Chapter Two

Monday evening arrives quicker than my fourth day away on any business trip. Much like any other typical Monday night where I'm blessed with the ability to stay home with the fam, we're lolling around on the couch. Except for Lily, who's currently upstairs hosting a tea party with her stuffed animals. Though tonight, Brogan has taken it upon himself to surprise me with a dinner reservation. As he dials a number, he gestures for me to lower the volume of the television.

"Hi Jen, this is Brogan Baxter—Lily's dad," he announces on speakerphone.

Jennifer has been our babysitter since Lily turned six months old. That is, after Brogan faced his fears of leaving her in somebody else's capable hands long enough to go on date nights again.

Jen winces audibly through the phone. "Oh dang, Dr. B, I'm all the way in Omaha for the next few days," she sighs. "But if I were home, of course I would've—Lily's my favorite kid to babysit."

A look of despair washes over my Papa Bear's face. "Oh brother, she misses you terribly, so—you're her absolute favorite person too," he admits. "Well, be safe in Nebraska."

He ends the call, appearing glum. But if I'm being honest, I want nothing more than to have a lazy night in front of the tube, hand in my lover's lap, sipping on a cold Pepsi. Though I know how much it means to him to have some private time out on the town, just the two of us. So my disappointment matches his.

"Jen is a no-go for tonight," he drones. "Damn."

I wedge my left arm between the couch cushions and his backside. "Well, I'm happy to stay home tonight," I try consoling him. "I can order Chinese."

His head wavers. "No, I'm taking you out tonight to celebrate our entire week together," he hisses playfully, tickling me in my delightful spot . "Do you know anyone qualified enough to look after our leading gal on such short notice?"

A warm gale of air rushes from my nose. "Not on the top of my head," I shrug. "We can check Lucy's List online—that's how I found the guy who fixed our oven."

Brogan gives me a look of curiosity. "You mean to tell me we had a complete stranger off the internet inside our home?"

My head bows solemnly. This is part of our dynamic, being a handful of years apart in age. I'm always onto the new trends in technology and fashion, whereas Dr. Brogan Baxter is lucky to learn how to set the DVR to record Desperate Housewives reruns.

"No, no, honey," I assure him, patting the back of his hand. "It's a website for skilled laborers of all sorts who have to be bonded and insured to list their services on their platform."

He smirks. "Ohh, I've heard of all the horror stories coming from that Craig's List doohickey, and just assumed all these lists were dodgy as all get out."

I unlock his device, to pull up Lucy's List on his web browser. "It's like Yelp for independent contractors and small business owners," I reply. "Their past clients rate them honestly and provide feedback on how good or bad they performed what they were supposed to."

Brogan swipes his phone from my hands. "Show me Lucy's List," he interrupts, appearing relieved that his plans might not be spoiled, taking my phone.

After a few moments of teaching him this new skill—as if it were some revolutionary process beyond basic knowledge of online shopping or text messaging—he finally lands on the correct subcategory for caretakers and babysitters. Brogan reads me a lengthy testimonial, damn near choking towards the end of their paragraph.

"Anne Schneider of Fort Collins seems to have quite the reputation for children on the autism spectrum," he says. "I'm calling her now, and pay her double if she can get to the heart of Denver in time for us to leave."

"Lily, honey," Brogan calls up the staircase. "Can you come downstairs for a second, please?"

Meanwhile, I finish hanging a coat belonging to Anne, our trial substitute babysitter. "Thank you so much for coming in from FoCo at the last possible minute," I say. "You've practically saved my husband's life tonight."

We spot Lily at the top of the stairs, as she shoots a suspicious look down at the stranger in our foyer. Of course, any child would have such a reaction to a brand new person in their living environment. Brogan seems to still have reservations about leaving Lily in the hands of someone she hasn't had time to become acquainted with. But her high praise on Lucy's List offers some hope that she's the real deal.

Brogan speaks calmly. "It's okay, Flower darling," he says, motioning for her to finish the descent. "This is Anne. She's a very nice lady."

