in water, he was even more beautiful.
It dawned on Shane that he had held this man’s hand for the better part of an hour, and his palms started to sweat, and his breath hammered in his chest, and spots started dancing in front of his eyes.
Best. Day. Ever.
And Shane even knew where he worked—and it wasn’t far from Levee Oaks.
“Citrus Heights?” Shane had asked over a tiny spoonful of limeade-flavored ice. “Where in Citrus Heights?”
“The corner of Greenback and Sylvan,” Mikhail had told him. Shane had bought him his own ice. Mikhail’s was lemon, but he kept using his spoon to steal bites of Shane’s. Shane let him.
“I know the place—The Car Czar, right?”
Mikhail smiled. “Da—it’s mostly Russian-owned. There is a dance studio along the back of the strip. I teach there four nights a week.”
“And you work the faires for…?”
Mikhail had shrugged, shades of darkness in his eyes. “I am saving for something. Besides—this is real performance. People are glad to be here, and I make them happy. What’s not to like?” So he might be at the faires on some weekends, but most nights a week he was right where Shane knew to find him.
Shane watched him now with sweating palms and breath panting shallowly in his chest. That was assuming he wanted Shane to find him.
The thought was fantastic—amazing, breathtaking, and absurd.
But that didn’t stop Shane from feeling the imprint of that fine-boned, lean hand in his own for most of the rest of the day.
The performance ended, and Shane whistled enthusiastically.
Kimmy waved at him from her place in the front, and Mikhail raised an ironic blond eyebrow and tilted his head as though allowing Shane to idolize him. Shane rolled his eyes and did just that.
Eventually the tippers cleared out, and Shane walked forward to Kimmy’s enthusiastic viewing of his new look.
“Very nice, brother—and I have to say, Robin Hood fits you better than Sheriff of Nottingham, right? You may want to think about that….” She trailed off meaningfully, and Shane shook his head.
“You think of anything else I can be, and I’ll think about it,” he told her, and Brett, who had once again reprised his roll of Puck, said, “Some sort of hairy-pelted animal?”
Shane blushed—his chest hair was peeking out of his V-necked shirt, and it was dark and curly and….
And Mikhail kicked the guy in the shin.
“Better a bear than a ferret,” he snapped, and Shane and Kimmy looked at them both in surprise.
“Lover’s quarrel,” Kimmy said apologetically, and Mikhail shook his head and stalked forward.
“Nyet. I would have to love him, and I never have. Come—let’s go see the horses before you have to perform with your asshole boyfriend,” he called over his shoulder.
“Mikhail!” Kimmy sounded legitimately shocked—and hurt—and she looked at Shane as though he could come up with an answer.
Shane shrugged and stayed shoulder to shoulder with her as they followed the guy through the dust and the throngs, trotting to keep up.
Mikhail slowed down as they passed a booth that Shane hadn’t seen yet, one with tiny glass vials of scented oils. He must have had a fondness for scent, because it was almost like someone threw a rope around his neck and pulled him toward the shelf. He wrinkled his nose—it was a tiny booth off in its own corner—and the oils were high enough to make him stand on tiptoe.
Kimmy glared at him, and Shane looked at her and sighed. It was his job, he guessed, as designated “pretty man” of the day.
“Do they have ‘cranky Russian bastard’?” Shane asked, wrinkling his nose at the variety. There were little glass vials set up in a board to support them, and each vial had a glass wand inside to sample the scent.
Shane picked up a glass wand experimentally and brought it to his nose.
“Ewwww.”
Mikhail looked up as Shane replaced the wand and smiled faintly.
“Brown sugar. Too sweet for you. You need something
It dawned on Shane that he had held this man’s hand for the better part of an hour, and his palms started to sweat, and his breath hammered in his chest, and spots started dancing in front of his eyes.
Best. Day. Ever.
And Shane even knew where he worked—and it wasn’t far from Levee Oaks.
“Citrus Heights?” Shane had asked over a tiny spoonful of limeade-flavored ice. “Where in Citrus Heights?”
“The corner of Greenback and Sylvan,” Mikhail had told him. Shane had bought him his own ice. Mikhail’s was lemon, but he kept using his spoon to steal bites of Shane’s. Shane let him.
“I know the place—The Car Czar, right?”
Mikhail smiled. “Da—it’s mostly Russian-owned. There is a dance studio along the back of the strip. I teach there four nights a week.”
“And you work the faires for…?”
Mikhail had shrugged, shades of darkness in his eyes. “I am saving for something. Besides—this is real performance. People are glad to be here, and I make them happy. What’s not to like?” So he might be at the faires on some weekends, but most nights a week he was right where Shane knew to find him.
Shane watched him now with sweating palms and breath panting shallowly in his chest. That was assuming he wanted Shane to find him.
The thought was fantastic—amazing, breathtaking, and absurd.
But that didn’t stop Shane from feeling the imprint of that fine-boned, lean hand in his own for most of the rest of the day.
The performance ended, and Shane whistled enthusiastically.
Kimmy waved at him from her place in the front, and Mikhail raised an ironic blond eyebrow and tilted his head as though allowing Shane to idolize him. Shane rolled his eyes and did just that.
Eventually the tippers cleared out, and Shane walked forward to Kimmy’s enthusiastic viewing of his new look.
“Very nice, brother—and I have to say, Robin Hood fits you better than Sheriff of Nottingham, right? You may want to think about that….” She trailed off meaningfully, and Shane shook his head.
“You think of anything else I can be, and I’ll think about it,” he told her, and Brett, who had once again reprised his roll of Puck, said, “Some sort of hairy-pelted animal?”
Shane blushed—his chest hair was peeking out of his V-necked shirt, and it was dark and curly and….
And Mikhail kicked the guy in the shin.
“Better a bear than a ferret,” he snapped, and Shane and Kimmy looked at them both in surprise.
“Lover’s quarrel,” Kimmy said apologetically, and Mikhail shook his head and stalked forward.
“Nyet. I would have to love him, and I never have. Come—let’s go see the horses before you have to perform with your asshole boyfriend,” he called over his shoulder.
“Mikhail!” Kimmy sounded legitimately shocked—and hurt—and she looked at Shane as though he could come up with an answer.
Shane shrugged and stayed shoulder to shoulder with her as they followed the guy through the dust and the throngs, trotting to keep up.
Mikhail slowed down as they passed a booth that Shane hadn’t seen yet, one with tiny glass vials of scented oils. He must have had a fondness for scent, because it was almost like someone threw a rope around his neck and pulled him toward the shelf. He wrinkled his nose—it was a tiny booth off in its own corner—and the oils were high enough to make him stand on tiptoe.
Kimmy glared at him, and Shane looked at her and sighed. It was his job, he guessed, as designated “pretty man” of the day.
“Do they have ‘cranky Russian bastard’?” Shane asked, wrinkling his nose at the variety. There were little glass vials set up in a board to support them, and each vial had a glass wand inside to sample the scent.
Shane picked up a glass wand experimentally and brought it to his nose.
“Ewwww.”
Mikhail looked up as Shane replaced the wand and smiled faintly.
“Brown sugar. Too sweet for you. You need something
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