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Luca made an incoherent noise, somewhere between a growl and a groan. He reached down instinctually to pat the energetic head of Bowie, who was switching periodically between frantic bolts and obedient sits.
“Why?” Luca muttered, rubbing sleep from his eyes, the cool morning breeze caressing his bare balls.
Artair looked apologetic. At least, those parts that Luca could see through the pile certainly did. “Ohhh, hey there, lover. This isn’t what it looks like.”
“Let me guess, you got excited last night when I was talking about proper Mexican tacos, and now you want to grow a bunch of vegetables down by the river? Possibly as a surprise for me? In which case, we can both agree that there’ve been smoother surprises in history.”
There was a long pause. “Okay, maybe it’s exactly what it looks like.”
“What time did you even wake up?”
“Now minus an hour?”
“That isn’t normal, buddy.”
Artair swiveled a shovel from in front of his face, letting Luca see him better. “For most of human history, this is when people got up.”
“For most of human history, people lived to thirty and died from a stubbed toe.”
“Did they?”
“I don’t know. Probably,” Luca said with a long yawn. “You know there are ten empty garden beds here, right?”
“Yeah, I built them,” said Artair, factually. There was no brag there.
Of course you did, thought Luca. “And you aren’t using them because... ?”
Artair attempted a shrug, sending a rake cascading from his arms. “I don’t know. I already distract you enough? Sandy doesn’t care about taking the afternoons off—if anything, she encourages it, so the person behind the glass can stay focused when it matters and doesn’t go totally nuts. But I don’t want to distract you in the morning as well. The job is important, and, you know...”
And you’re trying to keep some distance to protect us both.
Luca patted Artair’s hand, the skin warm against the cool. It was partly a gesture of affection, partly wanting the conversation to end so he could try to get a few more hours of sleep. “Just use the garden beds here, you big idiot. I’m perfectly capable of leaving you alone in the morning to do your own thing.”
Artair looked skeptical—rightly so, given how things usually went when they were together. “Really?”
“Yes, really.”
And Luca meant it. Because Artair carting this stuff down to the river and starting over with a whole new garden? When the beds he actually built were here and ready and unused? That was too stupid to contemplate. It was the same instinct that led Artair to almost starve himself during the storm.
“But with one caveat,” said Luca.
“What?”
Still tiptoeing between the worlds of the awake and the sleeping, Luca pulled Artair’s hands from the pile, sending the tools clattering to the grass. Holding onto one meaty palm, Luca led Artair back to the tower. “Come spoon me until Sandy calls, then you can start digging.”
“Spooning will probably also lead to digging,” he said, staring fixedly at the dawn light across Luca’s bare and bouncing booty.
“Oh no. How awful.”
Gold illuminated Luca’s new gardener.
Artair worked shirtless, which any sane person would agree was the correct choice. His beefy chest was sweat-sheened and furry, like an otter fresh out of an alpine river. His button-up was tucked casually into the back of his shorts. His boots and forearms were covered in dirt. And he wore his trucker cap backward, keeping his messy hair out of his eyes.
Unfortunately for Luca’s attempts to keep his word and let the man work in peace, he found the whole image pornographically hot. Full tradesman realness—the plumber or the pool boy or the maintenance guy coming round to ensure his pipes were in good working order.
Often when they were together, Artair knew that Luca was stealing glances and played it up. Pulling awful pinup poses and making a ridiculous pout.
But this was something different. And not just because Luca was only allowing himself the occasional glance, rather than a full-focused stare of admiration.
