7. Bryson

Apopcorn maker magically appeared on my doorstep. Thanks, Dad!

I leaned against the counter, smiling at my iPad like a sappy schmuck at Jake's text. You're welcome. A little housewarming treat for your new apartment. Are you unpacked?

Thumbs-up emoji. It looks nice in here. We hung the TV on the wall next to the kitchen like u said, and we all went in on a sofa.

My fingers hovered over my keyboard, typing and deleting a response. No doubt the three dancing dots on his end were driving Jake nuts.

See, this is where I struggled with our ever-changing father-son dynamic. The urge to gush at how proud I was, tell him how much I loved him, and ask if he was free this weekend was strong, but I also wanted to give him space. Jake was in preseason training and it was important for him to bond with his teammates, not hang out with a helicopter parent.

I can't wait to see it, I typed, sticking with a safe, neutral reply.

Cool. You'll have to visit soon.

Okay, fine. I couldn't help myself. In case you didn't know, I think you're amazing and I'm proud of you, Jake. Have a great day. I love you. Dad

Love u2, but u know u just signed ur text, right?Three laughing emojis.

I sent an eye-roll emoji. Be nice. I'm old.

Ur not that old. Old man emoji. Gotta go. Practice. Later!

I set my iPad down and stared into the adjoining living area. Part of me was picturing Jake schlepping gear out as he tore out of his apartment with his buddies, and the other part of me was mentally going over my calendar. I had a meeting with a contractor in Wood Hollow who was slated to break ground on a plot of land in a recently deforested area. There'd been a huge uproar, but ultimately the community needed housing.

My gaze was fixed on a mote of dust drifting in the sunlight spilling across the room as I reached for my half-full coffee cup…and knocked it off the island.

It shattered on the wood floor, breaking the silence with a deafening roar.

As I bent to pick up the ceramic shards, the silence swept in again—an enormous wave covering me, pulling me under. I sat on the floor, resting my head between my knees and sucked in a gulp of air. My heart raced, and my palms went clammy.

Fuck. What was wrong with me?

I checked my pulse and closed my eyes. Panic attack, heart palpitations, or…was this what chronic loneliness felt like? The crushing sound of constant silence, existing without purpose, going through the same motions…day after day.

Everywhere I looked, I was surrounded by memories of what used to be—pictures of Jake and me—at the lake, at the ice rink, our trip to England two years ago, the one of me holding him the day he was born.

Who was I now? Same me, but not quite.

Maybe it was unreasonable, but I blamed my off-kilter mood on Smitty. If he hadn't shown up, I wouldn't actively be trying to tamp down the part of me that remembered kissing him, sucking him, riding his cock, and lying in his arms.

If I had less to lose, I might not think twice about picking up where we'd left off, but I'd gone through hell to get where I was. I wouldn't sacrifice my reputation or my relationship with my son for amazing sex with a charming closeted bi man who just happened to be passing through town. Nothing had changed.

I was still me. I was still a respected businessman, I was still Jake's dad.

That was more than enough.

Shaking off my melancholy thoughts, I walked to work, my footsteps echoing on the quiet streets as I turned from Main Street onto Beech. I juggled my briefcase and climbed the short set of stairs to my office, a pretty light gray Victorian with a wraparound porch and flower boxes filled with tumbling red geraniums at every window.

When we'd first moved to Elmwood, Jake and I had lived on the first floor of the house and I'd run my business upstairs. The house was small, but it had been perfect for us. It had a huge yard and there were tons of kids Jake's age on the block. Plus, the proximity to the center of town was good for a new real estate agent.

The business seemed to grow as quickly as Jake had. My one-man show morphed into a four-person operation: two other agents, a secretary, and myself. Needless to say, within seven years, it became far too cozy. So Jake and I moved to a beautiful brick colonial on Walnut Street that was roughly three times larger. My rationale at the time had been that teenagers needed space, and it sort of reminded me of the neighborhoods where I'd grown up in Philly.

Truthfully, the house had always been far too big for two people—especially as one of them had rarely been home. Jake had spent every other week with his mom and afternoons and weekends at the rink, so I rattled around a four-bedroom house with a fabulous great room and a kitchen any chef would be proud of all by my lonesome for years. I still did. If I were smart, I'd sell it and find something smaller.

I waved a greeting at my secretary, Tracy, who held up her hand to stop me.

"You have a client," she whispered.

"I do?" I checked my watch. "Now?"

"Duncan's wife called. He had an emergency root canal this morning."

"Oh. Poor guy."

