Page 11 of The Warmth of Our Closest Star

“Also,” I said, “do you want…will you nap with me?” I was overcome with the need to make Peter not feel lonely in his home. If only for a short while.

His smile somehow got wider. “You sure? I was going to use the den sofa.”

That made me happy, knowing I was right about Peter’s favorite napping spot.

“Please,” I said. “If you want?”

Peter didn’t say anything, but he mimicked my actions, kicking off his shoes. I moved over on the bed, giving Peter room to climb onto the bed from the side closest to the door. Once he was on the bed with me, we didn’t speak to each other, but somehow communicated that our nap would not include being uncomfortable with proximity. Peter gently snuggled up to my side and laid his head on my shoulder, draping an arm over my chest. I lifted my head to look at him and he turned his face up to look into my eyes. Without words, we kissed. Then again. Several small, delicate kisses eased us into sleep. I’d never slept with someone snuggling up to me, using my chest as a pillow before.

I found that I never wanted to sleep any other way again.

But that was probably because the someone snuggling me was Peter.

Fancy restaurants always intimidate me. Prohibitive costs are not the only issue, though that is a piece of it. Generally speaking, my experience with fancy restaurants has always involved the waitstaff looking at me as though I don’t belong in their place of business. Probably because I don’t; of which I’m aware. Being reminded of that fact is humiliating, however.

Butcher’s Prime was a steakhouse, and like Chop House 42, it aligned itself with a diverse clientele while still managing elegance and refinement. A few tables were occupied by people with bright hair colors, piercings, and exciting and unique fashion choices. Other tables were full of men in suits and women in elegant evening dresses. People of all races, ages, and sizes surrounded us in the dining room.

I loved the crowd. It made me feel less like I didn’t belong. I was appalled at the menu.

“They are charging forty dollars for…chicken breast.” I lowered my menu to lean across the table and whisper to Peter.

He looked up from his menu.

“And sauces and sides are an additional cost, Peter,” I said.

Peter grinned.

“It’s really good chicken,” he whispered back dramatically.

Rolling my eyes, I glanced at my menu again before responding.

“I cannot do this,” I said as I closed my menu and laid it on the table. “This is obscene.”

My statement was meant to be humorous, but I was actually appalled at the prices.

“I’ll order for you.” Peter reached across the table to take my menu away from me. “Then you don’t have to think about it.”

“Having you order for me does not change the prices.” I pointed at my menu as it lay on the table in front of him.

Peter laughed and continued perusing his menu.

“It’s excellent food,” he said. “You’ll forget all about that when you take your first bite. If you thought lunch was excellent, you are going to have your mind blown here.”

“I will choose to trust you.”

Though I felt like a child, when our waiter arrived at our table to take our drink orders, and Peter ordered wine, I ordered a soda. Peter smiled at my choice, but said nothing, nor did the waiter. I’d been told by Peter that he wanted me to have the best vacation ever, so I ordered the drink that would make me the happiest. Peter went back to the menu when the waiter left to get our drinks, and I was left to surreptitiously examine the other patrons of the steakhouse.

I wondered if my long-sleeve button-down shirt, slacks, and borrowed tie from Peter made me fit in or made me look as though I was playing a role. When Peter had informed me that we were going to have dinner at a “nice steakhouse” after we rose from our nap, I had spent an inordinate amount of time in his bathroom getting ready. It wasn’t only that his shower had a bench, multiple showerheads, and was big enough for ten grown men to use. I wanted to look nice for our…date.

Date. That was how I was labeling our dinner. Though, I wasn’t going to ask Peter if he felt the same for fear that he might not.

Every inch of my body had been scrubbed to squeaky cleanliness. My hair was styled perfectly, and I had checked myself out in the mirrors in the bathroom from every angle once I was dressed. When I had joined Peter downstairs, his smile upon catching sight of me was all I needed. Of course, Peter was dressed similarly, though, in my opinion, he looked better.

“Have you gentlemen decided what you would like?” the waiter asked as he set our drinks before us on the table.

He turned to me first for some reason, but Peter cleared his throat to get his attention.

“I’m going to have the prime rib with béarnaise sauce and the scalloped potatoes,” Peter said, causing my mouth to water. Then he looked over at me. “I think...for Enzo…we’ll do the twelve-ounce filet mignon au poivre with cognac cream…medium-rare…blue cheese potatoes, and…grilled broccolini.”