do with myself.

So I allow myself to look at Ronan, seeking comfort in his calming presence. I drink in the warmth radiating from him as though he’s the sun and I’m a sagging flower in desperate need of his rays of life.

“Maybe you’re done with your old lifestyle?” Ronan asks gently. “Maybe you crave something new? Something different?”

“Maybe.” I grip my mug to stop myself from touching him.

Is he right? Am I ready to turn my back on my old life and embrace something new? The question is, what. It’s not like I can spend every night in my sweats here in Ronan’s kitchen, listening to this French guy belting out his heartbreak for all the world to hear, is it?

I can honestly say I’ve never considered my life being different. I’ve never had any grand dreams. I did okay in school while growing up. I went to college because that’s the right thing to do—at least according to my parents—not because I wanted to become a lawyer or a doctor or try to save the world. I have a job, so I can afford to pay my rent, buy boots, go out dancing, drink expensive drinks, and hook up with willing guys.

God, that sounds so shallow. I am shallow. All I care about is my appearance—I have to work hard to get guys to overlook my lack of height—and getting my dick sucked. What kind of life is that? How pathetic am I?

“How did you know what you wanted to do with your life when you grew up?” I ask in a weak voice.

“I’ve always wanted to help people.” His eyes look almost black in the dim light. “And I’m not smart enough to become a doctor, so studying to become a nurse seemed like the logical choice.”

I scowl at him. “Don’t gimme that shit. You’re plenty smart.”

He shrugs. “Not smart enough to make sure I got the grades I needed for med school. I wasn’t interested enough in studying.”

I hum. He’s given me an opening to lighten the mood and I’m grabbing it with both hands. “Yeah, I know. Although, if cock-sucking had been taught at my school, I would have gotten an A plus.”

“So you just didn’t like the curriculum?” Ronan chuckles and I’m relieved that he lets me get away with the subject change.

“Right. And my parents would, of course, rather burn in hell than send me to cock-sucking school. But in all fairness, they would probably have refused to send my sister, too, so at least that’s got nothing to do with the gay thing.”

He’s laughing now. His eyes crinkle, and his generous mouth spreads in a wide smile and shows off just the tiniest hint of a dimple on his left cheek. “You’re hilarious.”

“Eh…” I make an exaggerated shrug and we both collapse into fits of laugher. “Fuck, Ronan. You’re a life savior. This was just what I needed after tonight.”

“Anytime,” he says, smile still lingering, and his eyes are so full of warmth I might melt. “You know that our door is always open for you. Always.”

* * * *

I think about his words later when I’m in bed. It’s true. Since they moved in across the hall from me, and six-year-old Emery ordered me to help carry her stuff, they’ve been a part of my life. If something ever happens, and I need someone I can trust implicitly, I would ask him. Not Dylan or Jack or any of the other guys. Definitely not my family, even though we’re working hard on mending fences after they threw me out when I came out to them, and then regretted it.

There’s no one I trust as wholeheartedly as him. No one except him, who accepts me for who I am without question, or listens without condemning but still doesn’t let me get away with my shit.

Ronan Clenney. Steady as a rock. Warm and loving and compassionate and a freaking awesome dad.

And hot. Did I mention hot? I’ve seen him without a shirt and secretly drooled over the smattering of dark chest hair tapering into a narrow trail and disappearing into his pants. I’ve eyed his stupidly pink nipples that look more lickable than a lollipop, and cast clandestine looks at his sizeable bulge, wondering if I can swallow him to the root.

I groan and force myself to stop thinking about how hot Ronan is or I’ll never be able to fall asleep, and I’m already going to regret staying up this late when the alarm goes off in the morning.

But maybe spending every night in my sweats in Ronan’s kitchen, listening to a French guy belting out his heartbreak for all the world to hear, isn’t such a bad idea after all.

* * * *

My stomach is full of anxiously fluttering butterflies when I knock on Ronan’s door early Saturday morning. After Wednesday’s birthday fiasco, I’d declined to go out with my friends yesterday, almost killing them with shock. “But you never say no, Iggy.” Instead, I was bored to sleep early by a brainless movie on Netflix, and woke up before six A.M., well rested and unable to go back to sleep. I don’t even wake up before six on a work day. What the fuck is wrong with me?

It was far too early for breakfast, so after gulping down a glass of OJ, I went for a walk. Turns out my usual circuit was more or less empty at that hour—though I’m fairly certain I spotted a young lady doing the walk of shame—and I enjoyed the solitude. The air was brisk, the birds chirped happily, and the dewdrops still clung to the grass. I should do this more often.

After an hour or so, my stomach started rumbling, and I turned back, intent on going home and making breakfast. But when I passed by Knead It, the bakery on our street, the French flag hanging in the shop window caught my attention. Underneath it stood wicker baskets full of rustic baguettes and other French pastries that all looked yummy. When a customer exited the store, my nose led me inside, and after a few minutes, I was back outside, arms laden with goodies.

That’s why I knocked on Ronan’s door before eight on a Saturday morning. Bringing lots of French stuff for breakfast.

What am I doing? I must have officially lost my mind.

For a heartbeat, I consider turning on my heel and hiding from Ronan in my apartment for the rest of my life, but before I have time to make up my mind, he opens his door.