"Yeah, I know. Sounds painful. Anyway, he was supposed to take Mr. Paluchek to see a couple of properties. Tamara has a meeting in Pinecrest, so?—"

"Mr. Paluchek?"

"That's me. I'm all yours."

I whirled on cue. "You."

"Me." Smitty smiled. And damn, he had a great smile—toothy and wide with dimples and a hint of mischief. It was the kind of smile that was impossible not to return.

He should have looked out of place in an office setting with his casual white tee, running shorts, and backward Blue Jays cap, but he filled the room with an easy confidence and a sunny aura. After my odd freak-out session on my kitchen floor less than an hour ago, Smitty was a surprisingly welcome sight.

Don't ask why. I had no idea.

I was in the throes of an emotionally vulnerable state of mind. Some guys bought sports cars in the midst of a midlife crisis; others fell apart over broken mugs and turned into mush around handsome men with hot bods and wicked grins.

"So…you're the client."

Smitty tilted his chin. "Yup. Duncan showed me the place on Myrtle yesterday afternoon. It was way too big."

"The Fultons raised a family of five in that house," Tracy chimed in, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

Things to know about Tracy Stephens, aka, my work-wife-slash-The-Milligan-Company's-Greek-chorus: She was roughly my age with short gray hair, green eyes, and perpetually pink cheeks. And she was a tad…nosy.

We'd met through our kids. Her oldest son was Jake's age, and she and her husband, Mike, had two daughters and a younger son too. They were good people, and they'd been kind to Jake and me when we'd first moved to Elmwood.

In divorce situations like mine and Piper's, I'd expected to get excluded from a lot of parental activities, but not on Tracy's watch. She'd gone the extra mile, extending invitations to barbecues, tailgate parties, family picnics. She'd even invited me to join her book club.

I'd returned the favor by hiring her to run my office a few years ago after Mike had been injured in a logging accident and was out of commission for a few months. She'd become an indispensable part of my team and a good friend.

"Yeah, that's a large home," I agreed, shuffling around Tracy.

"Don't you worry. You're in good hands with Bryson," she continued. "Only the best for our incoming coach, isn't that right? My youngest son, Adam, will be on your team and I have to warn you, he's a big fan."

Smitty grinned. "Really?"

"Oh, yes. We were visiting friends in Toronto last year and went to one of your games. Geesh, you were on fire that night! And of course, we get the secret special channels so we can watch Jake's games. Our family was watching the night he punched you. No offense, Bry, but our boy deserved that seat in the sin bin." She patted my arm sweetly.

"Right. Let's take this to my office." I motioned for Smitty to follow me.

"Yes, go on, boys. I'll grab you water bottles for the road. It's going to be a warm one."

"Thanks," Smitty said.

"You got it." Tracy scurried off, leaving me with…my new client.

The same guy I'd been in knots over for the past thirty-six hours. God, it would be so easy to slip my hand under the elastic of his shorts, cup his junk through his briefs, roll his balls between my fingers, and?—

"You okay?" he asked, ripping me back to reality.

I bit the inside of my cheek hard, then led him through the living room I'd transformed into a lobby and Tracy's workspace, and the former dining area we now used as a conference room, and into my office where sunlight spilled through the bay windows overlooking the garden.

A huge desk anchored by a red Persian rug faced the ornate fireplace, and two leather chairs flanked the comfy sofa next to the bookshelves lining the wall opposite the windows. Even on gray wintry days, natural light flooded the space, giving it a cozy feel.

I loved this room. It was a warm, inviting refuge and a perfect place to relax with a book at the end of a long day of meeting clients. Like the hockey player I couldn't seem to shake.

"Take a seat," I instructed, sliding behind my desk as I pushed my reading glasses on my nose.

Smitty ignored me, of course, and wandered to the bookshelves, studying the various knickknacks and framed photographs. "This must be Jake. How old was he in this one?"

I glanced up from my computer at the picture of the towheaded toddler at the beach. "Two, I think."

"Cute kid." He set the photo on the shelf and reached for a book. "Have you read all these?"

"No," I admitted. "But I will someday. At least that's the goal. Are you ready to?—"

"What's your favorite book?"

I let out an exasperated sigh and swiveled my chair toward him. "I can't answer that. I have too many favorites. Let's get to work, shall we?"

He spared me a passing look but didn't budge. "I haven't been much of a reader lately, but I was as a kid. It was a secret thing. My brother was the smart one in our family. He's an accountant now, and he was always a numbers guy. I was the sporty kid. But what my folks didn't know was that I was addicted to sci-fi and Lemony Snicket. I used to read with a flashlight under the covers so no one would know. Not that I would've gotten in trouble, but they would have asked questions and knowing me, I would've gotten defensive."

