nowhere when they do. So how about an ‘at home’ get together? Do you have a barbeque? My best friend tells me I make a fantastic salad. How about a barbeque lunch?”
Harley agreed and we stood chatting when a loud crash came from inside the house. We hurriedly said good-bye before I raced inside to find my mother with a broken bowl that she was trying to fill up with water for the poor little kitty outside.
We don’t have a cat.
Tuesday I didn’t get to see Harley because I was with Mum at the doctor. Wednesday I was at Lisa’s house babysitting my twin-nephew terrors while she was at the doctor with Isabelle, who had gastro. Thursday I had gastro and was puking my guts out in a bucket about the time that Harley was walking his dogs past my house. Friday Mum was puking her meals up into any container I could find to catch the stuff, and I was busy washing sheets and clothes and completely missed him.
Saturday he messaged my phone to make sure we still had a date. I assured him we did.
Sunday morning I waved good-bye to my mother as Lisa took her away for the day, then raced inside to put together the salads I’d promised. I left myself a good hour to do some painting and drawing, as this always calms me down. Then I showered and dressed in shorts and a casual polo top.
I loaded my Tupperware containers into an ice bag and added the premixed alcoholic drinks I’d bought just for the occasion. Then I left the house and walked up the cul-de-sac and through the paths as Harley had directed. I found his house without much trouble and knocked loudly on the door.
Harley opened it with a large smile, and I froze. Do you ever have those moments where you’re locked inside your body, screaming at yourself to move or say something or to not be such a dork, and yet you have no control? Yeah, me too. Harley was wearing a yellow sarong wrapped around his waist—and nothing else. I stared at that piece of yellow material and all I could think of was Harley telling me he didn’t wear underwear.
“Shawn?”
I tried to blink, but it didn’t work. I could feel the spit pooling in my mouth and the blood pooling in my dick. I think Harley must’ve worked out that I was incapable of reply because he chuckled and yanked me inside the house. Instantly the air-conditioned cool hit me, and the tiny portion of my brain that was still working was relieved. I was grateful I wouldn’t have to sweat my way through lunch.
The dogs realized they had a visitor and came racing to meet me, nearly bowling over my impression of a frozen statue with their enthusiasm.
“Picky! Louie! Behave yourselves. Be nice to Shawn.”
The dogs pushed and shoved each other, but soon came to the conclusion that I wasn’t going to dispense any pats on their grateful heads. They lost interest quickly and took off into the house. I really did want to pat them, but I was unable to move an inch. My brain wasn’t responding to any stimuli apart from Harley’s naked chest.
He disappeared and came back wearing a shirt, which made me blush like mad. How mature was I that I couldn’t even be around a shirtless guy without having an attack of nerves.
“Better?” he asked me.
Now that he was semidressed, I recovered enough to say, “Not really. But I guess if you want me to hold a conversation with you, you should keep your clothes on.”
He gestured for me to follow him through the house, and I thought I heard him mutter, “Conversation is so overrated.”
We arrived at the kitchen, and I stowed my salads in his roomy fridge and popped the tab of my first can. I offered one to Harley, but he smiled and pointed out a wine glass on the bench filled with a pale liquid. “I have to admit to being an alcohol snob. I like my wines. I can’t drink anything else. You’re welcome to join me if you want?”
I admitted to not enjoying wines and preferring spirits mixed with some sort of fizzy concoction. “My best friend, Kris, and I used to drink vodka
Harley agreed and we stood chatting when a loud crash came from inside the house. We hurriedly said good-bye before I raced inside to find my mother with a broken bowl that she was trying to fill up with water for the poor little kitty outside.
We don’t have a cat.
Tuesday I didn’t get to see Harley because I was with Mum at the doctor. Wednesday I was at Lisa’s house babysitting my twin-nephew terrors while she was at the doctor with Isabelle, who had gastro. Thursday I had gastro and was puking my guts out in a bucket about the time that Harley was walking his dogs past my house. Friday Mum was puking her meals up into any container I could find to catch the stuff, and I was busy washing sheets and clothes and completely missed him.
Saturday he messaged my phone to make sure we still had a date. I assured him we did.
Sunday morning I waved good-bye to my mother as Lisa took her away for the day, then raced inside to put together the salads I’d promised. I left myself a good hour to do some painting and drawing, as this always calms me down. Then I showered and dressed in shorts and a casual polo top.
I loaded my Tupperware containers into an ice bag and added the premixed alcoholic drinks I’d bought just for the occasion. Then I left the house and walked up the cul-de-sac and through the paths as Harley had directed. I found his house without much trouble and knocked loudly on the door.
Harley opened it with a large smile, and I froze. Do you ever have those moments where you’re locked inside your body, screaming at yourself to move or say something or to not be such a dork, and yet you have no control? Yeah, me too. Harley was wearing a yellow sarong wrapped around his waist—and nothing else. I stared at that piece of yellow material and all I could think of was Harley telling me he didn’t wear underwear.
“Shawn?”
I tried to blink, but it didn’t work. I could feel the spit pooling in my mouth and the blood pooling in my dick. I think Harley must’ve worked out that I was incapable of reply because he chuckled and yanked me inside the house. Instantly the air-conditioned cool hit me, and the tiny portion of my brain that was still working was relieved. I was grateful I wouldn’t have to sweat my way through lunch.
The dogs realized they had a visitor and came racing to meet me, nearly bowling over my impression of a frozen statue with their enthusiasm.
“Picky! Louie! Behave yourselves. Be nice to Shawn.”
The dogs pushed and shoved each other, but soon came to the conclusion that I wasn’t going to dispense any pats on their grateful heads. They lost interest quickly and took off into the house. I really did want to pat them, but I was unable to move an inch. My brain wasn’t responding to any stimuli apart from Harley’s naked chest.
He disappeared and came back wearing a shirt, which made me blush like mad. How mature was I that I couldn’t even be around a shirtless guy without having an attack of nerves.
“Better?” he asked me.
Now that he was semidressed, I recovered enough to say, “Not really. But I guess if you want me to hold a conversation with you, you should keep your clothes on.”
He gestured for me to follow him through the house, and I thought I heard him mutter, “Conversation is so overrated.”
We arrived at the kitchen, and I stowed my salads in his roomy fridge and popped the tab of my first can. I offered one to Harley, but he smiled and pointed out a wine glass on the bench filled with a pale liquid. “I have to admit to being an alcohol snob. I like my wines. I can’t drink anything else. You’re welcome to join me if you want?”
I admitted to not enjoying wines and preferring spirits mixed with some sort of fizzy concoction. “My best friend, Kris, and I used to drink vodka
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