“Iggy?” A slow smile blooms on his face and his eyes brighten. “What are you doing up this early? What happened to ‘no knocking on my door before ten on weekends, young Miss Emery’?” he asks, perfectly imitating my words.

“I grew old, that’s what happened.”

“Awww. Poor Iggy.”

“Hey! Be nice or I won’t share my breakfast.” I hold up the bags to show him what he’d be missing.

His eyebrows shoot to the heavens. “You brought breakfast?”

“Um, yeah. You gonna let me in, or…?”

“Of course. You just about shocked me to death, that’s all.” He pretends to clutch his pearls.

“That seems to be my theme this week,” I mutter and follow him to the kitchen.

“I was just about to start breakfast”—he points at a carton of eggs—”but I guess I don’t have to.”

“Nope. Coffee would be good, though. I didn’t buy any.”

“Sure.” He pushes the button on the machine. “All done.” He grins at me and takes a seat at the table. “Show me what you got.”

He watches as I unload my purchases. Baguettes. Croissants. Pain au chocolat. A box of pastel-colored macarons I bought only because they’re so pretty and I thought Emery would appreciate the pinks and purples and yellows. Three tiny, fancy-looking jars of French jam; black cherry, fig and walnut, and raspberry. And finally, a box of huge, dark red strawberries the bakery sold for some unknown reason.

Ronan’s mouth falls open as he takes in everything. “What brought this on?”

I take my usual spot at the table. “I’ve had that song on my mind ever since the other night. I have no idea what it’s called or what the guy was singing about, but I haven’t been able to get it out of my head. So when I walked past Knead It and they had a French flag hanging in the window, I couldn’t help myself.”

“Which song?”

I hum a few bars, hoping I don’t butcher it too much so he won’t recognize it, but he nods.

“‘Ne me quitte pas’ by Jacques Brel.”

I repeat the title in a terrible French accent. “What does it mean?”

“It means ‘Don’t leave me.’”

His words make my heart stutter. “It’s great. So emotional,” I rasp out.

“I didn’t know you were a fan of old French songs.”

“I’m not. But it’s really beautiful.” The explanation feels inadequate, but I don’t know how to express myself better.

He doesn’t talk for several seconds, then he says, “Huh.” His gaze is full of questions he’s not asking, and he doesn’t let up the intense scrutiny for even a moment. Inside, I’m squirming like a maggot on a fish hook, but I hope I manage to present a calm exterior.

For the first time ever, things are weird between us. The conversation is stilted, and the silences awkward. I know why, of course. By showing up like this, I had changed the dynamics of our relationship. I’ve never been one for socializing in the mornings. And while I’ve brought the occasional pizza or six-pack, I’ve never brought anything like this before. Something meaningful. Something that shows I’ve been thinking about him and the time we’ve spent together. Something serious.

I can’t blame him for wondering what’s going on. He listens to that French stuff all the time and I’m sure he’s played that song a million times before, but it’s like I heard it for the very first time on Wednesday.

I can’t stand his close examination any longer, so I get up and start setting the table with plates and cups and cutlery. “What’s the deal with you and all the French stuff anyway?” I ask with my head buried in the refrigerator, looking for butter and something for Emery to drink since she’s not allowed coffee.

“My grandmother was from France. She always used to sing the old songs to me and teach me the lyrics.”

I place a cutting board and a bread knife on the table. “Oh. What was her name?”

“Celeste.”

“That’s a beautiful name.”

“Yes.”

I look around for something else to do. “Do you speak French?”

“Iggy?”

I gulp, knowing what’s coming. “Yes?” Reluctantly, I retake my seat at the table.

“Why are you really here?” His voice is soft and caring and I’ve heard him use the same tone when he speaks to Emery about important matters.

I line up the jam jars in a perfect row, needing something to do with my hands. “I…uh…want to spend more time with you and Emery.”

As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I know they’re the truth. Even though I’ve never consciously thought them before doesn’t make them less true. Something clicked for me on Wednesday night and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about him.

“You do?”

I dare to look at him, finally. His gaze is open and relaxed, but there’s a tiny line between his eyebrows, telling me he’s not as composed as he seems. “Yes.”

He stiffens for a heartbeat or two, but then he relaxes and gives me a slow nod. “If you’re here not just as our neighbor, but as something…more…you know what I’m looking for.”

“I know.” I meet his gaze freely when I answer so there won’t be any confusion.

He’s been clear all along with what he wants: a family. Someone who realizes Ronan and Emery Clenney are a package deal and who will love the daughter just as much as the father—if not more. I’ve heard him talk about it lots of times, especially after he’s been on disappointing dates with both men and women.

But his talks have never been directed at me because I’ve never considered dating him a possibility. He’s a single dad with responsibilities, looking for love, and I’m…well, I’m a slut. I have nothing to offer them unless I make some serious changes in my life, something I’ve never been willing to do before. Not once during the time we’ve been neighbors has he introduced a special someone to Emery, so I know he’s damned serious on the matter. I respect the hell out of him for it.

The line between his eyebrows disappears. “Okay,” he says.

“Just like that?”

