15. River

15

RIVER

“So you really do want me to become a popsicle,” I say, casting my new lover a skeptical look as we stand by the door to the deck, poised.

“I thought it was a melted popsicle,” Owen says, giving a gentle tug on the towel around my waist, but not enough to jerk it off. “Besides, it’s going to feel really good.”

“But what if I die on the way from the house to the hot tub?” I ask, pointing to the twenty feet I have to traverse in the subarctic conditions. “That feels like a real possibility.”

“You didn’t die when you went out there earlier to check it out, did you? Are you a ghost? Did a ghost give me a blow job? Holy shit. I just had a good blow job from a ghost,” Owen says.

“Yes, and that’s why it was so otherworldly,” I say, as we debate whether to cross the short path from the house to the hot tub. Or rather, I debate. Owen seems convinced this is a good idea.

Steam wafts from the jacuzzi like an invitation. He turned the hot tub on fifteen minutes ago.

But the path to it is a veritable icebox. It’s twenty-eight degrees, which is forty degrees less than I like. “What if we get locked outside?”

Owen jiggles the doorknob. “The door is unlocked. We’ll be able to get back inside. Also, hello? There’s a code. So we’re good.”

“We better get back inside. I’m going to have to sleep curled up by the fire all night.”

“Everything is going to be fine, you sun worshipper. And the water is going to feel amazing. Didn’t you just want to have fun tonight?” he says, nudging me. “Make the best of being snowed in?”

Fun.

This is fun.

We’re just having fun.

The word tugs on my heart a bit, because I think I want a little more than fun.

But I don’t want to be a buzzkill.

“That is the operative word, isn’t it? That’s what tonight is all about, right? Fun?”

“That’s what you said,” he tosses back, in a tone I can’t read.

“True. I did say that. And I’m having a blast,” I say, but I also want to tell him that the kitchen and the fireplace was so much more than fun. That pleasuring him and being pleasured felt like more than just sex. That it felt intimate. That it’s making me think of all sorts of arrows being fired by Eros. “So, the hot tub is part of making the best of tonight?”

Owen takes a beat, and in those few silent seconds, I swear the cogs are whirring in his mind, then he nods. “When else are you going to be trapped in a cabin in the snow with a jacuzzi just waiting for you and a hot guy to join you in it?”

I make a mental note that he didn’t answer the question.

But I also don’t press.

There might be a reason he didn’t answer.

Besides, he makes a damn good point. Will I ever have this chance with him again? “Let’s do it.” I open the back door and a blast of arctic air hits me. “I’m dead. It happened. You witnessed my death tonight at nine p.m. on a Friday.”

Owen grabs my hand and links his fingers through mine, and tingles whoosh down my back—from him holding my hand as we run to the hot tub.

This is so freaking boyfriend material, I can’t stand it. Only, I so can.

When we reach the hot tub, we drop our towels, then Owen goes first, and, as I scramble in too, I watch him like the perviest hawk in existence. His Greek god-like frame sinks into the water, his sculpted ass disappearing first, then his back—mmm, yes, I want my hands on that back when he’s under me. He spreads his arms behind him, and tips his forehead to the spot by his side. I scoot right next to him, wrapping my arms around myself.

“Are you really cold, River?”

“I told you. I’m like a jungle cat. I’m not equipped for this kind of brutal weather.”

“But the hot tub is nice and toasty, isn’t it?”

“It’s like swimming at the equator,” I say as the heat of the bubbles and the water slide over my skin even as my face remains cold. But the effect works. I’m warmed up in a few seconds. It doesn’t hurt that he shifts toward me, rubs my shoulders, then drops a kiss to my nose.

My pulse surges, and my heart squeezes at the same time. He’s doing all sorts of things to my insides. Making my organs jump around.

“You’re awfully affectionate,” I say.

He tenses, then lets go of me. “Do you not like it? Affection?”

I scoff. “Are you kidding me? I love it.”

Owen smiles, like I’ve stolen the sun for him, given it to him as a gift. “Good,” he says, then takes off his glasses and sets them on the edge of the tub. He closes his eyes, lifts his face to the night sky. Like that, with his eyes shut, I study his handsome features. Those lips I got to know intimately tonight. The strong lines of his jaw. His carved cheekbones. Those eyes that see inside me.

