Chapter 5

Five

Pedro began with the front yard, his mind shifting back to work mode. Chance encounters with good-looking men had rarely disrupted his routine. Not that he didn't meet handsome men sometimes. In fact, the longer he spent time in Georgia, the more he'd come to appreciate the charm of some of its inhabitants, especially those of the male persuasion. The concept of romance had never come into play, though. Pedro had not even considered it. His goals took precedence. As he had explained to Miguel earlier that morning, any extracurricular activity could wait. First, he needed to secure some things in the big picture–work, citizenship, and relocating his mother. These were his priorities. Once he achieved those objectives, there would be plenty of time for things like love.

Love?

Infatuation was more like it. Love doesn't happen that fast. It needs time to evolve . He'd read enough books to know that. Love at first sight was a trope—and an unrealistic one, at that—tapping into readers' subconscious desires for centuries. Everyone wants a Prince Charming.

Then why, out of an abundance of words to choose from—dating, courting, wooing, cooing, flirting, touching, spooning, horseplay, fooling around, sucking, or fucking—why was that word the first one to come to mind?

Because something about Titus felt different.

Impossible.

And I think he may have felt it too .

Absolutely not. He was always over thinking things. Hadn't Barb praised his imagination at breakfast that very morning? Physical attraction was more likely the culprit. After all, he had the libido of any healthy twenty-three-year-old. Hormones were unpredictable, difficult to wrangle.

So, you just met a man so hot you can't think straight?

He grinned at the rationalization, shaking his head and lowering the trailer's gate. After securing the ramp, he mounted the mower, assuring the gears were in neutral before reaching for the key in the ignition.

Testosterone overload.

That was it for sure. Biology –a logical premise and, once recognized, Pedro could move more easily past it.

If it's that easy, then why are you still thinking about him?

His hand froze before turning the key. The image of his new employer lingered in his mind's eye. More than Titus's face, though. Pedro also saw those broad shoulders, wet and sparkling in the sunlight, the massive chest peaks, mountainous and round, the large hands and thick fingers grasping his own. Firm yet soft.

So soft.

His recollection veered below the waist, too, remembering that snug, wet swimsuit housing an altogether different appendage, one that Pedro could have sworn he saw move ever so slightly beneath the shimmering fabric, like a python seeking release.

You need to stop this right now and get to work .

But his hand remained steadfast on the mower key. It was Titus's face he saw now—caramel eyes, warm and boundless, and a smile equally alluring. The combination still flustered Pedro, even in retrospect. Titus Shepherd was the type of man he'd always fantasized—genuine, unconsciously sexy, and?—

Grande .

Yes. Titus was big. But it was more than just his physical presence. His personality was big, too. Pedro had been attracted to large men since he was a little boy in Mexico. Some primal instinct, he suspected, equating size with a sense of protection. He wasn't weak, by any means, but he was petite. And a man of Titus's size embodied a security which he found equally alluring.

Amor a primera vista , he heard his mother whisper.

"No," he said aloud. Then, in his native language, dragging the syllables doubtfully... "Imposible."

His mother often used the phrase love at first sight when speaking of his father. Pedro had never believed her, though. Such concepts were romantic frivolity.

Still, he couldn't help but imagine what it would feel like to have those large hands touch him again.

When he reached the front yard, Pedro noticed there was much less detail, landscaping-wise. For such a grand home, the front was lacking character. There were the typical trees, shrubs, and beds of the south, but nothing special. It was nowhere near as pretty as the backyard. Of course, it made sense that Titus would focus on the back. That was where the pool and the secondary house were, where he spent most of his time.

Pedro saw Otto Luyken laurels, boxwood, juniper and other builder-grade greenery. He could spruce things up by taking many of these out and interspersing something like those newer Encore Azaleas. Maybe some butterfly bushes and Knock Out roses to bring more color. Some hostas for contrast. And the laurels weren't right as anchors on the corners. The house needed something taller, with large blooms.

Camellias , he thought.

