Page 5 of The Warmth of Our Closest Star

My brow furrowed with amusement.

“My immigrant from L’Hexagone??” He shrugged.

I laughed and said, “Have you been learning these things for this very day?”

“I already knew the Canadian one,” he said as his finger trailed along my knuckles. “I did, in fact, look up the France one.”

“Your pronunciation was not bad.”

He bowed his head slightly.

“Something…very American…would be nice to eat,” I said. “If that is not offensive?”

Peter chuckled. “It’s not offensive at all. If I remember correctly, you will eat almost anything, right?”

My blush, which I thought had dissipated, warmed my cheeks further.

“I am not…particular.”

“Your pronunciation wasn’t bad,” Peter teased.

“I struggle with that word.”

“It’s beautiful coming from your lips,” Peter lifted my hand and kissed the back of it.

Then his eyes were back on mine.

“This may sound odd, Enzo,” he said, “but I missed you. A lot.”

Again, warmth flowed over me, but it wasn’t only in my cheeks.

“I missed you, too,” I replied. “And we’re both odd, I suppose.”

Peter laughed and a specter of regret flashed across his face as he was forced to release my hand so that he could fasten his seatbelt and drive. I secured my seatbelt as the push of a button started Peter’s car. Somehow, I managed to not show my shock at such a fancy feature, but I was impressed nonetheless. The compulsion to start pushing buttons, simply to see what they did, was nearly irresistible. I managed to suppress that urge as well.

Expertly—at least to me—Peter drove us out of the parking lot and away from the airport, zipping in and out of traffic effortlessly, putting distance between us and one of the busiest parts of the city. Once traffic became lighter, the further we got from the airport, Peter asked if I wanted to turn on the radio. Music, though one of my greatest loves, was not what I wanted to hear. I wanted to hear more of Peter’s voice, to have him tell me about the city he called home, and I wanted to stare unabashedly like a tourist at the things we passed by in his car.

I declined the offer of the radio and asked Peter to explain where he was taking me. I presented the request in a teasing way, suggesting that I was at his mercy and wanted to be certain of my safety. Which made him laugh. I’d forgotten how Peter’s laugh affected me. To miss something that had become a specter of a memory over two years, and not know it until you are presented with it once again, does things to a person. In my case, I found that I wanted to kiss Peter again. More. For how long, I wasn’t certain, but kissing Peter was all I could think about for several moments.

Finally, as he began to tell me where we were going, I reluctantly shook those thoughts away so that he would have my attention.

“There’s a really nice restaurant,” he began, “that serves delicious burgers, fries, barbecue—those kinds of things—that I think you’ll love.”

“Oh?”

“Huge portions,” Peter grinned wickedly as he stared out at traffic, “and nothing there is going to be good for your diet. It’s very American.”

I chuckled. It was exactly what I had wanted—except for one thing.

“Really nice restaurant?” I asked.

Peter glanced at me before his eyes returned to the road. We sat in silence for a moment as Peter negotiated the highway traffic, but finally, he explained himself.

“I was planning to treat you to lunch and dinner today,” he said.

“Peter—”

“I want you to go to two of my favorite restaurants,” he ignored me. “And, yes. They are a little expensive.”