Chapter Seventeen

Naked except for the towel around his waist, his hair still damp from his shower, Casey glared at his wardrobe—if he could use that fancy a word for his motley collection of clothes, which didn't come close to filling the armoire.

"Dress comfortably," he groused. "What does that even mean? Sweats? Shorts? Jeans? A freaking caftan?" Not that he had one of those, but he preferred a more precise guideline for a mystery date than dress comfortably.

Randolph Scott, perched atop the armoire again, didn't deign to respond, since he was occupied by the serious business of grooming between his toes.

Casey huffed. "You're no help." Although expecting fashion advice from a cat was probably unreasonable.

He glanced back at his bed, currently strewn with half a dozen garments he'd already considered and discarded. Was he overthinking this? Probably. But he hadn't been on an actual date since his first year at business school. Remembering that series of one-and-dones made him want to curl up in a ball and hide under the bed.

The first guy who'd asked him out oh-so-casually suggested that the perfect place for their date would be Chez Donatien. Casey suggested a quiet coffee shop instead, someplace where they could get to know one another, someplace Casey wasn't completely incapable of eating because his stomach was perpetually tied in knots anytime he ventured into one of his dad's restaurants. The guy had grudgingly agreed—but then no-showed, leaving Casey sitting alone with a congealing latte for hours.

Alden, the second guy, had been low-key flirting with Casey all semester in their marketing class, and Casey had bitten the Chez Donatien bullet because Alden had claimed it was his birthday, and had seemed so sad that he was away from his family for the first time. Casey hadn't made the reservation himself, of course—despite what anyone thought, he had zero clout with his father and therefore with restaurant management. He'd asked Uncle Walt to intercede.

Once they were seated at the restaurant, Alden proceeded to order every appetizer on the menu—"To start," he'd said—and ordered the most expensive wine on the list. He'd been so occupied with the appetizer that the waiter had handed both IDs back to Casey, who—totally not intentionally—had spotted that Alden's address was in Westchester and his birthday was in July.

Casey hadn't said anything, pretended he hadn't seen. When the check came, Casey suggested they split the check in half, which he thought was more than fair considering he'd barely managed a bowl of soup and a sparkling water, while Alden had scarfed up all the appetizers, salad, entrée, dessert, and the wine.

Even before Alden had glared at Casey in astonishment and outrage, flounced off to the restroom and never returned, Casey had vowed there'd be no second date.

When the third guy tried the same line on him, Casey got the full picture, and was only mortified that he hadn't figured it out sooner: Nobody wanted him. Even Bradley didn't want him. Only the cachet of his name.

Dev, though… Dev seemed to want him, and that tied Casey's stomach up like tangled fishing line.

"I'm bound to screw this up, Randolph Scott." He looked up and met the cat's half-lidded gaze. "I have no experience. Dating is a process, right? How does a product person deal with that?" Randolph Scott raised one leg and licked his butt. Casey planted his hands on his hips. "On the first date? No, absolutely not. You're worse at dating advice than you are at fashion."

Downstairs, the screen door slammed in its signature double bump. "Casey?" Dev called, his voice echoing in the stairwell. "You ready?"

As usual, Dev's deep voice sent phantom fingers walking up Casey's spine. Randolph Scott must have liked it too, because he leaped from the armoire to the desk to the floor and pawed open the door that Casey had left ajar.

"In a minute," Casey replied. Then he took advantage of Randolph Scott's doorman routine, crept onto the landing, and peeked over the banister, ready to jump back if Dev was looking up.

He wasn't, thank goodness. Instead, he was occupied greeting a very vocal Randolph Scott.

Hunh. Dev was wearing cargo shorts, a royal blue T-shirt that hugged his chest very nicely, canvas boat shoes with no socks, and was holding a navy hoodie bunched in one hand.

Casey scurried back into his room and more or less matched the outfit. His cargo shorts were olive, not khaki, and his T-shirt a vintage black number for a mid-80s production of Tooth of Crime at the Berkeley Repertory Theater. He scuffed his feet into his Vans, grabbed his Columbia hoodie, and trotted downstairs.

"Sorry to keep you waiting."

"No worries. I'm a little early."

With a last skritch of Randolph Scott's ears, Dev stood. The cat clearly disapproved, given the slit-eyed glare he favored both of them with before flicking his tail and stalking away.

As Dev gave Casey a once-over—or maybe twice-over, since his gaze flicked up and down two times—his smile took on an appreciative and distinctly predatory gleam. "Nice T-shirt."

"Th-thanks." Enjoy the process, dammit. "Yours is nice, too. Very… stylish."

"It's a plain blue T-shirt, Casey, not exactly a designer original."

"Maybe not." Don't just enjoy the process—embrace it. "But it displays what's inside it exceptionally well."

Dev blinked. "Uh… Okay then."

Casey winced. "Shit. Was that too smarmy? Should I tone it down? Keep the inappropriate comments to myself?"

Dev laughed. "No to all of the above. I appreciate the sentiment, trust me. It's been a while since anyone's expressed their approval."