I pulled my glasses off and fiddled with the stems. "Your parents thought reading would take away from hockey?"

"Sounds dumb, but my dad was all about focus. ‘Stay focused, son. Keep your eye on the damn puck,'" he said, altering his voice gruffly. "He was a good guy, but Dad was all sports all the time. And my mom was—into other things. I think it's high time to crack open a book for fun. What would you recommend?"

"To Kill a Mockingbird," I replied automatically.

Smitty spun on his heels, a triumphant expression on his handsome mug. "Great!"

"Am I missing something? You look like you just won a prize or something."

"I kind of did," he smirked. "We're having a conversation. A real one. It started off slow and awkward, but I think you're gettin' the hang of this new friendship thing, man."

I smiled, charmed in spite of my best intentions to remain aloof. "Friendship thing."

"The neutral, no frills, no muss, no fuss kind with basic conversation. You say something, I say something—back and forth. We can talk about the weather, movies, books…" He waved the book in his hand like exhibit A.

"I see. Well, yes, that's one of my favorite books and in the spirit of friendship or…a welcome to Elmwood, you're welcome to borrow it if you'd like. I happen to have more than one copy."

Smitty flashed a megawatt grin and stalked to the desk, flopping onto one of the chairs. "Are you feelin' the love or what?"

I rolled my eyes and pushed the glasses on again. "Okay, that's enough. Let's look at the listings."

"What do we got?"

"Not much. There's a house on Birch and another on Maple. After that, I can show you a few in the surrounding area, but that's it for Elmwood."

He frowned. "Really?"

"I'm afraid so. Inventory is low for rentals. It's not great for sales either, but there are more options for buyers." I typed in listing information, angling my monitor so he could see the screen. "This is the Birch address. It's a five bedroom, three bath home on a cul-de-sac."

"That's like the one I saw yesterday. Too big for one person."

I brought up the address on Maple. "This one has three bedrooms, one bath, and a decent yard."

He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. "The kitchen is funky-looking. Are those tiles cracked?"

I flipped through the photos and winced. "Yeah, I'll talk to the owners. They should fix that."

Tracy waltzed in with a couple of water bottles. "Here you go. They're nice and cold for the road."

Smitty thanked her before turning his attention to the monitor. "I don't know how you keep up with all the tree names, but I could have sworn Duncan mentioned a house on Walnut. Maybe I misheard."

He uncapped his bottle as he stood and took a healthy swig, wiping his mouth with the back of his arm. The flex of his tattooed biceps and the hint of skin where his shirt hiked up was impossible to look away from. Christ, his muscles had muscles. Every inch of his body was fit and toned like sculpted marble. I couldn't believe I'd seen him naked. He'd been hot and sweaty and plastered against me…and inside me.

Oh, shit. Concentrate, Bryson.

I fixated on his Adam's apple, but that didn't help. I couldn't remember the last time I'd gotten turned-on watching someone drink water. And I had a feeling I wasn't the only one.

"Walnut." Tracy cleared her throat and tugged at the cross on a chain around her neck. "That's your street, Bry. Did Archie Calmezzo finally put his house on the market?"

Um…did he?

Sure enough, a brand-new listing had been added less than fifteen hours ago. On my street.

Smitty skirted my desk to peek over my shoulder. "Is that it? It looks nice. How many bedrooms?"

"Three."

He hummed his approval. "Bathrooms?"

"Two."

"Close to the high school?"

"Walkable," I replied.

He narrowed his eyes. "And we'd be neighbors?"

"You might not like the house," I hedged.

"Oh, he'll love it. Walnut is a beautiful street," Tracy enthused. "One of the best in town, in my humble opinion. Go show him and take your laptop. I'll send the contract info you'll need."

Smitty flashed a shit-eating grin my way. "Let's do it."

And that washow I wound up at 235 Walnut Street, giving a halfhearted tour of the Calmezzos' two-story brick house that included more information than he'd ever need.

"Archie and Barb talked about moving to Florida for the weather for years and finally pulled the trigger last spring. They said they'd be in Elmwood this summer but must have opted to rent after all."

"Hmm." Smitty examined kitchen cabinets, opened drawers, and walked into the pantry, then skirted the peninsula to join me in the living room. He peered out the sliding glass door to the deck and the expanse of greenery beyond.

"It's a nice property, but…"

"It needs to be painted," he commented, arms folded as he studied the outlines of picture frames that had once lined every square inch of real estate in the room.