He moves to the chair next to me and lays his hand on top of mine. It’s a gentle touch. Warm. Goosebump-inducing. “Well, no. Not just like that. But maybe we can start with breakfast à la français and take it from there?”

“Yeah, that sounds good.” My words are raspy, and I swallow. I feel the weight of my decision, but it’s not uncomfortable. On the contrary, I’m content for the first time in a long time.

“I think so, too.”

The comfortable silence returns, and he keeps his hand on top of mine. I can’t stop looking at his long fingers covering my short stubby ones, his surprisingly delicate wrist, and the sparse dark hairs on his forearm.

“How about we have some breakfast then?” His voice is low and intimate and fills my mind with dirty thoughts and fantasies about him moaning my name. But I push away that thought. For now. This is not going to end up like my usual hookups. He’s too important for that.

“I’d love that.”

He gives my hand a squeeze before he stands up. “You’d better prepare yourself.” He winks.

“For what?”

“You’ll see.” He steps out of the kitchen. “Emery. Maya. Breakfast,” he hollers, and I groan. Oh, great. Not only one, but two eleven-year-olds. Let the giggling commence.

* * * *

We don’t talk about my declaration until the following Saturday. Ronan and Emery invited me over for a movie on Thursday, and Ronan and I have texted back and forth about nothing in particular every day.

But on Saturday, at ten in the morning on the dot, he knocks on my door. I’ve been awake for hours already—no party for me this weekend either—and he greets me with a smile and hands me a steaming cup of coffee.

“You look surprisingly well rested. No bloodshot eyes. No smelling like a brewery. No grunting, asking what I’m doing here this early. What’s up?”

I scoff but invite him in and gesture for him to sit on my cramped love seat. “I’ll have you know that I didn’t go out last night. I did laundry and organized my boots. Then I fell asleep to Netflix for the second Friday in a row. It’s official. I’m old.”

“Cut the ‘I’m old’ crap.”

“Being gay is like being a dog. We age seven years in the time straight people age one.”

He rolls his eyes at me.

“I’ll tell you a secret, but if you tell any of my friends, I’ll deny it. Vehemently.”

“Of course,” he says.

“Apparently, I like waking up at the butt crack of dawn. Early mornings are lovely. Peaceful and quiet. Who would have known?”

Ronan chuckles. “Anyone who doesn’t sleep the whole day away?”

“Ewww.” I scrunch up my face. “Don’t say that. Mother always used to say that.”

“Sorry,” he says, but doesn’t look it.

After a sip of the excellent coffee, I ask, “So, what brings you here?”

“I wanted to ask you something. I’m dropping off Emery at noon—she’s meeting her mom for a couple hours. I was wondering if I can take you to lunch. I thought we could talk.”

My mouth goes dry. I’ve been expecting it, but his suggestion still takes me by surprise. And unlike him, I’ve never been great at talking. I’m more of the bury-my-feelings-deep-and-pretend-they’re-not-there kind of guy. If I even have emotions.

But one look at Ronan obliterates that stupid notion. I have feelings. Real ones. And the way he’s patiently waiting for me to answer his invitation, never looking away from me but never pressuring me either, makes my chest warm and fuzzy.

Who knew I’d find reliability, maturity, and stability a huge turn-on? I usually go for tall, dark, and big-dicked.

So I meet his gaze. I’m under no illusion that I look calm and collected, but as long as I don’t faint, I’m happy. “I’d like that.” At least my voice doesn’t crack.

He smiles at me. It’s a little relieved and a lot happy. “Great.” He finishes his coffee and stands. “Can you be ready to go at eleven-thirty?”

“Yes.”

“Great,” he says again. “We’ll pick you up.” He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, then he bends and brushes a feather-light kiss on my cheek. “See you soon,” he mumbles before he walks out of my apartment and leaves me on the sofa with a tinkling cheek and a racing heart and a renewed conviction I’m doing the right thing.

* * * *

Emery is quiet and sullen when they pick me up later. It’s a huge contrast to her usual sunny and chatty disposition; she’s the happiest kid I’ve ever met. They rarely speak about her mom, though. All I know is that the mother-daughter relationship is nothing like what she has with Ronan, but I don’t know any details. Neither of them has volunteered any information, and since I’m only the fun neighbor, I haven’t felt it’s my place to ask. Maybe someday soon.

Ronan stops the car outside the neighborhood McDonald’s and lets it idle. A tall woman waits with a smile too bright to feel real. We’re close enough so I can see that Emery has her mother’s nose and light brown hair color, but all her other features are Ronan’s.

Ronan flings an arm around Emery’s slumping shoulders and pulls her close, burying his nose in her neatly braided hair. “You’ll be all right, kiddo. Call me if you need me and we’ll come pick you up at once. Won’t we, Iggy?”

“You bet,” I answer without hesitation. I’d do anything to wipe that forlorn look off her face. “Your wish is my command, Miss Emery.”

She lets out a half giggle, but it’s better than nothing and I fight the urge to fist-bump myself over that small victory.

The tiny giggle disappears as quickly as it came, and she throws her arms around Ronan’s neck and whispers something I can’t make out into his ear.

“You, too, kiddo,” he replies.