"Hmmmph. You're obviously catwalk-ready." Casey flicked his fingers in Randolph Scott's direction as the cat continued walking. "We have it on the best authority. Perhaps you should invest in community vision testing for everyone in Home if they can't see what's right in front of them."

"Find me the funds in the town budget, and I might take you up on that." He held out his hand. "Let's go."

Casey's breath caught somewhere south of his throat. Dick-touching was one thing. He'd found that sometimes it was incredibly impersonal, since both parties were chasing their own orgasm and may or may not care that their partner got there too. Kissing was more intimate because it required face-to-face interaction, even with eyes clenched shut.

But hand-holding, especially hand-holding in public, represented something else entirely. It was a declaration. A declaration that you were happy—no, proud—to be connected with this person and didn't care who else knew it.

Casey laced his fingers with Dev's. "Wherever you want, I'm there."

Dev led Casey out the door, not bothering to lock it behind them, which Casey had learned was SOP in Home during the day. A dusty green CR-V with a dent in the rear passenger side door was parked in the drive. Dev opened the door for Casey, but then dropped his hand, uncertainty flickering over his face.

"I know this probably isn't the kind of transportation you're used to, but it's all I've got."

"Excuse me." Casey clambered in and grabbed the handle, glaring up at Dev. "You're correct in that it's not what I'm used to, because I grew up in Manhattan. My standard transportation is subway or bus. I don't have a car. Never even learned to drive one. And if you're comparing this extremely practical vehicle to Bradley's stupid Lexus, don't. Just hop in, Harrison. I believe you promised me a date."

Dev chuckled, saluting with three fingers. "Aye aye, captain." He closed the door and trotted around to take his place behind the wheel. As they exited the drive in a crunch of gravel, they both waved to Pete, who was tooling along Main Street on his mower.

"Does Pete mow all the lawns in Home?"

"Yup." Dev passed the Market and turned right onto the two-lane county road that led toward Merrilton. "The town contracts with him for maintenance on all the common spaces, and since everyone in town likes to toss everyone else business, all the residents pretty much hire him too. He does snow removal in the winter, tree pruning, garden mulching, you name it. Then there's his ride-share side hustle."

Casey bit his lip. "I may have stuck my foot in it a bit this morning. I noticed that Sylvia doesn't shop at the Market."

Dev grimaced. "Yeah. That's kinda been a bone of contention between her and Kat for the last fourteen years. I don't think it was intentional, originally. Sylvia was fresh off the show cancellation and newly in recovery. Figuring out alternate supply chains was one too many new things for her to deal with. But Kat took it into her head to be insulted and the rift never healed."

"Well…" Casey drew out the word. "I may have talked Sylvia into letting me take over ordering for the school. And may have mentioned partnering with Kat to source things locally and to act as intermediary."

Dev glanced at him, eyebrows raised. "She agreed?"

"Yeah. And I'm pretty sure Kat will go for it, too. We've already chatted about her local suppliers."

"Casey, my friend," Dev said, approval lacing his tone, which doubled down on the spine tingles, "we're very lucky you showed up in Home."

We?Casey turned away, throat thick. Does he mean he's lucky too? He reminded himself not to rush the process, not to barrel toward the product, and to keep the intrusive questions to a minimum. They passed the Home town limits, the sun casting dappled light on the road through the towering trees.

"I haven't been out of town since I arrived. Where are we going?"

"You'll see. Not far."

Casey turned back to Dev. "All this secrecy is not filling me with vast levels of confidence."

"Nothing nefarious, I promise. Check in the back."

Casey twisted around, craning his neck to scan the rear seat. An enormous basket covered with a blue gingham cloth rested behind him. He couldn't contain his grin and bounced in his seat. "A picnic? Where'd you get the food?"

"Some of it from Sylvia. Some of it from Kat." He winked. "You're not the only one who's trying to broker a truce between those two." He flicked on his turn signal and pulled off the road onto an unpaved path barely wide enough for the CR-V. He made another hard left and eased the car between the trunks of two sturdy maples, clearing the lane for other traffic. "Can you get out on that side?"

Casey eased his door open. "As long as your fancy car can handle a close encounter with some holly bushes."

"It can take it. But keep clear of those leaves in your shorts. Wouldn't want to start out the date with a dip into the First Aid kit. Could you grab the basket, please? I need to collect some things out of the back."

"Sure." Casey collected the picnic and joined Dev by the side-opening hatch door, where he was pulling an armful of folded… stuff out of the rear of the car. "What's all that?"

"Blanket. Inflatable camping cushion. Insect netting." He shut the door with a sharp bump of his hip. "I enjoy Mother Nature as much as the next guy, but I draw the line at rocks under my ass and wasps in my salad. Plus"—Dev's smile turned almost shy—"I'm hoping we'll be here for a while, and I don't want to fight the mosquitos for a taste of your skin."

Casey may have squeaked. Just a little. He swallowed twice and said, "Gotta love a man who thinks ahead."

Thiswas a process he could both enjoy and embrace, because the product would be so worth it.

In fact, this time, process and product might be exactly the same thing.