Adjusting my royal blue necktie in the mirror, I spot Lily slowly approaching with her tiny feet. The trepidation in her stare is wildly clear, and I don't blame her. She stops at the bottom step, holding onto the banister with all her might. Brogan takes her right hand, raising it up to point in Anne's direction. It's a technique he uses with her to help garner some eye contact with strangers.

He kneels forward to speak calmly. "Uncle Max and I are going downtown for dinner, and to see a play," he instructs her, apparently spoiling the surprise, because I knew nothing about a play.

Meanwhile, I slide a black blazer over my shoulder with a finger. "On the fridge are both of our cell numbers," I relay to Anne. "Should you ever need to get a hold of us?—"

"Yes," Brogan cuts in, rising from his haunches. "For whatever reason at all," he says. "She has a nightly ice cream cone about an hour before bed, which is half-past eight on Monday," he adds, taking a breath. "There's a book on her nightstand—it's her favorite book and will speed up your efforts in getting her to sleep well before the midway point."

Anne nods appreciatively, offering Lily a warm smile. "We're going to have the best time, little one," she says.

Taking Brogan's hand, I finish the usual pre-departure spiel. "She's already had supper, so if either of you need something to munch on—there's an entire grocery store in our pantry," I instruct, pointing toward the kitchen entryway.

Apprehensively, Lily reaches up for Brogan's finger. He kneels back down at eye level. "Flower, you're going to have a fine evening with Anne," he coddles her, planting a gentle kiss on the forehead. "Be a good girl, and I promise I'll be up to kiss you goodnight the second we get home."

Lily sighs, her breath colliding against Brogan's fine hairs. "Ookay?—"

"Love, it's almost seven," I instruct. "We'd better leave if there's any chance of keeping your reservation with Monday night traffic," I add, glancing down at my sparkly Harry Winston watch.

Brogan rises for the second time, smiling in my direction. "Yep, go start the car," he agrees. "I'll be right out."

I pace towards the garage. Meanwhile, Brogan reaches for his keys in the bowl on our buffet in the foyer. Something which strikes as unusual to me, because we're taking my vehicle. Though I shrug it off and think nothing more about it.

Brogan comes out from inside just as my engine runs in the garage. A matter of a few moments leaves the two of us exiting our gated Cherry Creek subdivision, hoping to make our reservation against the bedlam of busy road conditions. In Denver, there are always fucking construction zones and slow drivers from Wyoming to contend with.

To be quite honest, this feels nice having an entire night alone with my Papa Bear. It's the first time in several weeks we've been able to share a private meal, let alone four glorious hours, for ourselves. As I turn off my blinker from changing lanes, I study the remnants of anxiety peppering Brogan's expression. Jen's inability to babysit brings a new variable into the mix, leaving him scared to death about Lily being left back at home with a stranger she's never met. Or either of us, for that matter.

I gingerly pat his thigh. "It's all right, babe," I mutter over the sounds of "Wonderland" by Taylor Swift.

Brogan teases me often about my wild fascination with her music, but I don't care. I know deep inside that he loves it just as much. As a doctor, he's highly skilled in stoicism and deadpan expressions.

He nods. "Yeah, I know, I just hate leaving her with someone she's never had contact with."

This light's still red at our intersection. So I lean across the center console to plant a kiss on his lips. The man's fresh, minty breath satisfies my senses. If anything, they just provide me another moment of total clarity.

"I know, babe," I reply, rubbing the back of his neck. "But Anne seems very competent at sitting for neurodivergent children—she's gonna be fine—we're gonna be fine—" I stammer.

Brogan's worry intensifies, as if he's about to have the meltdown he fears Lily is right this minute. "I can't help but feel guilty," he says. "Did you catch the disappointment on that little punim?"

"Baby," I mutter low. "She's just a call away?—"

He nods again. "You're right, okay? Let's get on with our date night."

