Cream of the Crop
Page 46

This town was killing me.
The day was very fruitful but long, and by the time we finished up at the swimming hole, I was plumb tuckered out. So the boys took me back to their place for tea and cookies.
“Your home is beautiful,” I remarked, sitting in their warm and cozy kitchen as they bustled about.
“Thank you! It took some work, but it was worth it,” Logan said.
“Some work? It took a shit ton of work,” Chad exclaimed by the stove, waiting for the teakettle to whistle. “But yes, totally worth it.”
I could tell. On the main drag in town, it was a restored Victorian complete with a turret and widow’s walk. Inside, several of the walls had been removed and doorways widened, creating a much more open, livable space. Painted in creamy whites and muted grays, with pops of teal and aquamarine scattered throughout, it was a very sweet home. And big!
“How many bedrooms do you have here?” I asked as Chad poured water into a teapot.
“Five, but one is an office,” he answered.
“And the turret room is a second office, on the third floor,” Logan chimed in.
“A big house for just two boys. Planning a family?” I asked as the first swirls of chamomile came wafting through the air. The two exchanged glances. “Sorry, too personal? Feel free to tell me to shut it—I always stick my nose in where I probably shouldn’t.”
“No, no, it’s not that. We’re trying to make some decisions about exactly that. Lots of pressure, you know,” Logan said, setting down a plate of shortbread. “Everyone has an opinion on when and how.”
“Don’t talk to my mother, then,” I said, leaning over and grabbing my own cookie. “If she had her way, everyone would have kids—several of them. The gays, the straights, the singles, the mingles, everyone breeding round the clock.”
“That’s exactly like my mom!” Chad rolled his eyes. “You buy a house, and as soon as the housewarming presents stop, the baby talk begins.
“When exactly is that happening, by the way?” Logan asked, slapping at Chad’s hand as he tried to snatch a cookie.
“Longer than you think, if you keep trying to bogart the shortbread,” Chad answered promptly, dodging another slap successfully and biting into butter heaven. “Fuck me, these are good. Roxie?” he asked, little shortbread crumbs puffing out.
“Roxie,” Logan said, nodding. “You went through all the trouble to get that cookie, you should consider keeping some of it in your mouth.” He leaned across and immediately began wiping up Chad’s puffs.
“Quiet, you,” Chad warned, lifting the lid off the teapot and calling it good. Pouring a round for all three of us, he carried a tray loaded down with cream and sugar, and more of the shortbread cookies, into the living room at the front of the house.
From that vantage point, nearly all of Maple Street, only a block south of Main, was visible. Pumpkins on every porch, leaves raked into tidy but very jumpable piles in every front lawn, golden retrievers being walked by adorable children as far as the eye could see.
“Was that a good sigh or a bad sigh?” Logan asked.
“Hmm?”
“You sighed. Good or bad?”
“Good sigh. For sure, a good sigh.”
“Pleasantly tired, perhaps?” Logan asked. Both of them leaned forward slightly, and I got the vaguest impression of two mountain lions fixing on their prey, just before they jumped.
“Well, you two did drag me all over creation and back,” I said.
“Of course, a busy day with us. But any . . . other reason you might be feeling a little . . . tired?” Chad asked.
Hmm, maybe mountain lion was the wrong spirit animal here. Vultures perhaps? Really sexy vultures? “Ask what you want to ask, I have no secrets,” I replied, sipping at the good hot tea.
“Word on the street is you’ve been seen coming and going from Bailey Falls Creamery, usually wearing boots belonging to a certain kids’ football coach. Care to comment?” Logan asked.
“I do like boots.” I grinned, extending my current kicks for inspection. New Manolos, slouchy suede, Alaska gray. Paired with black cashmere leggings and a fluffy pink Mohair sweater I’d found in a Chelsea vintage store—I felt extra cute today.
“Oh, she’s as bad as Roxie was when she and Leo started shtupping,” Chad said, giving me a firm look. “Okay, it’s like this. If we guess the dish, then it’s not really dish—got it?”
“I haven’t the foggiest idea what you’re talking about,” I said innocently, giving him my best Cheshire cat.
“Fair enough,” Logan said, eyes twinkling. “If you don’t take another cookie, that means you really did just borrow a pair of Oscar’s dirty work boots—boring, boring, boring. But if you do take another cookie, that means that you’ve been . . . well . . . wearing Oscar’s boots, if you know what I’m saying.”
He held out the plate of cookies, looking innocent.
I waited a few seconds, then a few more, as they watched me with bated breath. Then I finally . . . reached out for a cookie.
Which I never got, because Logan was so excited that he threw his hands over his head with a roar of victory, forgetting that he was holding the shortbread.
“Oh for fuck’s sake,” I exclaimed, cookies raining down everywhere. “You guys need some new gossip around here!”
“You have no idea how long we have watched that poor boy slouch around this town, speaking only in grunts and occasional one-word answers—”