“How long have you worn glasses?” I blurt out.

His eyes fly open. “Since I was four,” he says.

The image of a young Owen in glasses is almost too much for me to handle. “You must’ve looked adorable.”

“Yeah, I looked fantastic. A near-sighted kid who could barely see a thing, tripping all over in his own house, needing glasses at a ridiculously young age.”

“Can you see without them at all?” I ask, suddenly eager to gobble up every last fact about Owen Hayes. I’m desperate to know him better, to hear the secrets no one else is privy to. I want him to share the hidden corners of his heart and mind just with me.

“A little. Everything’s kind of blurry that’s more than a few feet away,” he says, squinting as he stares in the distance at the hills coated in snow. “All I see is a canvas of white.”

“But you took them off during sex,” I say.

Owen swings his gaze to me. “Well, you’re close now and you were pretty close then, River. I was able to see all of you and I was definitely able to get a good visual on your dick.” He slides a hand along my thigh under the water, grabbing my leg. “My, what a big cock you have, dear. This is your cock, right?”

“Yes, you got my third leg,” I say, then his hand sneaks between my thighs, and he gives my dick a squeeze. “Ah, got it now.”

Owen lets go, but I’m not satisfied. I’m ravenous for every last bit of info. “Do you ever leave your glasses on during sex? Would you? Or is it the sock rule?”

His lips curve into a curious grin. “Well, do my glasses destroy your erection?”

I shake my head. “The opposite. They enhance it.”

“Do you have a glasses fetish, River?”

“No, I just think they’re super-hot. But evidently, I find everything about you super-hot,” I say, waving a hand at him.

“Is that so?” He sounds thoroughly delighted.

“Yes,” I say, no teasing, no flirting. Just the plain truth. “Though, honestly, I always knew you were gorgeous. But apparently, I’m just realizing tonight how attracted I am to you. It’s kind of hitting me hard, and all at once.”

“Thank you,” Owen says, then parts his lips like he’s going to say more, but instead, he just adds another “Thank you.”

He sounds grateful, but now I wonder—do I sound like I only want the physical with him? Like I’m simply objectifying him for the way he looks? Like a hot, built, Clark Kent lookalike I want to bang?

Ugh. It does sound that way. Even though that’s not the full truth. I want to bang, kiss, and cuddle him.

Then see him again tomorrow.

This is why it’s so hard to mess around with a friend. Do I talk to Owen like any other guy I’m dating? Do I ask if he’d consider me as boyfriend material?

But on the other hand, if he says yes, am I truly ready for the risk?

What if we don’t work out as a couple?

Tonight, we’re all new and electric. But this is a honeymoon. What would we be like in three months, six, a year? Would I fall out of desire for him? Would he for me? And would we truly stay friends? I’m not convinced we could, and the possibility of us splintering feels like losing a vital piece of my heart and soul.

My head spins with too many terrible outcomes, so I shift gears. “What were you like in high school?”

Owen laughs. “Do you mean if I was a jock or a nerd or a popular or a geek?”

My eyes roam up and down his chest. “No. What were you like? Were you outgoing? Were you quiet? Were you friendly? What did you do on weekends? I already know you wrote for the school newspaper and did the morning news. And let me tell you, if I saw you on my high school TV station, I would have always known whether we were having quinoa or tofu for lunch.”

“Is that what your high school served?”

I arch a dubious brow. “I grew up in a Northern California hippie community. You bet your sweet ass those were the choices. And I bet yours were the same at your private school in the city.”

Owen shrugs. “You’re not wrong. And to answer your question: I wasn’t quiet, but I wasn’t as outgoing as I am now. I didn’t have the confidence I do now, to go to bat for my players in my job. To listen and to learn and to find just the right opportunities to tell people’s stories—all of that comes down to confidence and patience, and I think I honed both in college.”

“Me too,” I say, breezily as the water sloshes around us, and a bead of sweat slides down the side of my face. “Well, not how to be amazing at PR and insanely patient, since that’s your thing. But how to have the guts to chat with anyone. How to make people feel better—how to listen.”

“You’re good at all that. A great bartender, and a business owner too.”

I wiggle my shoulders. “King of the gay bars.”

“Is that what you envisioned you’d be when you were in high school?”

