“Want to come in?” he finally said, startling me with the invitation. That hadn’t been my intention, but now the tentative welcome was on the table, I’d take it.
I shrugged, little more than a twitch of my shoulders. I was a computer geek by trade, no actor, and my faux nonchalance fooled neither of us, I supposed.
The door clicked shut behind us and the knot of guilt in the pit of my stomach unfurled and became a twist of anticipation. He’d let me in and shut the rest of the world out.
Still, if Gary had happened by, he’d have seen two guys sitting in the bedroom of one of them, talking about whatever newly-acquainted housemates talked about.
When ‘they’ could have talked downstairs, sure, but for all he knew, I could have volunteered my moving-in services at last. Told Steven I’d help him unpack and shelve his books.
As it was, the word ‘migraine’ had been mooted so Gary wouldn’t dare disturb my closed bedroom door, nor the grumpy bastard he presumed lay behind it.
But, I reminded myself, as if I needed reminding, if he happens to knock on Steven’s and discovers me here, what’s he gonna think? “Why’s the door closed, guys?”
“Why’s the door closed?”
Steven cocked his head. “Does it make you uncomfortable?”
“No. I just thought…”
“I figured we could use some privacy.” Steven stood entirely too close.
My observational powers, rather than being muted with him nearby, were sharpened, magnifying the curly chest hairs just peeking out from the neckline of his vest. And now I knew he had a treasure trail and was definitely, definitely gay… “Oh?”
“Unless you just came to offer your services?”
I completely failed in my attempt to turn the cough of surprise into a simple clearing-of-my-throat. What I did manage to do was make him laugh.
“Helping me unpack, of course.” He waved two paperbacks at me. “What did you think I meant?”
“Nothing. Nothing.” Steven swanned past and stood in front of the near-empty bookcase, laughing to himself. His shoulders shook with merriment, drawing my attention—
once again—to his ink. “You know, considering you’re so tightly wound, you’re surprisingly easy to wind up.”
“I am not—”
The thud of the books hitting the shelf and sliding into place curtailed my denial. “Yes you are.” And Steven’s voice put paid to it absolutely. “Make yourself useful, then.”
My already-tense facial muscles tautened still further when I frowned.
“Open up the next box.” He nodded at the cardboard boxes on the floor at the foot of his bed and I complied.
Thankfully they weren’t taped, just fastened with each flap tucked under the adjacent one, daisy-chain style. It took seconds to undo the first.
“You know…”
Don’t fold your arms, don’t fold your arms, don’t fold your—ah, fuck it.
He folded his arms and leaned against the bookcase, grinning. “You probably wouldn’t get half the migraines you do if you just lightened up a bit. I bet the cost of your next beer consignment they’re stress-related.”
“How do you know how many migraines I get?”
“Tell me I’m wrong.”
“Is your sister stressed out?”
He gave a sharp bark of laughter. “Tiffany? God, no. She’s so laid back she’s practically horizontal. In fact.” He shrugged. “Most of the time she is, but anyway, nice deflection there, Kit. With women, migraines are mostly hormonal. It’s unusual for men to get them. Most of the time in those cases, they’re stress-related. You have a high-pressure job?”
“You’re joking, aren’t you? I dick about on computers all day; it’s hardly brain science. Rocket surgery. I mean—”
“Computers and stress, see. I hate to say I told you so.” He reached out for a pile of books and I handed them to him, casting a quick glance over the spines and titles.
“But you’re gonna do it anyway,” I muttered. “So this is the kind of thing you read, huh?”
“You said ‘this’ with your eyebrows raised.” He winked. He winked, and turned his back, not looking in the least embarrassed, sheepish or shamefaced before he did so. And why would he?
“Are you daring me to be shocked?”
Steven looked over his shoulder—his toned, inked, get the fuck over it, Kit, shoulder—
and laughed. “Not at all. I think I’d be the shocked one, though, if you read anything other than Computer Nerding for Dummies or any sort of geek manual.”
“I read proper books too.”
“Yeah? Name the last novel you read, Kit. For fun. The last DVD you watched that wasn’t Jensen Ackles wank-fodder.”
“You’ve been paying attention?”
“Or the last time you got laid,” he muttered, nearly but not quite under his breath, clearly intended to be heard.
“What?”
“Nothing, nothing. More books in that box, are there?”
“That innocent act isn’t fooling anyone.”
“Act? This isn’t an act.” Two supplicant hands waited, palms up, for the next load of books from the same box.
I slapped them down on his hands one by one. “Elizabeth Silver? Ash Penn? L. M. Turner?” I recited.
“I’m a gay guy with healthy appetites.” He shrugged. I couldn’t faze him no matter how I tried. It was me constantly on the back foot, and he’d only been a tenant for a matter of hours. The bed was made, he’d offloaded some stuff in the kitchen but his books and a few other bits and pieces were still in bags and boxes. He hadn’t even made his mark on the house yet.
Me, on the other hand…
“I read erotica on occasion. Sometimes I read the Brontes too.” He indicated a couple of books already shelved with, I had to admit, broken spines and worn covers. “Tolstoy for some light reading. I’m not all about the filth, Kit. I can be quite cerebral too.”
“I never thought… Look, I didn’t knock on your door to discuss your reading material…”
“No?” Without looking at me he shuffled a few books around on the shelf, perhaps grouping novels by the same author together, or arranging according to genre. Hell, he could have been colour-coding his shelves according to the appearance of the spines for all I knew.
“No. About the…” I thumbed in
