“Lucy, f-f-friend,” Mac said. As if the dog understood him, she nuzzled Quentin’s hand with her wet nose, then licked it.
“Hi, Lucy,” Quentin said, rewarding her with a pat on her head. “Oh, aren’t you a good dog?” He scratched her head some more when it was clear how much she liked it. “What kind of dog is she?”
“German s-s-shepherd mix. She’s really s-smart.”
“You can tell. She looks at us like she understands every word we say.”
Mac nodded, a hint of a smile on his lips. He gestured Quentin to follow him, and they stepped into a tidy living room with a comfortable couch with a variety of colorful pillows and a coffee table that appeared to be handmade. One wall was covered with bookcases, stuffed with books from literature and thrillers to self-help, popular psychology, politics, and history. Wow, he is a big reader. Damn, that was definitely an unexpected side from Mac.
Mac kept on walking and led him into a hallway with several doors. He opened one of them and flicked on the light in what had to be a guest room. He put Quentin’s suitcases down.
A four-poster queen bed was the centerpiece in the room, with a matching dresser and makeup table against the wall. The pink rose-patterned comforter looked comfortable but distinctly feminine. Quentin had assumed Mac was single, but he hadn’t even bothered to ask. This room somehow felt like a woman’s room, however, so maybe Mac had been married at some point? Was he divorced?
“The b-b-bathroom is across the hallway,” Mac said. “I will p-p-put out clean towels s-s-so you can take a s-shower.”
If the guy was indeed single, he was remarkably polite and hospitable. He’d paid attention before, when Quentin had complained at the guesthouse he’d wanted to take a shower when he’d discovered they had no hot water.
“Thank you,” Quentin said.
“You’re w-welcome. I will f-f-fix lunch. Is there anything you d-d-d-don’t eat?”
Quentin shook his head. “Nope. No allergies and I eat everything. And I should’ve maybe mentioned before you offered so kindly to take me in, but I eat a lot.”
Mac shot him an incredulous look. It was such an honest reaction that Quentin giggled. “I’m serious,” he said. “I probably eat more than you do.”
Mac softly shook his head. “Imp-p-possible,” he said with a half smile. “But we’ll s-see.”
Quentin watched him walk out, doing some heavy internal drooling. Out of all the people in the entire world to be stuck in the snow with, it had to be him. It had to be this mouthwatering, hot-as-fuck, push-all-his-buttons, check-all-boxes bear of a man. Strike that. Bear of a straight man. Just his luck.
He took a quick shower, not sure what Mac’s water supply was and if the hot water could run out. He hung the thick, white towel on the towel rack and made sure he left everything behind as neat as possible. Mac was a bit of a neat freak it seemed from how well organized his junkyard and office had been, and his house was tidy as a pin as well. Quentin could appreciate that.
As he opened the bathroom door, a chilly draft hit him. Goose bumps broke out over his body, and he shivered in his tight, white boxers. “Damn.”
He shuddered as he stepped on the cold floor. A sharp intake of breath sounded next to him. He jerked his head around. Mac stood a few feet away, his eyes wide and his mouth slightly open as he stared at Quentin.
Quentin always thought of himself as a too-skinny guy, a teen who hadn’t fully grown into those awkward arms and legs. Plus, he had freckles all over his freaking body, which was not something he was happy with. His face was kind of okay with his messy hair and green eyes, though he always found it was a little too angular.
But right now, Mac looked at him as if he was seeing something else entirely, something that fascinated him, and his gaze slowly traveled down. The man’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. His eyes never left Quentin’s body. Oh, Mac’s eyes wanted. Despite Quentin’s earlier assessment, it was crystal clear that Mac was anything but straight. The wonder and hunger in his expression spoke volumes.
Quentin turned toward him, strangely compelled to stand there and let him take his fill. His perusal held such a vulnerable honesty, as if Mac had never had the chance to look at another man. Finally, Mac blinked, and his eyes found Quentin’s. A soft smile curled Quentin’s lips. No judgment whatsoever, not for something that felt this precious to him.
“I’m s-s-s-s-sorry,” Mac said. His cheeks flushed under his beard, and he jammed his hands into his pockets. “I d-d-didn’t m-m-mean t-to b-be rude.”
If Quentin had to take a guess, he’d say that stress made Mac’s stutter worse. The man had stumbled over almost every word in that sentence. “It’s okay, Mac. No harm done.”
Mac hunched his shoulders and swiveled around. “L-l-lunch is r-r-ready,” he said with his back toward Quentin.
“Thank you. I’ll be out in a minute.”
Mac strode toward the kitchen without looking back.
Quentin walked into the guest room and softly closed the door behind him. So, Mac was gay. Or bi. But after seeing the expression on his face as he took Quentin in, it was obvious that he was not straight. He’d looked like Quentin was his favorite snack in the world…and he couldn’t wait to dig in. Well, that complicated things, didn’t it?
The prospect of sharing a house with Mac had certainly become a lot more attractive now. Hot damn, he wouldn’t mind fooling around with that gorgeous man—even if it did mean playing the role that was expected of him. It was better than nothing, right? It had been months since his last hookup as he’d been too busy finishing his degree to make the time. He was dying for a round of hard, sweaty sex, even if he’d have to compromise. Story of his life.
He got dressed quickly, rubbed a bit of gel in his hair to achieve his standard messy look, and made his way to the living room. Mac had set the table in the kitchen, and on a white serving plate were the biggest, most mouthwatering egg salad sandwiches Quentin had ever seen, with thick slices of bread, lettuce, and bacon.
“Oh damn, those look amazing,” he said to Mac, who had his back turned toward him, stirring in a pan. “And what’s that delicious smell?”
“S-s-soup,” Mac said, his voice and posture stiff.
Hmm, he was uncomfortable after what had passed earlier. Maybe Mac wasn’t out? That made sense in a small town like this. Or his gaydar sucked, and he wasn’t sure if Quentin had appreciated his slow perusal or not. Quentin figured the best way to get past it was to pretend nothing had happened. He walked up to Mac, who poured the soup into two mugs. “What kind of soup?”
“T-tomato. From my homegrown t-t-tomatoes. I m-m-made it in Aug-g-gust and f-f-f-roze it.”
“You grow your own tomatoes? I would’ve thought the climate is too hard here, isn’t it?”
Mac put the ladle back in the pan, grabbed the two mugs, and placed them on the table. “N-n-normally, yes, but I b-b-built a sheltered area in m-my vegetable g-g-garden. K-k-kinda like a g-g-greenhouse.”
Quentin sat down at the table, inhaling the fragrance of the soup. “That’s awesome. What vegetables do you grow?”
Mac joined him, still avoiding Quentin’s eyes. “Everything. As m-m-much as I can. I also have f-f-fruit trees and ch-chickens.”