Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 97417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
“Fitch? Honey? Are you coming down with something? Do you have a fever? I’ll whip up some chicken noodle soup for you tonight.”
His stupid heart sank and he sighed. “No, Ma, I’m not sick. Thanks though, you’re the best.”
Marge Donovan’s chicken soup would kill any virus within three hours. It was scientifically proven to scare away germs. It would also set your intestines on fire.
He could hear his mom calculating the probability of truth so he distracted her with a question. “Did you talk to Meg? How is she?”
She clucked. “Her hangover was still pretty bad when I called her, but not quite as debilitating as the time you decided it was a great idea to try your father’s brandy.”
“We agreed never to bring that up again. It never happened.” He smiled at her chuckle.
“When you see you sister again, just remember how terrible it felt.”
“Yeah, yeah, take all my fun away.”
“Listen, the reason I’m calling...” She paused and the tone of the call became more serious. “I just wanted to let you know that I made the doctor’s appointment.”
He sat up straighter and switched the phone to his other ear. “Okay, when?”
“The Monday before Mother’s Day.”
“But that’s not for four weeks. Isn’t there anything sooner?”
His mom sighed. “No, unfortunately. Your father will only go to Dr. Mac and you know he’s always booked. They did us a favor by adding an extra slot, but we’ll still have to wait.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. At least they’d set the date. “Are you all right?”
“Oh sure, don’t you worry about us, sweetheart. Hey, your dad wants to talk to you. We’ll chat later.”
“Okay, bye.”
“Son?”
“Hey, Pop.”
His father cleared his throat. “Listen, I, uh, I just want to apologize.”
“No need, really.”
“Did you speak to Greg?”
Greg was the owner of the development firm who’d hired them for the remodel. “Yes. It took a little negotiation, but he was very understanding. He’s a good man.”
“Yes, he is.”
“We’ll cover any extra costs needed, but he said the change was not a deal breaker.” He laughed, remembering the old guy explaining how he’d been inspired while watching the birds out his bathroom window.
His father chuckled. “That sounds like Greg. Thanks for taking care of it.”
“You know I’m ready to take over. You’re just too stubborn to retire.”
“Yeah, well, maybe it won’t be up to me.”
They said good-night and he promised to be at Sunday dinner. He placed his phone on the coffee table and rested his head in his hands. What would he do if his dad was sick? Meg would be devastated. She was Daddy’s little girl. Pop was still young, only sixty-five—it was too early to be dealing with this shit.
He spent the next hour zoning out to the television and trying not to think about his dancer and how to explain his lust for a man. It was one thing for his parents to eventually accept Meg’s sexuality. It was another for their son to suddenly decide he wanted to kiss another dude now that he was nearly thirty years old. They had plans for him. Ma wanted grandbabies. Pop depended on him to run the business. What would the crew think if they knew where his mind had been?
Christ.
Today had been one hit after another, first the problem at the site then having to negotiate with Greg. Even though it went smoothly, the whole meeting had stressed him out. Then a second confusing encounter with his dancer. No, Ansel.
His name was Ansel. A unique name for a unique person.
He turned off the television and all the lights on his way to the bedroom. His bed was still rumpled from his restless night and his laptop was perched on the nightstand. He stripped down to his boxers, slipped under the covers, and turned on the computer.
This afternoon he’d made a step that could propel him into a gay experience and he was woefully ignorant about such things.
Time for a little research.
* * *
The bell above the door of the neighborhood deli-slash-convenience store jingled as Fitch pushed through late Saturday morning. He winced at the sound and the answering pounding it ignited in his sleep-deprived brain.
He’d spent most of the night staring at pictures of cocks, watching gay porn, and trying to understand his sudden attraction to a leggy blond dancer. No matter how many video links he’d clicked he hadn’t gotten hard until he’d closed his eyes and pictured Ansel. With Ansel’s green eyes held in his mind, Fitch’s cock never wilted no matter what happened on the screen.
Conclusion, he wasn’t gay. Not in the traditional sense. He was just fucking crazy for one sexy-as-sin dancer.
Really fucking crazy.
“Seems like someone had a rough night.” Enrico, the deli owner, laughed in greeting. “You look like shit, Fitch.”
“I’m still better-looking than you, old man.” Fitch slid up to the counter like he had all his life and settled in for Enrico’s customary banter. The man was only about fifteen years older than Fitch and didn’t look a day over forty, but it was fun to tease him.