"Oh, yeah. Let's look at the one on Maple." I hiked my computer bag on my shoulder and motioned for him to follow. "Painting is a lot of work and expense."

He didn't budge. "I don't mind and I can do it myself…if the owners are cool with it."

"They might be," I admitted.

"Mmhmm. I have a question for you, and I need an honest answer."

"What is it?"

"If I were to rent this place, you're not gonna egg the windows on my truck, put TP in the trees, or plant plastic forks on the lawn, are you?" he deadpanned.

My lips curled in a wry half smile. "I wouldn't waste the eggs or the toilet paper."

"But you're thinking about the forks, eh?"

"It's an original idea," I conceded. "Is that something kids do these days?"

Smitty shrugged. "I read it online when I was trying to come up with a new and inventive prank to play on one of my teammates. In the end, it was way too much effort. Not to mention, environmentally unfriendly. I settled for flamingos."

I set my briefcase on the peninsula and pulled out my computer. "Flamingos?"

"Yep, I bought a hundred plastic flamingos and popped them all over his lawn. It was a sea of pink. My buddy was pissed…but also, in awe," he snorted. "And his twin five-year-olds thought Santa made an impromptu visit in March. Flamingos in Toronto…gotta love it."

I laughed out loud. "Please don't put flamingos on my lawn. Or forks."

"Fine. I don't know which house is yours anyway, so it's all good. And if I were you, I wouldn't tell me. I'm prone to borrow sugar at weird hours."

"Is this your way of saying you'd like to rent this house?"

He gave a thumbs-up. "Yep, it'll work."

"Okay, I'll start the application process." I slipped my reading glasses on, grateful to have something to do with my hands to distract me from the odd twist that the best one-night stand I might have ever had was renting a house on my street. This was a weird one. And since Smitty obviously wasn't going anywhere for at least sixty days, it was up to me to suck it up and deal, I mused, sliding my laptop to him. "Fill in your name, etcetera, and I'll run credit when I'm at the office."

"Sure thing." He completed the online form and stepped aside. "Let me know who to send the deposit to, and I'll take care of it right away."

"I'll text you the info and"—I cocked my head—"your name is Errol?"

"That's a little-known secret, but yeah. So what?" He fixed me with an over-the-top glare, continuing in a menacing tone that would have made Tony Soprano proud. "Are you making fun of me?"

"I—no, of course not. I'm just…surprised." I bit my lip and squinted at the application. "Errol Smith Paluchek."

He sighed with exaggerated chagrin. "Errol Smith. If you say it fast, it sounds like?"

"Aerosmith." I widened my eyes. "You're named after a seventies band?"

Smitty nodded. "Can you believe that shit?"

I couldn't help it.…I chuckled.

And once I started, I couldn't seem to stop. His comedic put-upon delivery contrasted with the twinkle in his eyes. The more I laughed, the more tenuous my tight-fisted grip on propriety became. This was me trying to exercise control over a situation that had nothing to do with me.

So what if Smitty was here, on my street, a stone's toss from my house? So what if we'd fucked? It was a great night and at the time, I wouldn't have traded it for a winning lottery ticket. Besides, it wasn't like he was a jerk. He was a nice guy with a great sense of humor. He was attractive, sexy, and?—

Okay, okay. Dial it back a notch, Bryson.

I wiped the corner of my eye and sighed. "I'm sorry. It's not funny. In fact, it's cool."

I snickered at his incredulous snort.

"Cool? Really? Roll call in elementary school was a hoot." He modulated his voice to a warbly falsetto. "Errol Paluchek, Errol? Do we have an Errol? I mean, c'mon. If my parents had to be hippies about it, why couldn't they name me Ozzie or Boston or?—"

"ABBA?"

And that was all she wrote.

I doubled over, crying with laughter that felt like a cathartic release.

Damn, it was therapeutic. I was a master of etiquette. I'd practiced the art of interpersonal diplomacy and bitten my tongue for so many years I was numb in my desire to please. I strove for perfection, not wanting to alienate, upset, step out of line, or make waves. The old me used to be a troublemaker. I'd been a lot of fun, for sure, but I'd done a lot of damage too.

Even though Smitty's comment was self-deprecating and obviously meant to amuse, guffawing like a hyena at someone else's expense was wildly inappropriate. I should have been mortified, but I was too busy shedding layer after layer of artificial polish to worry about offending him.

I wheezed, inhaling deeply in an effort to compose myself…and apologize for losing my ever-loving mind.