Emery sighs, lets go of her dad, and fixes him with a stern gaze. “Not one minute longer than two hours. Promise!”

“We’ll be here, honeybug. I give you my word.”

She twists in her seat and looks at me, her heart-shaped face so damned serious it breaks my heart. “You promise, too, Iggy!”

I grab her chin with my thumb and index finger. “I solemnly swear that we’ll be on time, Miss Emery.”

She nods, opens the door, and steps out of the car. I do the same, and slide into the passenger seat.

In silence, Ronan and I watch as Emery approaches her mom with reluctant steps. She lets herself be embraced, but her arms hang limply by her sides.

Ronan sighs and leans his forehead on the steering wheel, but I can’t take my eyes off Emery and her mother. Emery is stiff and reserved, something I’ve never seen her be. Not even the first time I met her when she had pigtails and a gap in her teeth and was new to the building. I probably scowled when I almost tripped over her on the stairs, but she just smiled and told me she was moving in and she could use me to carry the boxes with her stuff, even though I was short.

I’ve adored her from that moment, and the scene playing out in front of me doesn’t sit well with me. “Ronan?”

“Yeah?” He sounds weary, as though he wants to fling open the door, run to Emery, and take her back.

“I know what you want us to talk about today…but would it maybe be okay to talk about this, too? If we have time and she doesn’t call and need you before the arranged time?”

He looks at me, and the line between his eyebrows is back. “Of course. You have every right to know, even if this”—he gestures from me to himself, then back to me—”doesn’t happen. I’m surprised you haven’t asked before. We’ve known each other for a long time.”

“I guess I thought it wasn’t my place to pry.”

He shakes his head and sighs. “You’re an idiot sometimes, Iggy.” The words aren’t mean; he says them with fondness.

“That’s not untrue,” I agree.

He huffs. “Don’t put yourself down. Is Becky’s Diner okay for lunch?”

“Sure. And it’s nearby.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

* * * *

A few minutes later, we’re sitting at the diner, waiting for the burgers we ordered. The place isn’t even half full, and Ronan picked a table tucked away in the corner, offering us some privacy. He places his phone on the table, giving me an apologetic smile. “I normally wouldn’t do this.”

“It’s all right. We promised Emery.”

He dips his chin, his eyes never leaving my face. “You know, I’ve always been amazed by your connection with Emery. Not to be rude, but you don’t strike me as a kid-person.”

I chortle. “It’s not rude if it’s the truth.”

“So why Emery?”

I lean back and stretch my legs. “She was so fearless that day on the stairs when you guys moved in. Fierce. She looked me right in the eye and sassed my height and I couldn’t help fall in love with her. I’ve always loved people who take for granted that they are allowed space in life. She’s the first girl I’ve ever loved,” I add with a wink.

“You picked a good one.” Pride shines from his eyes and I adore that about him. Too many people are crappy parents to their kids, and I’m not even talking about my own parents. But Ronan is a great dad. Supportive and accepting and loving, never hesitant to show the world that Emery is his pride and joy. I wish all parents were like him.

The waitress arrives with our burgers and we attack the plates as though we haven’t seen food in weeks.

When the worst hunger is sated, Ronan fixes me with his gaze. “So…?”

I stall by stuffing my face with a couple French fries and swallow them with a gulp of soda. I scratch my neck, sigh, then gather enough courage to stop dodging his gaze.

“I’m not good at talking,” I blurt. “I’m good at avoiding and suppressing emotions and I don’t really know how to do this.”

He gives me a thoughtful look. “So what changed?”

“I thought a lot about what you said. That maybe I’m ready for a change in my life. It took me a while to admit it to myself, but you were spot on. I…I want something meaningful. Something real. Something more than a quick suck and run. I want an emotional connection with someone. I don’t know how, though.”

“So you grabbed onto the first alternative that presented itself? The guy across the hall. Easy and convenient.” His words are provocative but the soft tone of his voice and the warmth in his eyes tell the real story. He does this all the time, making me think by playing Devil’s advocate. It’s annoying and helpful all at once.

“What? No!” My quick denial is an irritated growl. “If I wanted convenient, I wouldn’t pick the guy across the hall. If shit hits the fan, we’re in for some awkward-as-fuck situations. I also wouldn’t pick the guy with a kid, who’s been clear all along he wants someone who’ll stick around.”

“So what do you want?”

I shove my food out of the way and lean my elbows on the table. “You.” It’s a simple word, but there’s nothing easy about it. I feel as though I just reached into my chest and tore out my heart. And now I hold it in my hands, waiting for him to accept, and I’m one second away from fainting with anxiety.

He doesn’t say anything, just keeps looking at me with an intensity so huge it sears through flesh and bone. I can’t take it, so I close my eyes. Talking about wants and wishes and feelings is hard enough without seeing them right in front of my eyes.

“I’ve always wanted you,” I mumble. My blood thunders in my ears and something behind my eyes throbs. “But I’ve never had anything to offer you. I always knew I wasn’t what you were looking for.”

The feeling of his hands cupping mine makes me jump, but I keep my eyes firmly squeezed shut.

“You’ve never given me any indication that you’re interested.” He’s hoarse, and the intensity I saw in his gaze earlier bleeds out of his mouth.

