16. Art

Art

Walking through the city with my hand intertwined with Dean's feels natural now. We move with a familiar rhythm that's as easy as weaving through the foot traffic on my own. He talks about the sugar cookie recipe we're about to make as we walk. It's his aunt's, so he tells me about her too. I love the way he shares his memories with me, never pausing for a specific kind of reaction, the way other people do. He just talks until he's done with his train of thought, and he only expects me to say something in return if I want to.

His apartment smells of cinnamon when we enter. It's the scented pine cones we bought at the grocery store a few days ago—another one of his many Christmas traditions.

"We got too many pine cones, Dean Miller. Your apartment smells like a strong cup of tea," I say.

He inhales deeply through his nose. "Mmm. I disagree. That is exactly the right amount of scented pinecone goodness." He unzips his coat and bends down to peel off his boots. I shamelessly stare at his ass. He's mentioned on more than one occasion that I'm allowed to stare as much as I like, so I intend to.

He looks over his shoulder. "Enjoying the view?"

"Yes."

He flashes a grin at me that makes my insides do a little somersault. I don't think I'll ever get over what it feels like to have Dean Miller smile at me.

"I promised my mom that I'd take a picture of us baking cookies," he says, walking over to the fridge and opening it up. "She's very curious about you."

"Oh. You, um, told your mother about me?" That surprises me. I thought the only people in his life who knew about me were our coworkers.

He grabs two lemons and deposits them on the counter. "Yeah. Is that okay? I figured since I've met Lisa, you wouldn't mind."

"Yes, that's fine." I hold back a smile. Dean Miller must think our temporary mateship is going well if he told his mother about me.

He walks around the kitchen, pulling bags of sugar, flour, and salt out of his cupboards. For a while, I just watch him get everything ready for us. He's already caught up in the moment, a hint of that secret smile on his lips.

"Did you ever bake with your family growing up?" he asks.

"Not really."

He pauses, a big metal bowl in his hands. "Are you not very close to them?"

"We're very close." I walk around the counter and pull out my phone. I'm not in the practice of sharing pictures of my family with other people. I don't have any social media accounts, and I certainly don't show my coworkers photos of my parents. But Dean Miller has shared so many of his family's traditions with me.

"Have you read about the effect of laughter on the immune system?" I ask.

"I think so. It lowers your cortisol levels, right? So your immune system is more effective?"

I nod. "That's why my mother tries to make me laugh every day. She wants me to be well." I pull up the text window I share with my mother. In it, there are hundreds of photos of her posing for goofy photos with my father. I hand my phone to Dean. He scrolls through their animated facial expressions and silly props. Sometimes they're wearing costumes or making shadow puppets with their tentacles.

"I was much smaller than the other boys in junior high. People made fun of my size often. It was very stressful. My parents bought me a phone in eighth grade and sent me photos to help me through the day," I say.

Dean Miller looks up at me. "Really? That's so sweet."

"Yes. They are sweet. We don't bake together, but we do other things. My dad organizes a complex scavenger hunt every year for my birthday. It usually takes me a week or longer to solve all the puzzles and find my gift. We like to travel to warmer beaches and swim every time they can take a break from work. They're my favorite people. Plus Lisa, of course."

"Of course." He hands my phone back to me. "So what you're saying is that we need to take a trip to the beach together."

The idea of traveling to a beach with Dean is nice.

"If that wouldn't be too much trouble."

He laughs. "I assure you that going to a beach with you wouldn't be too much trouble at all. Tell you what, if you can suffer through all my Christmas traditions, I'll plan a weekend getaway for us in January, complete with a warm beach."

My cheeks grow hot. That is the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me, and I never knew I wanted romance. But Dean offering to plan a vacation for us to a warm beach is absolutely something I want.

I wonder what I could do to make him as happy as he makes me.

"Thank you, Dean Miller. How can I make the sugar cookie baking experience optimal for you?"

He grins and hands me a lemon. "First, we have to turn on some Christmas music. It's tradition. And not even good Christmas music. My grandma likes the really old songs that are slightly obnoxious. I hope you don't mind."

"I don't mind at all, as long as we record the especially obnoxious parts and send the audio file to my mother. She will be amused, and therefore, less likely to get sick."

"That's adorable, Art. You really are such a sweet guy. You know what else reduces cortisol levels?" Dean Miller slides his hand along my jaw and brings me in for a gentle kiss.

"You mean sexual intercourse."

He busts up laughing. "Yes."

I guess that gives me another excuse to have sex with Dean Miller. After all, I want him to be well.