Smitty just chuckled as he pulled a napkin from his pocket. "Here, take this. Your brush with a loony-tune moment messed up your mascara."

"I'm not wearing mascara, idiot," I snickered, snatching the napkin and dabbing my eyes. "Wow, I'm—that was…I'm sorry."

His eyes crinkled with mirth. "For what? Having a sense of humor?"

"With a faulty filter, no less." I fiddled with the edges of the napkin, feeling oddly nervous.

He was so handsome and big…and that smile could light up the whole damn town.

I tried to think of something to say to put us back on topic, and ended up gesturing at the laptop helplessly. "I'll…uh, get this processed. We'll run credit and be in contact with the owner. I'm sure the Calmezzos will be thrilled to rent this so quickly, but I think they were hoping for a year-long lease, so?—"

"Okay."

I narrowed my eyes. "What do you mean ‘okay'?"

"I can sign a longer lease," he replied, opening the hall closet. "I'm assuming I'd pay a fee if I had to break it?"

"Yes." I slipped my laptop in my computer bag. "I couldn't help noticing you said ‘if' rather than ‘when' you break it."

"Yeah, I might want to stay."

"Why?"

Smitty gave an amused half smile. "Are you sure you're the friendliest real estate agent in town?"

"I—well…"

"First, you make fun of my name, and now you're trying to kick me out."

"I'm not?—"

"Gotta say, other than you, everyone here is really nice," he teased.

I snorted and rolled my eyes. "I'm very nice."

He made a comical yikes face. "Right. All I can tell you is that my stress level has gone down fifty percent since I got here. And you want to know something even crazier? My pain-o-meter is down a few notches too."

"That's because you haven't been playing professional hockey all summer. I'm sure your body appreciates the chance to heal."

"I don't think I'll ever not have something aching, but it's less severe somehow. Maybe it's a lack of stress. My shrink tells me that if you hang on to negative shit, you internalize it. Next thing you know, it's spreading throughout your body, tightening muscles, giving you arthritis and migraines. Have you ever had a migraine?"

"Um, no."

"They suck. Zero stars, highly do not recommend. I used to get them once a month like fucking clockwork. Somewhere in there, I shredded my meniscus and my body couldn't decide what hurt worse, so suddenly everything hurt. Fun times," Smitty scoffed. "Right this very second, it's more of a dull ache. I'll take that all day long. I'm still beat up and battered, but I'm relaxed."

"Hopefully you still feel that way after hanging out with a bunch of teenagers," I advised, offering my hand. "I'll be in touch. With any luck, I can have the keys to you by tomorrow."

He stared at my hand. I thought he was going to say something sarcastic—maybe joke about going from naked strangers to polite strangers doing business, but he just smiled that knowing, almost wicked grin that made my pulse skip and skitter. Then he slipped his palm against mine and the Earth tipped on its axis.

"Cool. Tomorrow."

His voice was pure gravel—sex personified.

I forgot what we were talking about. What was happening tomorrow? Was I supposed to be somewhere or do something? Did it matter? I swallowed hard as I met his gaze.

My heart was in my throat, beating out of control. He was closer now, inches away, his smile wavering as I licked my lips.

Smitty pulled his hand from mine, but he didn't budge. He was still there, so close I could see flecks of gold in his brown eyes. Blood rushed to my head, whooshing in my ears so loud it sounded like a helicopter landing.

Walk away, make a stupid joke, stop this, don't let it go too far.

That would have been the right move, the safe move, the conscientious "no one gets hurt and nothing changes" move.

I was so good at playing it safe.

Not with him.

But before I could reach for him, he walked away.

I followed Smitty to the porch and locked up, surreptitiously eyeing him as he checked out the neighborhood from the top step.

"So…which house is yours?"

I swallowed hard and pointed at the huge two-story brick house partially hidden by a large walnut tree directly across the street. He tore his sunglasses off and hooted merrily.

"How is that funny?"

"Are you kidding me? How is it not funny? Oh, man…this is gonna be a blast. I thought I was going to have to start jogging again and make up excuses to bump into you, and I fucking hate jogging. Turns out I just have to look out the window. Is this my lucky day or what?" he crowed.

"And here I thought you might find my proximity slightly disconcerting. You know…like a normal person would."

"Nah, I'm not normal." Smitty waggled his brows and moved to the sidewalk. "Later!"

Wait. That was it?

"Hang on. Didn't you want a ride into town?"

"No, thanks. I'll walk. See ya, neighbor."

I watched him swagger away, head held high, oozing confidence and sex appeal and…damn it, somehow I knew Walnut Street was never going to be the same again.