irresistible. But even if he could ensure that his partner would be safe with him, how would he break the news of what he was? And what kind of crazy person wanted a werewolf as a boyfriend?
So Dylan had taken the safe route since the bite, ignoring his libido until he couldn’t stand it any longer and then giving in to quick backroom fucks with men he’d never see again, men whose names he never bothered to learn. He was almost resigned to it, although nowhere close to happy about it.
But, Chris.
Well, even if he was serious about that kiss, he probably wasn’t ready to pick out a wedding cake. Maybe he wanted a fuck buddy. Maybe Dylan would have to settle for that.
His happy mood fully soured, Dylan drained the water from the tub and went to get dressed.
H E SPENT most of the day scraping dried glue from the kitchen floor. It was arduous, frustrating work, and it made his back and knees and hands hurt. The little wounds scattered across his skin caught on his clothing as he moved. The reek of the ancient glue irritated his sensitive nose. He was tired and lonely and cranky and didn’t even have anyone to whine to.
“Fuck this,” he said somewhere around midday. He tossed the paint scraper aside with a clatter.
He stood and peered out the kitchen windows into the rain, then walked into the living room and stared across the road at the empty fields belonging to Chris. He supposed that by late summer they would be covered in golden blankets of grain. Now they were just drab and bleak.
He wanted a latte and Tillamook cheeseburger from Burgerville, and he wanted to hang out at Powell’s bookstore, maybe catch a movie at the Baghdad.
He wanted to get laid.
During the afternoon, Dylan worked on the almost-completed house plans. He had a meeting at the office on Thursday morning. His boss and the clients would be there, and he hoped everyone would be happy. He’d probably go out to lunch with Matty afterward, maybe see if Rick and Kay were free for dinner. Maybe he’d go to Lowe’s and pick out some kitchen flooring. He smiled—maybe he’d even go shopping for a truck.
“ Y OU got a lot done yesterday. Could’ve called me over to help.”
Dylan told himself he shouldn’t feel repentant about choosing to work by himself for a few hours. “I was going to do some other things but kind of got sucked in.”
Chris grinned at him, which made Dylan blush. He was beginning to suspect his neighbor possessed a twelve-year-old’s sense of humor. He cleared his throat. “So I was thinking we’d finish up the floor today and then tackle the wallpaper.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
Dylan had had enough of the awkward silences between them. He set up his laptop in a corner and accessed iTunes. Some heated negotiations followed—Chris had a fondness for ’80s southern rock that Dylan didn’t share—but they eventually reached a compromise that involved alternating Molly Hatchet with the White Stripes. Chris sang along out of tune, which Dylan found oddly endearing. Neither of them mentioned their kiss, and Chris was so nonchalant that Dylan began to wonder if he’d imagined that moment—maybe lust and the full moon had addled his head a little.
When their stomachs started grumbling, Dylan realized he had nothing to eat except bread and a couple of apples. Between the tiny fridge and the lack of a local grocery store, keeping the larder stocked was a pain.
“Come on next door,” Chris said. “I’ll make us somethin’.”
Dylan hesitated a moment. But he really was hungry, not to mention curious about the inside of Chris’s house, so he nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”
They took a shortcut through the poplars. Dylan flushed again when they climbed onto the same porch where he’d lifted his leg the night before, but Chris didn’t seem to notice. They entered the little house through the back door.
The living room was tiny and crowded with worn but comfortable-looking furniture. It was neater
So Dylan had taken the safe route since the bite, ignoring his libido until he couldn’t stand it any longer and then giving in to quick backroom fucks with men he’d never see again, men whose names he never bothered to learn. He was almost resigned to it, although nowhere close to happy about it.
But, Chris.
Well, even if he was serious about that kiss, he probably wasn’t ready to pick out a wedding cake. Maybe he wanted a fuck buddy. Maybe Dylan would have to settle for that.
His happy mood fully soured, Dylan drained the water from the tub and went to get dressed.
H E SPENT most of the day scraping dried glue from the kitchen floor. It was arduous, frustrating work, and it made his back and knees and hands hurt. The little wounds scattered across his skin caught on his clothing as he moved. The reek of the ancient glue irritated his sensitive nose. He was tired and lonely and cranky and didn’t even have anyone to whine to.
“Fuck this,” he said somewhere around midday. He tossed the paint scraper aside with a clatter.
He stood and peered out the kitchen windows into the rain, then walked into the living room and stared across the road at the empty fields belonging to Chris. He supposed that by late summer they would be covered in golden blankets of grain. Now they were just drab and bleak.
He wanted a latte and Tillamook cheeseburger from Burgerville, and he wanted to hang out at Powell’s bookstore, maybe catch a movie at the Baghdad.
He wanted to get laid.
During the afternoon, Dylan worked on the almost-completed house plans. He had a meeting at the office on Thursday morning. His boss and the clients would be there, and he hoped everyone would be happy. He’d probably go out to lunch with Matty afterward, maybe see if Rick and Kay were free for dinner. Maybe he’d go to Lowe’s and pick out some kitchen flooring. He smiled—maybe he’d even go shopping for a truck.
“ Y OU got a lot done yesterday. Could’ve called me over to help.”
Dylan told himself he shouldn’t feel repentant about choosing to work by himself for a few hours. “I was going to do some other things but kind of got sucked in.”
Chris grinned at him, which made Dylan blush. He was beginning to suspect his neighbor possessed a twelve-year-old’s sense of humor. He cleared his throat. “So I was thinking we’d finish up the floor today and then tackle the wallpaper.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
Dylan had had enough of the awkward silences between them. He set up his laptop in a corner and accessed iTunes. Some heated negotiations followed—Chris had a fondness for ’80s southern rock that Dylan didn’t share—but they eventually reached a compromise that involved alternating Molly Hatchet with the White Stripes. Chris sang along out of tune, which Dylan found oddly endearing. Neither of them mentioned their kiss, and Chris was so nonchalant that Dylan began to wonder if he’d imagined that moment—maybe lust and the full moon had addled his head a little.
When their stomachs started grumbling, Dylan realized he had nothing to eat except bread and a couple of apples. Between the tiny fridge and the lack of a local grocery store, keeping the larder stocked was a pain.
“Come on next door,” Chris said. “I’ll make us somethin’.”
Dylan hesitated a moment. But he really was hungry, not to mention curious about the inside of Chris’s house, so he nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”
They took a shortcut through the poplars. Dylan flushed again when they climbed onto the same porch where he’d lifted his leg the night before, but Chris didn’t seem to notice. They entered the little house through the back door.
The living room was tiny and crowded with worn but comfortable-looking furniture. It was neater
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