31. A Full-Service Boyfriend

Briar

"Just so I'm clear—a full-service boyfriend should be able to provide a screaming orgasm and then walk you to work the next morning?" I ask as Rhys and I pass a cute shop peddling throw pillows with sayings on them like You Had Me at Merlot and Listen to Riesling.

Rhys takes a drink of the tea I made, like he's giving that some serious thought, then says, "Sounds about right."

"I'm taking notes for my column," I say, tapping my temple like I'm recording these tips.

"But honestly, what kind of boyfriend wouldn't do that?"

"A bad one?" I ask, like I'm offering the answer in class.

"You already know the right answers."

"Probably because I've known the wrong guys," I say as we near the town square. The faint sounds of folk music in the distance tickle the air. "But why does this—walking—make for a great boyfriend? Or, put another way, how do I convince the men that might read this column that these tips will benefit them? His site is a little…how to get laid."

"Lovely."

"Technically it's dating tips for real men. But same thing."

After a pause, Rhys says, "So you need to be a little bit subversive with the column. Like when your mum puts butter on peas to get you to eat them."

"Spoiler alert: nothing would get me to eat peas."

"Bet you've never tried sugar snap peas." He makes a good point.

"Fine. I will reserve judgment on sugar snap peas. And yes, I'll need to butter up the peas. Steven's readership will want to know what's in it for them." My brow knits as I noodle on how to present the why of all this in the column. "Do I make it seem like they could get more sex if they follow these tips?" I say, but as soon as I ask the question, my stomach twists in an answer. I shake my head. "I don't want to do that. I don't want to present what makes a great boyfriend in terms of only what's in it for them. What if some guy takes the advice and really messes with his partner's head?"

"Nothing worse than that."

That's said clearly from experience. "Did you have an ex who did something similar?"

He downs some tea from the travel mug, then answers, "In a way, yes. Turned out Samantha still kept all her dating profiles and was quite active with them while we were together," he says dryly, like he's reporting the news, but it's clear he's masking real hurt. Or shame.

I growl, instantly protective of this clever, caring man. "Why are people like that?"

"I wish I knew. I just know they are," he says, but he moves on swiftly as we turn the corner. "But to answer why a good boyfriend would walk you to work…" His gaze swings to me, his eyes curious. "I would turn it back to you. Do you actually want someone walking you to work?"

He doesn't ask it weakly as if he's doubting himself for walking me to yoga today. But more because he seems legitimately interested in my answer.

As we turn onto a bustling block where the festival's spread out on this Friday morning, taking over more of the town, I mull on an answer—one that makes me feel a little vulnerable. "Yes, because it gives us a chance to talk," I say.

He stops in front of a cheese shop, the scent of Gouda and cheddar drifting past the open door. Rhys lifts a hand, casually brushes some hair off my shoulder, his fingers trailing sensually over my hoodie. The fabric does nothing to stop the sensations from flowing through me.

"Screaming orgasms are great but I'm pretty sure they're better when you actually talk to the person you're sharing them with," he says, and my stomach swoops.

Impulsively, I set a hand on his chest over his right pec. I desperately want to know him more. To understand what makes him tick. "Your tattoo. I noticed the dates on it last night," I say, a start and an end. "For someone who must have mattered to you a lot?"

I leave it open-ended so he can answer or not.

"Yes. A lot," he says. Sadness flickers in his deep brown eyes, as he swings his gaze away from me to the town square across the street. Green wooden benches line the square on all sides, and the grass is dotted with a few early morning picnickers.

It's not hard to read the room. Or to give him what he's given me so far—a welcome ear. "Hey," I say gently. "I've got a few minutes before I need to set up my tent. Do you want to sit and chat?"

He's careful as he asks the question. "Are you sure? It's not a pretty story."

"I didn't think it was, Rhys." I squeeze his arm, trying to reassure him that I'm here if he needs to talk.

He gives a long exhale, then he says, "My brother died when I was sixteen. Daniel. He was my only sibling."

My heart lurches. "I'm so sorry for your loss," I say, emotion tightening my throat. "I have a brother I adore. I can't imagine."

"I hope you never have to," he says with so much kindness, my heart aches even more. "We don't have to sit and chat if you don't want to."

Rhys is trying to give me an out, but I don't need to take it. "It's not about me. If you want to talk, I want to listen."

His shoulders relax. Relief seems to pass over those soulful eyes. "I do."