The old me would have yanked away my hands and covered my ears to keep from hearing it. New me, however, bites down on my lip, takes a deep breath, and answers him. “I’ve looked plenty. I can’t believe you’ve missed it. But I didn’t allow myself to make a move. You’re too good for a one-night thing. I didn’t want to risk our friendship by being a shallow coward who avoided you after. Also, I didn’t want to risk my relationship with Emery.”

“You’re breaking my heart, Iggy.” He sighs and strokes his thumbs over mine, giving me the courage to finally open my eyes and look at him. This time, the intensity isn’t overwhelming. This time, it washes over me, leaving me feeling warm and cared for.

“What about you? You haven’t advertised any interest in me. And yet, here you are.”

“I know. But wanting something and knowing what’s good for you are two different things. I’ve wanted you from the first time I saw you. But a single dad with responsibilities was not what you were looking for, so I didn’t allow myself to hope for anything. You shocked the shit out of me on Saturday. I never expected that in a million years.”

“I kind of shocked me, too.”

“I could tell.”

I huff out a chuckle. “And if this isn’t the saddest, most unromantic ‘I like you’ conversation you’ve ever heard, I don’t know what is. Not that I’m an expert on romance or anything.”

The corners of his mouth curl into the hint of a smile. “You’re right. It really is sad.”

“What are we going to do about it?”

“Well…” His gaze falls to my mouth and he licks his lips. The sight of his pink tongue darting out makes warmth pool in my stomach and I ache to lean over the table and kiss him, even though we’re in public.

But…“I want to do this right, Ronan. I need to show you I’m serious.”

He nods slowly and squeezes my hands. “I understand.”

“I’d like to take you out on a date. But I suck at romance.”

“I don’t need romance. Anyone can buy roses and chocolate for their special someone and be celebrated as romantic. Not everyone can be truthful and brave and talk about important matters that are clearly difficult.”

My breath stutters. Of course, he sees right through me and understands how hard this is for me. Damn him for making me emotional again. I open my mouth to say something, but I can’t talk. Instead, I swallow around the lump in my throat, lift our joined hands, rest them against my cheek, and let my eyes do the talking.

“How about I try to find someone to take care of Emery and we can go on a real date?” he rasps.

“Yes.” I turn my head and brush a kiss on his knuckles.

His phone buzzes, and with his eyes full of regret, he frees himself and checks it. “It’s not Emery,” he says after a glance, but his posture is tense.

“Why don’t you text her and check she’s okay?”

“I think I will.”

I watch as he taps out the message, his eyebrows knit together and his mouth set in a worried line. It takes only a minute for him to get a reply and his concerned face relaxes. “She says she’s fine.”

“I’m glad.”

“Yeah.”

“So what’s the deal with Emery’s mom?”

He lets out a deep sigh. “Her name is Anne. We met through mutual friends and jumped into bed immediately. We had an on-again-off-again relationship for years. It was never love, even though I liked her well enough to keep sleeping with her. She’s a drug addict. She was using when we met, but I was naïve and didn’t realize until much later. She was using when she was pregnant and I’m just so fucking happy that Emery is all right…” He chokes up and takes a few breaths to collect himself. “I got custody of Emery when she was three because Anne was out of control. She’s been a sporadic presence in Emery’s life ever since. She’s tried to quit several times, but never succeeded. This time it’s different, she says. This time she says she’s quit for real and wants to be a mother to Emery. Her parents hired an expensive lawyer, and a judge granted visitation rights because kids need their mothers and all that. The visits are supervised for now, but Anne’s been dropping hints that she wants joint custody. Emery isn’t thrilled, as you noticed. She feels abandoned by her mother, even though I’ve tried to explain that addiction is a disease. I’m pretty upset about it because I seem to be the only one listening to what Emery wants.”

He averts his gaze and lowers his voice to a mumble, and I have to strain my ears to hear the rest. “It’s just…everyone seems to believe Anne this time, but I just can’t. She’s promised so many times that she’s clean when she’s not. And maybe I’m a bastard, but I’m just waiting for her to fall off the wagon again. And…” He hesitates and hides his eyes behind a trembling palm. “Sometimes I want her to fail so this all goes away. And then I feel like a selfish, bitter asshole. And I can’t help wondering if it’s my fault that Emery’s so reserved toward her. Have I done something to poison her mind toward her mother?”

Without thinking, I slide out of my seat and join him on his side of the table. I lay my palm on his knee and look at him. “I know nothing about kids and I’m not even going to try to give you advice. But I don’t think it’s weird that she’s reserved, considering you’ve had sole custody since she was three. Who wouldn’t feel abandoned in her situation? I have difficulties sometimes remembering that addiction is a disease, so it can’t be easy for an eleven-year-old. Also, I know your kid quite well, and I know that if she really wants to know her mom, she wouldn’t let your opinion stop her. Your girl is fierce.”

He looks at me with pleading eyes, as though begging me to be right. “You really think so?”

“I do.”

“I just…want to protect her. What if they connect and Anne fucks up again? It will break Emery’s heart.”

