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Instead, he was chewing ferociously on a stubby pencil and staring at the notepad. The heel of his boots—dangling a few feet above the forest floor—tapped absently at the spongy bark.
Luca had never seen his own writing face before, but he’d been told it was something to behold. Apparently whatever story he was writing played out completely on his face—eyebrows raising and tongue flicking and making little intakes of breath whenever he got a good idea, even though he never registered himself doing it at the time.
And he was making all of those expressions now as he waxed poetic on the nature of longing, using a writing style more formal than his natural tone—one befitting a publication that collected Pulitzers like other people collected wild berries.
The ancient Greek philosopher Plato once likened lust to a prison of the soul, where each act of indulgence was like pounding a fresh bolt into our own cell door. True, perhaps. But who among us wouldn’t risk a few nights in the slammer for a few nightly slams.
He smiled at that line, sure to make the breakfast brigade of Seattle’s high society titter over their espresso—single estate and sourced all the way from Ethiopia, you know.
It was just like the lines he’d written about his first meeting with Artair on the earlier pages.
I introduced myself to Red Bear with my most alluring and sensitive angle. Indiscreet and overexposed and appearing to invite a course of action that was most certainly not on the table.
Or under it, even.
Red Bear was the moniker he’d decided for Artair—code names being standard for those writing professionally about their own sexual adventures. Real names were only ever used with consent, and Luca wasn’t in any rush to explain this situation to Artair.
The man had barely wanted to speak about life beyond the woods, turning quiet when Luca had asked the most basic questions about jobs and future plans.
He could only imagine how badly Artair would harden if he found out about the article.
He would tell him, of course.
Eventually.
When the time was right.
Luca nodded as the words flowed. It was a week since he’d found Artair’s camp, and the article was coming along much better now.
The first reason for that improvement was the framing device he’d used: starting the article with an honest retelling of his interview at the Gazette, explaining the unfortunate challenge he’d set for himself. It was a good start—warm and humorous and inviting the reader into the absurdity of his situation.
And the second reason for the writing going better was that Luca was using it as a coping mechanism for his own frustrations.
Every day for the last week, ever since he’d stumbled across Artair’s camp—and simultaneously gained the knowledge that the playful stud was just a leisurely hike away—he’d thought about visiting him again. Thought about slipping on the familiar leather of his boots and taking the stroll toward temptation. Toward company and conversation and finding out more about the fascinating man, obviously so talented and intrepid, but for some reason reluctant to talk about his life.
And every single day, he’d forced himself to write instead. To hike in the opposite direction from the river cabin. To engage honestly with his frustrations and weave that reality into his story. To speak on desire and restraint and ask himself some honest questions about why he was so damn conflicted.
Like why, despite knowing everything at stake, he still had to fight these urges?
Like why, despite lucking out and getting this opportunity with the Gazette, he would even consider sacrificing four decades as a leading conversation shaper for forty minutes of transient pleasure?
Like why he was staying away from the man?
Like why he hadn’t accepted Artair’s offer of staying for dinner?
Like why he hadn’t trusted himself to do that?
It was a fascinating thing to ponder. Because staying celibate should have been the ultimate no-brainer. A logical choice. An obvious choice—given the risks and rewards.
And yet, it hadn’t felt logical in the moments.
On the balcony of their first meeting, Artair’s touch had been so tempting that it almost broke him in two. Making Luca forget everything he was working toward.
In the camp of their second meeting, that temptation had only grown stronger. At the man’s playfulness and easy appeal and comfort with his surrounds. At Artair’s warm presence and fascinating ability to live in the middle of nowhere with practically no supplies.
It had made Luca want to stay. To learn. To get closer to him.
But why did he have this temptation? How could his desire and his logic be on such poor speaking terms with one another?