Our fervorous moment couldn't be any better. His tongue slides around the circumference of my mouth as a gentle moan rises from his windpipes. However, the honking horn behind us cuts this exchange short. This reminder that my maroon BMW M6 is stalling the traffic I complained about earlier chides my insides like throwing water into a pan of hot oil.

"Sorry," I wave outside my window, accelerating through the intersection. "Ya bastard—cripes—it's been green for an entire half of a second."

Brogan sneers. "Someone must be in a hurry."

Turning from E. 6th Avenue, I stifle a short yawn. "I'm not sure I'll make it through a production—even if it is The Original Broadway Cast of Wicked."

His left hand collides with my inner thigh. "It was nice to stay home with you today," he shivers. "Not a single page for me the entire afternoon."

I nod. "Yes, it was a glorious day," I agree. "How thoughtful of your patients to not require you all afternoon, indeed."

As I continue whisking us through the Monday night bottleneck, our conversation persists. However, I'd be lying if I said I knew exactly where this restaurant even is.

"I have no fuckin' clue where this place is, babe," I admit, grimacing. "You've been here before, yeah?"

"It's exquisite—" he cuts in. "Just ahead past the Denver Marriott," he instructs, pointing towards the windshield. "Only the best for you, my gorgeous tall drink of water."

That's what I forgot yesterday.

My grip on the wheel intensifies, remembering what I planned on doing yesterday afternoon. "Oh, shit—that's what we should've done while Princess Peach was in her peer class."

Brogan giggles, a salted brow raised inquisitively. "You dirty dog, you," he jokes. "Get over, mister," he grunts. "You're gonna miss Guard and Grace."

Following his instruction, I chuckle. "No, no," I clarify. "I meant we needed to go buy more bottled water."

"Uh huh," he replies, rolling his eyes. "I know what you really meant, wink wink."

Thankfully, I could get over in time, so we didn't miss the turn into the restaurant parking lot. I make a circle leading up to the valet station, glancing into the apertures of my Papa Bear's soul. They're alight with admiration, wonder, illustrious reminders of the pilot light, having never extinguished for a decade.

I straighten his necktie while clearing my throat. "Besides, I'm protein deficient," a laugh casually falls from my lips. "It wouldn't have been quite as fun," I add, grinning mischievously.

A short, young Caucasian male approaches my driver's door as Brogan counters with another statement. "Well, maybe my baby gets himself a steak tonight?—"

"Good evening, gentlemen," the valet smiles, saluting us from the side of his forehead. "Welcome to Guard and Grace."

Seated at our reserved table, with only minutes to spare, Brogan and I find ourselves concealed behind tall menus. Before meeting him, ‘swanky dining' in my family meant the cafeteria-style assembly line at MCL: Carmel. Unlike most other couples here, we sat side-by-side in the corner booth. I glance around a tall potted ficus tree and take in the restaurant's meticulously decorated interior, complete with hand-carved tables coated in glossy wood stain.

Brogan's hand travels to my right thigh. "I already know what I'm ordering," he affirms, placing his menu flat on the table. "You should order a side of their truffle mac and cheese," he adds, waving his eyebrows as if seductively. "It's absolutely divine."

I take a pause from deciding what I want to order, leaning my forehead into his. "Oh, yeah?" I snicker. "Tastier than your cinnamon-hot tongue?" I mutter softly into his ear, combing my fingers through his thick, salty tresses.

He smiles. "Oh, well," he pauses emphatically. "Kissing you is great—" he stalls again, shrugging. "But I'd place higher bets on the grub if I were you," he teases back, snarling his nose. "Besides, mister, you forgot to brush your teeth after showering tonight."

A raucous scowl freezes my emotions in place. "Now then, if you think you're getting anything more than my warm hand in bed tonight—you'd be sorely mistaken," he retorts playfully, slapping him on the chest.