“I understand. But you can’t protect her from everything. Life will inevitably throw shit at her and you won’t be able to stop it. I think parents make a mistake when they try to shield their kids from everything. It’s better to prepare them for shit. Of course, I understand that you don’t want your kid to hurt, but I think the best you can do is give her tools to help her deal with disappointments. And make sure she knows you’ll always have her back. That when life is unfair, and everything sucks, she only needs to come to you and you’ll help her and support her in any way you can.”

He leans his head on my shoulder. It must be uncomfortable as fuck since I’m several inches shorter, but there’s no way I’ll push him away. Instead, I grab his hand and lace our fingers together.

“I think you understand more about raising kids than you think you do,” he says.

“No. But I’ve had my fair share of disappointments, and I wish I’d been better prepared.”

“Is anyone ever really prepared?”

“Probably not.” How does anyone prepare for being tossed out on their ass for being gay and fabulous? For having a mother who cares more about getting high than being their parent? “But it’s worth a try.”

“Yes, it is. Thank you.”

“Anytime.”

* * * *

It takes two weeks before we go on a date, but I’m unexpectedly calm about the delay. I don’t want to rush or fuck things up, so I’m happy to wait until Ronan can find someone to watch Emery. We text and talk all the time and I’ve been invited to family dinner several times. Ronan swears he’ll teach me how to cook—”Anyone who can read can cook!”—and Emery is an expert at roping me into helping her with her homework. It’s like I’m slowly becoming a part of their little family, and even though I haven’t even kissed Ronan yet, I’m strangely unfreaked about it.

That doesn’t mean I’m not happy when our date night finally rolls around. I spent a lot of time fretting over everything. What to wear. Where to take him. Even though he claims he doesn’t need romance, I want it to be special. I also want to keep it real. No stupid games or pretending to be someone I’m not.

In the end, I decide to order an assortment of tacos from my favorite Mexican place that delivers, mix a pitcher of margaritas, and invite him to my place. I dress in a tight but soft pair of jeans and a yellow vintage Donna Summer T-shirt, but leave the boots in the closet. I toss the couch cushions on the floor because the coffee table is so low it’s easier to eat that way, and I light a bunch of candles because I love the ambience they create.

I’m happy with how it turned out. Casual and unpretentious is who I am when I’m not on the prowl.

Ronan knocks on my door with eerie punctuality, and when I let him in, I can’t help staring. He wears a pair of faded jeans and a plain black T-shirt and kicks off his sneakers when he steps inside. His hair is artfully tousled, as though he ran his fingers through it after his shower and left it like that. His happily crinkled eyes, a hint of stubble, and a beaming smile take my breath away.

My fingers itch to touch him, so I step close and grab his hands. I’m allowed to touch him now. “Hey. I’m so glad you’re here.” I look up at him and smile.

“I’m happy you invited me.”

I drag my fingers up his arms, over his shoulders, and rest my palms on his neck. His lips look particularly kissable in candlelight. We’ve exchanged only chaste pecks on the cheek or hands, and my lips start tingling with a desire to kiss him. I hide my face in the crook of his neck and he winds his arms around me and pulls me close to his chest. The feeling of his warm, solid body against mine, his breath tickling the top of my head, and his palms lazily caressing my back, make me tremble. His pulse flutters against my temple, and I’m happy I’m not the only one affected by the closeness. I’ve been naked with hundreds of guys over the years, but I’ve never experienced anything remotely like the intimacy we now share.

The moment is disturbed by the delivery guy ringing the doorbell, and I fight the urge to throttle him when I reluctantly pull out of Ronan’s embrace and open the door. I even manage to smile as I pay him.

“I made tacos for dinner,” I say to Ronan. I wink, take his hand, and gesture toward the cushions on the floor as I unpack the heavenly smelling goodies. Soon, the table is full of every kind of taco known to mankind.

Ronan sinks onto a cushion and leans back against the loveseat. “Are more people coming to dinner?” He grins at me.

“Noooo. I finally have you to myself and I refuse to share. I don’t want you to starve, that’s all.” I retrieve the margarita pitcher from the fridge and join him on the floor.

“I’m happy, too.”

The room fills with scents of chili, coriander, and lime, and our stomachs rumble in chorus. I chuckle. “Dig in.”

He does, with gusto. “Oh, my God, these are so good,” he moans with his mouth full of taco.

“Of course.” I pour margarita into his glass. “I’m way too fabulous to endure bad food. I’m an expert on takeout in this town. Just lemme know if you need my advice.”

“I will,” he says with a snigger.

We make small talk all through dinner and it’s easily the best date I’ve ever had. We laugh a lot. Brush against each other accidentally and on purpose. Let our gazes linger. We gravitate toward each other, and after a while, we’re tucked up close, thigh pressed against thigh.

I abandon the food and focus on him. On how his muscles flex when he moves. On how his long strong fingers gently hold the food or the glass. On how his eyes glitter in the candlelight.

When he’s done eating, I lean against him, resting my head on his shoulder and my palm on his thigh. He rubs his cheek against my head and hums, and the sound reverberates through my body. Ronan snakes his arm around my shoulder and pulls me tight.

We sit like that for a long time. His heat warms me to my core and his caressing fingers make my body ache for more.

“I’ve never done this before.” The words slip out before I can stop them.

