Page 45 of Off the Trail

“I was trying to ignore the date vibes because I didn’t think you meant it that way.”

“I didn’t, truly. Except part of me did?” His smile is adorably confused, like a golden retriever who doesn’t understand where all the food in his bowl has gone.

“How is it possible we were both so oblivious to it?”

“Maybe we were protecting ourselves. Because if we weren’t dating, then there couldn’t be rejection.”

As we talk, we inch closer until there’s no room between us at all.

“I think I’d like to take you on a proper date,” Shawn says. “One where we both know that’s what we’re doing.”

Just like that, my slowly building confidence backslides. If he wants to take me on a real date, what’s going to happen when he leaves Sanctuary Lake? It’s one thing to have a vacation fling with a guy you’re attracted to. Or, in my case, blow off some much-needed steam with a hot guest. But it’s another to pretend we could have a real relationship.

“You hate that idea. It was just a thought,” Shawn says, clearly reading something on my face. “I’m really lousy at this.” He runs a nervous hand through his short hair, and I catch it on its way back down.

“You aren’t lousy at this,” I say, because it’s not his fault I’m afraid I’m going to catch feelings. “Look, I have been with guys before, but I’m also not that, um, experienced. Especially at dating. It’s been a long time since I even tried.”

“Since when?”

“Since before my parents.” I’m not nervous to tell him, because it’s Shawn and he already knows about them, about how hard it was.

“That’s like, a really long time,” he says, squinting one eye at me. He must think⁠—

“Oh, it’s not like I haven’t been with anyone since then,” I blurt out. “It’s just been more like hook-ups.”

He relaxes. “So you have more experience than me, at least with guys.”

“Some. But we might have to muddle through some things together, okay?”

He considers that, and then he grins. “I like the idea of muddling through as long as I have someone to muddle through with.”

It strikes me then, what he’s offering me is more than a make-out session, or going out on a date, or possible sex. He’s offering me the chance of not being entirely alone.

At least for a little while.

It’s a chance I’m going to grab onto. “Let’s muddle, then.” And I kiss him, because it seems silly that we’ve been talking instead of doing other things with our mouths.

I’m glad our first kiss was outside, under the stars. It felt like a dream. But here, inside this cozy cottage, being with him feels like a fantasy. He tastes fresh, his tongue is insistent and warm, and the touch of it against mine gets me going. His big hands go to my shoulders, and he feels out my edges, groping and squeezing down my arms, then across my chest.

“You feel good,” he says between kisses. “You’re so strong.”

I allow a moment of pride at my strength being something he values, something he finds desirable. I unbutton my flannel, baring the plain white tee underneath. His hands go under my shirt, and the sensation of him skimming my bare stomach makes me shiver hard, my cock leaping in my jeans. Holy shit, it’s been a long time, but I’ve never been this into anyone simply touching me before.

Impulsively, I strip off my shirt, leaving me naked from the waist up. Since puberty started and body hair—a lot of body hair—followed in its wake, I’ve always been a little self-conscious about the mat covering my chest. I’ve grown more comfortable with it over time, but still—if Shawn’s grossed out by me, it’s going to suck.

“Love your body,” he says, and it’s the exact right thing to say at the exact right time to say it. “Wanted to do this the first time I saw you coming out of the lake in your swim trunks,” he adds, digging his fingers into the thatch of hair excitedly, petting me, finding my nipples and brushing them with the edge of his fingernail. “Even though I didn’t understand why.”

I kiss him hard, rewarding him with my tongue down his throat, and he lets me lean him back into the sofa, getting on top of him, pressing him down with my weight.

“Want to see you, too,” I say, tugging at the hem of his sweatshirt. It smells like sawdust. I back off long enough for him to lift it up and off, leaving him in a long-sleeved shirt I don’t have much use for, even though the sage color makes his eyes look especially green. I push at it impatiently, and he laughs, and gets rid of it, and then I can see him in all his glory.

Shawn has the sculpted body of a professional athlete, and the scars to go with it. There’s the wicked curved one on his right arm from his Tommy John surgery. But he’s got another scar over his right ribs, and a third on his lower abs. I touch the one over his ribs lightly.

“Took a ball to the ribs in college. They had to operate to stop some internal bleeding.”

“Jesus,” I mutter. “And this one?” I touch the one on his flat, practically hairless lower abdomen. He shivers.

“Appendicitis,” he says. “Got it out when I was eighteen. Luckily, it happened in the off-season.”