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Another night, Matt told him about the time he’d shared an elevator with Stan Lee at DragonCon, and he was so star-struck, he hadn’t said a word. The convention was a sci-fi fantasy lover’s haven, and Matt was freaking adorable in his full-on geek mode.
He also told Robby about his dreams of becoming an architect and how he was taking night classes to knock out his last few electives.
At one point, they’d talked about their favorite games, and Robby gushed over his VR headset. Yeah, the set-up had set him back a few hundred dollars, but he had bought all the gear used at GameStop, and it had been worth every penny. Matt had never so much as stuck his toe into the virtual reality pool, and of course, Robby had to remedy the injustice with an invitation to come check it out.
Which was how he now found himself obsessively cleaning his already spotless apartment, waiting for Matt to arrive. Everything had to be perfect, or at least as close to perfect as his low-rent one-bedroom could be. The carpet was vacuumed, the sofa cushions fluffed. A bowl of potato chips graced the coffee table, and drinks were chilling in the fridge.
The pizza was due to arrive in about half an hour. He’d gone back and forth about whether to have it here when Matt arrived but decided they would enjoy it more if it was hot. Plus, if things got awkward, they could focus on the food.
Please don’t let things get awkward.
His heartbeat picked up at the soft knock on the door. The place was as clean as it was going to get. Shoving the dust-cloth under one of the cushions, he advanced to the door.
Please go well. Please. Please. Please.
His cheeks strained at the too-big smile on his face as he opened the door; his back teeth clenched so tightly, they threatened to splinter in his mouth. But one glimpse of Matt fidgeting with a grocery bag and shuffling his feet on the porch made the tension melt away in an instant.
“You need a hand?” He reached out to snag the brown paper bag.
Matt had been holding it horizontally because it had a vegetable tray inside. “I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to bring anything.” As he stepped over the threshold, his gaze flitted from one end of the room to the other, looking everywhere except at Robby.
It was impossible to stay nervous around someone even twitchier than he was. “This is perfect. Thanks.” He pulled off the clear plastic protecting the food and placed the platter next to the chips. “Snack food ‘till the pizza gets here.” He dipped a broccoli floret in the reservoir of ranch dressing, then popped it in his mouth.
“You had me at pizza.” Matt swiped a handful of chips from the bowl and crunched them with a grin.
“Wait. You haven’t even heard the best part yet.” He cleared a path to the kitchenette in five long strides. He pulled the glass pitcher from the fridge and held it up triumphantly.
Matt followed him over. “Tell me I’m not looking at the famous Rum Punch.” He lifted one of the two tall glasses on the counter and tipped it forward for a fill-up.
“I didn’t taste it,” Robby admitted, pouring for Matt. “But I’ve made this recipe so many times, I’m practically a pro.” He filled his own glass with sweet tea and clinked it against Matt’s. “Cheers.” Closing his eyes, he tipped his head back and indulged in the sugary goodness. Not quite as exciting as a cocktail, but smarter.
Matt groaned. “Oh yeah. I’ll take this over a beer any day of the week. What’s in it?”
The recipe rolled off his tongue, the ingredients long memorized from years of tinkering with the perfect proportions. He’d played bartender countless times for John and his friends.
The pizza arrived a little ahead of schedule, but the savory sauce was the perfect complement to the sweet drinks. The quiet prayers he had sent up not to bungle the evening quickly faded until they were forgotten. Over pizza slices, they laughed about Kane’s hatred of all fictional motorcycle clubs. They speculated about how much Cooper Construction was making from its deal to subcontract for Berringer Homes. And they dished over their favorite celebrities, almost all with roots in sci-fi or fantasy.
Matt tried out a few of the virtual reality games, but they all made him sick to his stomach.Resident Evil, in particular, prompted him to pull off the headset and declare the experiment an unmitigated failure.
Thankfully, the nausea seemed to vanish the minute Matt took the visor off, and Robby spent the next five minutes forcing him to watch the videos he’d made on his phone of Matt screaming at imaginary monsters.
He couldn’t remember the last time he laughed so hard. “You want me to make another pitcher of punch?” He rubbed his hands together. “Oh! Or you can make this one. Show me your new bartending skills.”
Matt shot him a dubious look. “My bartending career has spanned one shift. You really want to take a chance with my hands in your favorite recipe?”
He took Matt’s hand and pulled him toward the kitchen. “The best thing about this drink is how hard it is to mess up. There are only degrees of how good you can make it. And I don’t mind sharing my secret, which is to use orange and pineapple juice from concentrate instead of fresh and then use club soda instead of water to dilute it.”
He probably should have released Matt’s hand as he broke the recipe down, but it felt so good being skin to skin. Matt’s palm was cool—his fingers long and strong. The best part? He showed no signs of discomfort. He didn’t try to disentangle himself or step back. If anything, he moved closer as Robby used his other hand to pull the various rum bottles forward for inspection.
“Most people will tell you to use half light and half dark rum.” He lowered his voice, as though he were sharing a secret. “The dark gives it a depth of flavor, but you need to split the other half between the light rum and coconut rum.”
“Coconut.” Matt was so close, his breath fanned over Robby’s jaw as he spoke. “Not spiced rum?”
He sucked in air through his mouth and imagined he tasted the breath that had left Matt’s body. He took a moment to savor the idea. Just a few inches and he could taste Matt’s mouth for real. He pulled back.
A dangerous line of thought. He’d made so much progress with Matt, he wouldnotobliterate it with an overture guaranteed to embarrass them both.
“No. Ah, if you’re looking for a good fit for Captain Morgan, I’d suggest it as a substitution for tequila in your margaritas. It’s especially good for those of us who have a rocky history with Jose Cuervo.”