“Cuddle on the floor?” he mumbles.

“No, I’ve done that. But not without trying to race toward the finish line. I’ve never just…been in the moment and enjoyed being close to someone.”

“Neither have I, to be honest.”

His confession surprises me. “You haven’t?”

“Anne and I didn’t have that kind of relationship. And you know my dating history since we moved in across the hall from you.”

“Mmm. Abysmal. You must be picky.”

“Very.”

“Or you just waited for the right person.”

“More like I waited for this particular person to get his shit together.”

I give him a light slap on the leg. “Hey!”

He chuckles.

“I need to clean this up. Don’t go anywhere.” I untangle myself from his warmth.

“You want me to help?”

“No, please sit. It’ll only take a minute.” I feel his eyes on me as I rush to clear the table and put away the leftovers. He declines more margaritas, so I open a bottle of red wine instead. As I move to join him on the floor again, I change my mind and grab my phone. After opening the Spotify app and queueing up a song, I turn on the Bluetooth speaker.

Then I hold out my hand to him. “Dance with me?”

He takes the offered hand and rises with the grace of a ballerina. I press PLAY and step into his arms. When he recognizes the song, he smiles. It’s the French singer, the Brel guy who got us into this situation in the first place.

“I should have guessed.” He splays his fingers wide on my back.

“Mmm.”

Dancing isn’t easy when I’m ten inches shorter than him, so I wind my arms around his waist and rest my head on his shoulder. We sway back and forth to the music, but the movements aren’t important; the closeness is.

My belly is fluttery and my heart is racing, and I hold him so tightly I don’t think air could pass between us. The flickering candlelight adds to the perfection and I never want to let him go.

And then he lowers his head and starts whispering in my ear. “I will invent you foolish words that you will understand.”

At first, I don’t understand, and I’m about to ask when it hits me. He’s translating the lyrics.

“I will tell you the story of this king, who died of not being able to get to know you. Don’t leave me.” He switches to French, but after he breathes the second “Ne me quitte pas” into my ear, I can’t take it anymore. I look up at him, cup his cheeks, and press my mouth against his.

A bomb could have gone off next to me and I wouldn’t have noticed. He tastes of spices and lime and everything that is good. All I can focus on is his warm soft lips against mine. The prickle of stubble against my skin. His tightening grip on me.

Here and now, he’s the center of my universe.

Then he opens his mouth and sweeps his tongue along the seam of my lips, and I let him in and gasp. Our tongues are in no hurry, sliding slowly against each other, dancing leisurely just like me and Ronan. My hands drift downward but stop on his waistband. He pushes his hips against my lower belly, making sparks of electricity explode in my body as his dick hardens, but doesn’t press for more.

I break the kiss, lean back my head, and we stare at each other. Eyelids are at half-mast. Breaths heavy. Chests heaving. Every part of my body aches for more. I’m desperate to feel his hands on my naked skin, to hear him moan my name, to see him throw back his head in passion.

But when the song restarts on the stereo, I bury my face in the crook of his neck instead of trying to get him out of his clothes as quickly as possible. I tighten my grip on him, determined to never let this wonderful man go. I’m resolved to do whatever it takes to keep him in my life forever. Because for the first time in ages, my heart flutters with hope instead of beating in empty desolation. For the first time in ages, I’m happy.

I lean my head back and look up at him. The emotion in his ocean blue eyes washes over me like a wave and penetrates to my very core. “Kiss me again?”

“Always.”

* * * *

“Iggy?”

I look up from my book—yes, I, Iggy, am reading a book—and take in Emery, who’s shifting her weight from foot to foot, chewing her lower lip, and making fists and releasing them again. I smile at her to try to set her at ease. “Yeah?”

“Are you too busy to talk?”

“Of course not.” I dogear my page and close the book as Emery throws herself into her chair by the kitchen table. She traces the embossed title on the book’s glossy cover with her finger and pointedly ignores looking at me while she wrinkles her forehead, creating deep trenches on her face.

After dating her dad for almost a year, I’m pretty familiar with her expressions by now. This particular one means she wants to talk about something she can’t, or won’t, talk about to her dad.

I stand and pour water in the kettle. The Clenneys solve all life’s problems by gathering in their kitchen, with hands clasped around steaming tea mugs—I learned that a long time ago. And adopted their problem-solving method. Talking seems easier over tea.

Soon, we both have a cup—Earl Grey for me, strawberry for her—and after a first sip, I ask, “What did you want to talk about?”

“Do I have to invite Anne to my birthday party?”

Emery’s twelfth birthday is just around the corner and a celebration is being planned. Ronan’s parents are flying in from Florida. Ten eleven- and twelve-year-old giggling girls are invited. And me—her dad’s boyfriend slash almost-live-in-partner.

“Do you want to invite her?” Emery’s relationship with her mother is still tentative at best. To her credit, Anne is still keeping her nose clean. The visits are no longer supervised by a social worker, but Emery isn’t ready to open up and let her in.

Emery huffs. “Not really.”

“So why are you even asking me about it?”

“Dad’s going to want me to invite her.”

I hum in agreement. Ronan is tearing himself apart trying to support Anne’s attempts to be a real mom to Emery while still being his daughter’s staunchest advocate. “You’re right. But you know he’ll leave it up to you in the end.”