This man's heart thuds ferociously, like a herd of wild zebras marching to safety in the Serengeti. Sometimes, no matter how much I convince myself that I'm undeserving of his love, he's always here to remind me I am worthy of it all. His lips. His gentle touch. His irrevocably charming smile. I could joke with him about withholding my love until the cows come home. But the truth is, he is the reason I am who I am today. Our union has taught me many life lessons, through trials and tribulations, that love is the only goddamn thing that matters in this cruel world.

A hard swallow accompanies my clarification. "Okay, okay," I grin. "I take that back—you can have five minutes with me in the shower," I add with a wink.

Brogan's oceans of wonder expand like the Mediterranean Sea. "Only five?" He retorts. "No more, no fewer, Mr. Smarty Pants?" He pleads.

I nod. "Mmm hmm, only five," I jest, returning my attention back to the horde of entrée options. "No tug, no slap, no tickle—just five minutes with you and a soapy loofah."

Our server, a petite woman with ginger hair and square eyeglasses, approaches the booth with a smile.

"Hi gentlemen," she greets. "I'm Leslie and I'll be your server tonight," she adds, pointing to the drink specials preserved by an acrylic sign holder before us. "Can I get you started with a bottle of our Plum Creek Rosé from the Western Slope?"

My head wavers, meanwhile gesturing with staunch disapproval. "Just an iced Pepsi for me, thanks," I request politely.

Leslie acknowledges my instruction, glancing in Brogan's direction. "And for you, Sir?"

Brogan's melodic, kind tone paints his response. "I'll have sparkling water with lime, please."

She nods. "Very well, I'll be back momentarily."

Leslie totters away from the table with a pep in her step. Meanwhile, I place my menu on top of Brogan's towards an opposing end of the table. A deep breath cleanses the tiny fibrous tissue in my lungs.

"I am so happy we have tonight together," I admit, tracing his jawline with the back of my palm. "Just the two of us."

The warmth of his smile returns even more sentiment than I've likely shown. Grandstanding, one-upping bastard. I love you though! His honeyed stare makes my cock pulsate hastily beneath the confines of silk boxers and black slacks. Our hands join at the same moment we hear a deep, male voice approaching from behind me.

"Dr. Baxter?" The voice stalls. "What brings you here on a hot summer night?"

Brogan's mirthful tone breaks with laughter. "By the looks of it, I might be wrong, but it appears that I may have a stalker," he jokes, winking in the man's direction. "Hon, this is my cardiology fellow, Dr. Billy."

Dr. Billy smiles down at me, extending an arm to shake Brogan's hand. "He's coined the name because Brogan, in his infinite wisdom, has asserted I'm too young to be a ‘William' yet."

I nod with understanding. "Pleasure meeting you, Dr. Billy," I reply, accepting his handshake. "He's right though, you know," I add, grimacing playfully. "What are you—like some modern-day Doogie Howser?"

Leslie promptly returns to the table, balancing our beverage order in her hands. "Here you are, fellas," she smiles. "Are you ready to order yet?" She shrugs. "I can come back though, no rush at all."

The doctor, much too young, shakes his head in disbelief. "Yeah, yeah," he replies, rolling both eyes. "I get that a lot, but I'll be twenty-six this fall," he clarifies. "I graduated med school a couple of years early than my peers," he adds, tugging on his belt. "What is it you do?"

Our conversation seems to have clued Leslie that she should return in a while after the conversation has dwindled. Meanwhile, my head bows with pride. I simply love talking about my work.

"I'm a fashion photographer for print and digital media outlets," I respond.

Dr. Billy clicks his tongue. "My, that sounds fun," he admits, placing a finger on the dip of his chin. "My stepson is interested in becoming a model one of these days," he adds. "Maybe I should hire you to shoot his first headshots."

Brogan enthusiastically cuts into the conversation. "I say, that's a splendid idea, honey bear."

After being put on the spot in such a fashion, I reach into my Burberry wallet to hand off a business card with my contact and social info. We agreed to convene later and meet up with his stepson during his Christmas break. Brogan waves him off, appearing to have been drug out of the restaurant by his impatient wife.