“Ha. No. But I wish. If I knew then I’d be the Mayor of Gay San Francisco, I’d have had more confidence to ask out guys.”

Owen growls, like a dog warding another away from its toys. “Jealous?” I ask.

He shrugs, then laughs. “Pretty dumb to be jealous of guys you didn’t date in high school. But I do think it’s amazing you’re the Mayor of Gay San Francisco now. Well, self-proclaimed mayor,” he says, nudging me with his elbow.

“Honestly, I thought I was going to be a therapist. I figured I’d study psych and become a shrink.”

“And that’s kind of what you are, River,” he says.

“I suppose I am. And I love it. Wouldn’t change a thing, even though, trust me, if you went back in time and saw me in high school, you’d have been shocked. I didn’t have a single date. Not one.”

Owen pouts in mock sadness. “Aww.”

“My school was so small and there were maybe two other queer guys, and they dated each other. But I had friends. Gobs and gobs of them. All the lesbians loved me.”

Owen cracks up. “Did they now?”

“Yes, true story. I mean, half my school experimented, it seemed. But that’s what being young is for, I guess. We were all coming out then. It was like a big Pride fiesta,” I say.

“It’s funny because I hardly remember a time before I was out, know what I mean?” Owen says. “But that’s what happens when you come out at fourteen.”

I laugh, ruffle his damp hair. “Same. We are such birds of a feather, aren’t we?”

As the bubbles churn, he hums thoughtfully. “We are, River. I definitely think we are.”

The last sentence comes out a little vulnerable and a lot sexy.

I want to curl up in it, and with him.

I’m not sure what’s happening to me, or to us tonight.

But it feels like someone’s cast a spell, and I’m terrified to break it, because this night, every minute, every hour, gets better.

So much better it borders on perfect.

I thought I knew Owen so well already. And I suppose I did. Eight years of friendship will do that to you. But even talking about high school tonight feels like we’re mining new territory. Like we’re climbing to another level.

Owen reaches for me, slides one arm behind my back, then grabs hold of my hips with both hands, scoots me over his legs and has me sit between them.

“Oh hello, hello. Let’s snuggle in a hot tub,” I say as I heat up more. Pretty sure it’s not only from the temperature of the water.

“Yes. Let’s.”

His hands coast up my back, gliding over my wet skin as he covers my shoulders with his palms. Owen dusts a tender kiss to my neck, and I shudder.

“Your lips,” I murmur as he sweeps another kiss onto my shoulder. “ You .”

Then yet one more, and I can feel his smile against my skin. “This is what I wanted to do to you in the car, River, when you were all tense and wound up,” he says softly. He rubs his thumbs along my neck, massaging me, like he’s wiping away the last remnants of tension.

But they were long gone hours ago. Everything faded away when we talked it out. All the tension from the car ride dissipated as we cleared the air.

I feel zero tension between us.

Only this newfound closeness.

This nascent intimacy that feels more than physical, that seems to skate into the emotional terrain.

Where we do things like this . Quietly touch. Softly kiss. Share our stories. And find something in each other that wasn’t there before.

Owen’s strong hands work my muscles as his lips drift over the back of my head. He brushes kisses into my hair, proving that right now he’s everything he said he’d be.

Good to someone .

That someone is me.

And in this cocoon of Mother Nature’s making, a kismet of snow and circumstance, I don’t want to bring any more tension between us.

Maybe tonight isn’t the time for discussions, for what this is, for who we could be to each other. Tomorrow I will find the words to tell him how he’s making me feel. That I don’t want him on that app. That maybe, just maybe, I want to discover if I was wrong about Harry and Rod. If we can prove the opposite together.

For now, I’m choosing to bask in the quiet of a cold November night under the stars, a blanket of snow covering the ground, the constellations winking above us as my best friend’s hands graze along my shoulders and my neck. It just feels so good to be touched by him.

I let out a contented sigh and I rest my back against his chest, my head against his shoulder. Soon, he stops rubbing and slides his hands down my arms, clasps his fingers through mine, and then wraps both our arms around my stomach.

I’m pretty sure this is the most romantic way any man has ever held me.

Or ever will.

And maybe this is why I have to try. To see if we can have this when we’re not lost in the snow.