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Luca knew that the hesitation was stupid. It wasn’t like he was going to do anything with Artair. It wasn’t like he could do anything with him.
But still . . .
Luca had already endured his fill of men hardening when they discovered what he did for a living. Of them thinking Luca was weird or twisted or suddenly just caging up, as though every word they said was now on the record.
And Luca didn’t want that from Artair. Not this early and this soon. Because even if he couldn’t screw the guy, it was rare to find someone that he could just volley dumb conversations around with. Who could pick up the playful banter and run with it.
Most of the guys Luca knew ran out of things to say at: You up?
Luca tapped his fingers against the bench. “Look, the flirtation is working well. Really well. And if I could go there, I would. In a heartbeat.”
“Ah, gotcha. Boyfriend?”
“I wish. Exceptionally single over here.”
Artair looked him up and down. “How?”
Luca laughed, knowing that Artair was only saying that because he didn’t know him well enough. “It’s complicated.”
“Well, Mr. Complicated, I’m guessing I should probably cool it on the flirting?” said Artair, making a ridiculous set of finger guns.
Again, Luca pondered this. They’d only met twice now, but Artair was proving fun to talk to, and Luca was pretty sure that flirtation was a key part of this guy’s charm.
You met them sometimes—men who could pull off playful conversations with any gender and any age. Even if everyone knew it wasn’t going anywhere. Especially when everyone knew that.
Take them to a wedding and they’d soon have the bride and the groom and the mother-in-law blushing, with no one offended by the advances or annoyed by the attention.
And as limited as their interreactions were, Luca had to admit that no, he wasn’t offended by the advances. And no, he wasn’t annoyed by the attention, either. The guy was charming. And the last thing he wanted to do was neuter that charm.
“Maybe you could cut the flirting back like fifty percent? As long as you know I won’t be following through on any of it?”
“Gotcha. Next time you see me I’ll just have one ball out, not two.”
“Pffft. That makes no sense, mathematically. Two balls and a dick makes thirds. I said cut the flirting in half, not sixty-six percent.”
Artair feigned mental arithmetic. “Ugh! Fine! One ball and half a shaft?”
“Length-ways or girth-ways?”
“Length. Come on. I’m not a monster,” said Artair, ducking into the storage room and returning with two fly fishing rods. “And speaking of long poles.”
Their fishing lines arced overhead, like stalks of grass blowing in the breeze. The water ran cool past Luca’s legs, the rocks beneath the waterline smoothed by the centuries and soft against his bare toes.
It had been a few years, but the muscle instinct of fly fishing was still there, sleeping in the memories of golden light and childhood days. When the summers felt like they might never end. When the seasons felt like you became a whole different person by the end of it.
The way you had to flick the line for height and accuracy.
The way the beads of water were flung into the air, catching every drop of sun, like a scattering of fine jewels.
The way you had to be patient and take advantage of your moment.
Luca squinted to see where his lure had landed. “So what’s the deal with this gear? The tent and fishing poles and cooking equipment? I’m guessing this isn’t some family retreat?”
“Nah, the cabin’s a really old government outpost. Kinda like your tower. The equipment got abandoned a few decades back and now it’s a secret campsite for those in the know.” The bigger man watched as Luca recast his line. “And not bad technique, surprisingly.”
“Surprisingly? Please. It’s not my first time.”
“Good, virgins are the worst. Particularly for us big boys, am I right?”