“Yeah.” She sighs out the word and her shoulders hunches as though someone deflated her.

“What’s really bothering you, Ems?”

She shrugs.

“You remember I told you my parents threw me out because I’m gay?”

“But they apologized and want to make things better.” She looks at me as though she’s wondering where I’m going with this.

“They did. But once someone betrays you like that, it’s difficult to learn to trust them again. I don’t know if I trust them fully yet.”

She does a double take. “You don’t?”

“Not really. And I think it’s okay to take your time when your trust has been broken. I think it’s okay to want to protect yourself. So I’m trying—trying really hard—to accept their apology and rebuild our relationship, but I’m not rushing into anything.”

“Huh.” She squints as she drinks her tea, and I can almost see the cogs turning in her mind. “Thanks.” She stands and begins to leave.

That’s it?

But she changes her mind and turns back to me. “Iggy?”

“Yes?” I pick up my mug and take a drink.

“Do you love my dad?”

I sputter tea all over the table and squeak, “What?” before I grab a paper towel and clean up after myself.

She cocks her head. “Do you love my dad?”

Taking a deep breath, I pull up my big boy pants. “I do.”

“So you won’t leave us, right?”

“Oh, Ems. You know I can’t promise anything like that. I don’t want to leave either of you, but sometimes things happen. But what I can promise is that I’ll do my best to not fuck up and to be worthy of you guys. I can promise to fight like hell to keep you.”

“Huh.” She taps her chin with her index finger, then looks me straight in the eye. “That’s why I like you, Iggy. You don’t bullshit me.” She twirls around and jogs out of the kitchen, leaving me with my heart trying to beat its way out of my throat.

“Huh,” I say, borrowing Emery’s trademark sound, and rub my knuckles over my heart, trying my best to soothe it as I stare at my cooling tea.

What just happened?

A choked-up voice interrupts my contemplative state. “Who would have thought? Iggy Wilker, willingly talking about feelings?”

I look up to find Ronan standing in the doorway. He blinks rapidly, and upon closer inspection, it looks as though his eyes are about to flow over.

“If you tell anyone, I’ll kick your ass.”

“Sure.”

“When did you get home? How much of that did you hear?”

“Pretty much all of it.” More blinking.

I scrunch my eyebrows together. “Are you okay?”

He nods and blinks and swallows.

“Seriously.” I walk toward him and put my hands on his hips. “What’s wrong?”

“I…” He looks at me and he loses the struggle over his leaking eyes. I brush away a stray tear from his cheek. He cradles my face in his palms. “You’ve never told me,” he mumbles.

“Told you what?” I go for innocent as I slide my arms around him and cuddle closer, never taking my eyes off him.

“That you l-love me.”

“I haven’t?”

He shakes his head.

“I’m here all the time.” I stand on my toes and kiss his left cheek. “I haven’t sucked anyone else’s dick in almost a year.” I kiss his other cheek. “I watch your kid when you’re at work and talk to her about feelings and shit.” I kiss his nose. “I can’t stop kissing you. I never used to kiss anyone.” I kiss his chin. “My friends have pretty much given up on me because I prefer cuddling on the couch with you to going out dancing.” I brush my lips against his. “What did you think all that meant?”

More tears leak from his eyes and the one drop clinging to his eyelashes makes me swoony. “You love me.”

“Duh.”

“You old romantic, you.” He chuckles.

“You’re corrupting me with all the French chansons you subject me to.”

His gaze falls to my mouth and he licks his lips. “I’m going to kiss you now and I’m never going to stop.”

“That might be impractical. What if one of us needs to take a piss?”

“Iggy?”

“Yes?”

“Shut up.”

I obey by pressing my mouth against his, demanding entrance with my tongue. Kissing him is my favorite thing in the world. And despite my objections, I have no intention of ever quitting.

THE END

ABOUT NELL IRIS

Nell Iris is a romantic at heart who believes everyone deserves a happy ending. She’s a bona fide bookworm (learned to read long before she started school), wouldn’t dream of going anywhere without something to read (not even the ladies’ room), loves music (and singing along but, let’s face it, she’s no Celine Dion), and is a real Star Trek nerd (“Make it so”). She loves words, poetry, wine, and Sudoku, and absolutely adores elephants!

Nell believes passionately in equality for all regardless of race, gender, or sexuality, and wants to make the world a better, less hateful, place.

Nell is a forty-something bisexual Swedish woman, married to the love of her life, and a proud mama of a grown daughter. She left the Scandinavian cold and darkness for warmer and sunnier Malaysia a few years ago, and now spends her days writing, surfing the Internet, enjoying the heat, and eating good food. One day she decided to chase her lifelong dream of being a writer, sat down in front of her laptop, and wrote a story about two men falling in love.

Nell Iris writes gay romance, prefers sweet over angst, and wants to write diverse and different characters.

For more information, visit nelliris.com.

ABOUT JMS BOOKS LLC

JMS Books LLC is a small queer press with competitive royalty rates publishing LGBT romance, erotic romance, and young adult fiction. Visit jms-books.com for our latest releases and submission guidelines!