The motor hummed as he circled the lawn. It wasn't a huge yard, but it seemed much larger from the lack of trees. The bulk of tall growth was a towering line of Leyland cypresses to one side, another inexpensive trick many builders used to ensure privacy. But there was no reason for them here. The house stood isolated, with no other home in sight. Those had to go. In the midst was one enormous magnolia that could stay. That was what a house of this magnitude needed–a few tall, fat magnolias, accented with something daintier like fruit trees or–

Dogwoods .

Pedro lowered the blade on the tractor and felt it whirring beneath him. He began mowing on a diagonal, strips to create a design similar to those you would see on a professional baseball field. Titus would surely appreciate that, having been an athlete and all.

It was already hot out, and terribly muggy. The sun was bearing down on him with the added weight of deep south humidity. He reached into his cooler for a bottle of water, turning the mower and heading back toward the house on his second strip. He removed the cap and lifted the water high, swallowing more of the liquid than he had planned, pulling half the bottle down his throat while tilting his head back and closing his eyes.

Yes, he thought. I should have had some water sooner. Not only was it cooling him, it was clearing his head.

You're projecting it all, he decided. Imagining things. Titus was just a nice guy, a nice straight guy, swimming laps. He was being polite and you couldn't stop staring at his crotch. You're nothing but a lecherous pervertido.

Pedro opened his eyes mid-swig, seeing movement above. A gap in the curtains of an upstairs window flittered before being yanked closed.

OK. Maybe you weren't imagining things.

He felt both self-conscious and thrilled that Titus might be watching him. Pedro mowed the remaining front and side yard without pause or looking toward the house again. If he was being watched, he didn't want Titus to know that he was aware of it.

Why?

Because even if his suspicions were valid, theirs was still a professional relationship. He was representing Compton's Greenscapes foremost, and he was here to do a job. Silas had explained the importance of this account and Pedro would not let him down. The whole reason he was in Georgia in the first place was because Silas Compton was sponsoring him for US citizenship.

But still… Titus had been near naked when they met.

He wasn't expecting me; he was expecting Carlos.

Carlos would have waved from a distance, and Titus would have returned the gesture before going inside. Business as usual.

I interrupted his routine. An introduction was necessary. That's all.

Yes. Titus had greeted Pedro and attempted to acclimate him. It wasn't as if he intended to put on a show.

Then why not put a on robe, or wrap in a towel, at least?

Because straight men are at ease with other men. Even naked. Jocks. Locker rooms .

I surprised him, and he was being hospitable. Southern etiquette.

True. In fact, Titus was so hospitable he'd offered Pedro a beer and a dip in the pool.

!?!?!?

The clippings container was now full and needed emptying. Pedro braked the mower and turned it off, standing and circling to the rear. He unfolded a refuse bag and emptied the clippings into it. As he was tying off the bag, he wondered–

What if you put a show on for him, too? Unwittingly, of course. Just a little one .

It wouldn't be unwittingly at all, that's what. But, if Titus was watching and, if he believed Pedro was unaware, the perception would be so.

Pedro set the full refuse bag on a section of the grass he had already mowed. He replaced the container on the back of the mower and reached for his water bottle, lifting it high and draining it.

Are you watching me right now, Titus?

When the bottle was empty, he placed it back in the cooler, curbing his movements to lengthen the task, as if showing the model way to dispose of an empty water bottle in the sweltering sun. He then raised his head languidly to the sky, lifting his hand to shield his eyes from the glare.

What else can I do?

He combed his fingers through his hair and lowered his gaze a little more than half-speed, milking his movements for time and mimed effectiveness. His hand stroked down the back of his head to his neck, massaging.

Now what?

He glanced over his shoulder toward the pool.

No. Absolutely not.

Pedro lowered his hand and slid it beneath his t-shirt, circling his stomach before inching it higher to his chest, consciously raising the shirt to give Titus a glimpse of his navel.

Whatever. He's not watching. This is ridiculous. You should stop .

But he didn't stop. Instead, he grasped the hem of the t-shirt with both hands and lifted it, turning it inside out and removing it.

There. How about that, Titus?

Pedro bunched the shirt and began drying his chest with it. He alternated lifting each arm and mopping at his sweaty pits, tracing the cloth across his shimmering skin as if it were a shammy and he was washing a car. He did this slowly, too, and when he was done, he shook out the fabric, and tucked it in to the back of his pants.

That's the front. How about the back?

Pedro turned, bending over and reaching for a fresh bottle of water in the cooler. He recalled Titus walking away in that wrapped towel, his ass swaying divinely beneath the terry folds. He wondered if–hoped that–Titus was watching him the same way now, too, getting a good glimpse of his own denim-clad cheeks, parted by a mock tail.

He turned back and removed the water bottle's cap, lifting the bottle to his chest and circling the cool plastic on his pecs and nipples. His free hand lowered his to his waistband, hooking it with his thumb just above his crotch.

No. You are not going to pour it down your pants .

He didn't. Instead, he thought about Jennifer Beals in the movie Flashdance and raised the bottle above his head, looking up with closed eyes and letting the cold water splash down on his face. It flowed freely down his shoulders, chest, and stomach. When one of the cool rivulets made it to the gap at his crotch, its icy tendrils seeping deep into his underwear, he thought–

What in the hell are you doing?

He opened his eyes and looked at his surroundings. He was alone, standing in the middle of a partially cut lawn, next to his mower and a bag of clippings. No one was there to witness, no chipmunks, nor even a bird in the sky.

You're a fool, Pedro Torres. Even if your rich new employer was watching, he wants nothing more than to get into your pants–just a quick fix before heading to the country club .

Maybe. But Titus hadn't come across that way. His attire may have been a bit risqué, but he sure seemed like a nice guy.

Get laid , Miguel had said back at the shop. Life is short .

No.

No matter how much he yearned for physical gratification, Pedro couldn't jeopardize his future for something as meaningless as a quick lay. A relationship, however… well, that might be another story.

"As if."

Pedro mounted the mower, started it, and continued with this work.

Once he completed mowing the yard, Pedro drove the lawn tractor back up on the trailer and secured it. He grabbed a weed eater and worked on spots closer to the shrubs, beds, and buildings that he couldn't get to with the mower.

As he worked near the back of the main house, he thought about what he'd mentioned to Titus regarding height and balance. The trees near the house were shrubs—Tea Olives—that Carlos had been sculpting to grow tall, lifting their blooms and lovely fragrance higher to the second-story windows. The logic was there, but it looked strange. He also disapproved of the marigolds beneath them, scrutinizing their simplicity and identifying the opportunity to embellish with more color and depth.

At one point, his mind buzzing with potential while trimming around the front of the guest house, he sensed someone near. He turned and saw Titus approaching, a beer bottle in each hand.

Pedro shut off the gas-powered trimmer. "No, really. I can't."

"Just wanted to offer," Titus said with a smile. "It's a little early for me, too. Roz has sweet tea at the table."

"That I can handle."

"Good. There're sandwiches too."

"It's very kind of you. But I shouldn't impose."

"Impose? Are you kidding me? Other than Carlos, you're the first person I've spoken to outside of family in at least three weeks."

Again, Titus's tone was sincere. He was wearing pleated shorts with a polo shirt, and looked even more striking now fully clothed. Pedro felt guilty for thinking there may have been lecherous intent with their initial encounter. He wanted to trust Titus. There was a kindness in his eyes that felt… lonesome .

"I'm serious, P. I wouldn't do anything to get you in trouble. Like I said—inside the fence is my haven. You're safe here. I mean that."

Pedro studied Titus's serious expression long enough to broach awkwardness. But Titus broke the spell with a well-timed and authentic smile.

"Were you this way with Carlos, too?"

"No." Titus shrugged. "I mean, we were friendly. I never invited him to lunch, though."

"How come?"

"He wasn't as cute as you."