Chapter Seven

One more story

Jack is waiting outside the hotel at seven, leaning against the low wall beside the entrance with his hands in the pockets of a dark shirt that fits him far too well across the shoulders.

Adrian notices that first. Then the rolled sleeves, the thick forearms, the clean jeans, and the fact that Jack has clearly made an effort without looking like a man who has made an effort. It’s not fair, honestly.

Adrian feels overdressed, then underdressed, then briefly about sixteen years old. He reminds himself he’s fifty-seven and has crossed oceans for a living. Neither fact helps much.

“You’re wearing clothes,” Jack says as Adrian approaches.

Adrian holds up the paper bag in his hand. “And carrying wine. I’m almost unrecognisable.”

“I’m a little disappointed.”

“So you said.”

Jack’s expression shifts into the faintly embarrassed smile Adrian is already beginning to recognise. It does something thoroughly unhelpful to his stomach.

“For Sam?” Jack asks, nodding toward the bag.

“For Sam. Unless you’ve invented another sister since this morning.”

“One’s plenty.”

Jack nods toward the bag. “She doesn’t live far from the bar. We can drop it off on the way.”

“Will we be interrupting the anniversary dinner?”

“I’ll leave it at the door. If Sam sees us, we’ll never make it out of there.”

“Does she usually hold people hostage?”

“Only when she wants information.”

Jack takes the bottle, careful not to let their hands brush.

Adrian notices that too.

“Where’s the truck?” he asks.

“At home.”

“You came without it?”

“I had a feeling I might want more than one beer.”

“That sounds dangerously close to planning ahead.”

“Don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation.”

A car is waiting at the curb. Jack opens the rear door for him, which Adrian finds both unnecessary and embarrassingly charming.

The ride takes them away from the hotel and toward a quieter neighbourhood near the water. Jack points out the garage as they pass two streets over, then a grocery store, a taco place he claims is better than it looks, and a low, pale building that apparently contains both a laundromat and the worst coffee in California.

“You’ve tried it?”

“Once.”

“And survived?”

“Barely.”

The car stops outside a small house ten minutes later. Warm light glows behind the curtains, and two unfamiliar cars are parked in the driveway.

Jack looks toward the house.

“Stay here.”

Adrian raises an eyebrow. “Are we committing a crime?”

“Preventing an interrogation.”

Jack gets out with the wine and disappears up the path. He places the bag beside the front door, takes out his phone, types something, then hurries back toward the car — moving fast enough to suggest avoiding his sister is a skill developed over many years.

“Successful?” Adrian asks as Jack gets back in.

“Bottle delivered. No interrogation.”

Jack’s phone buzzes almost immediately. He checks the screen, then puts it face down on his thigh.

“Spoke too soon.”

“What did she say?”

“Nothing you need to know.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“It usually is.”

The bar is on a side street a few blocks from Jack’s house. Faded wooden tables, an old jukebox against one wall, a patio strung with small lights. The music is loud enough to fill the room without making conversation difficult. It feels lived-in rather than designed, the sort of place where nobody minds if you stay longer than intended.

Jack knows the bartender by name.

Adrian tries not to find that attractive too.

They take a table outside. Jack orders a beer, and Adrian chooses a glass of red after studying the wine list for longer than the list deserves.

“You’re judging it,” Jack says.

“I’m assessing my options.”

“You made that face at the wine list.”

“What face?”

“The one that says someone has disappointed you professionally.”

“I don’t have a face like that.”

“You absolutely do.”

The wine arrives. Adrian tastes it while Jack watches him with exaggerated concern.

“Well?”

“It won’t kill me.”

“High praise.”

“I’ve lowered my expectations.”

They order food, and the first few minutes pass easily. They talk about Sam and the bottle Adrian chose, a California Cabernet from a small producer Jack has never heard of.

“What makes it the right one?” Jack asks.

“For the dinner or for them?”

“There’s a difference?”

“There should be.” Adrian turns the stem of his glass between his fingers. “A good bottle doesn’t just match the food. It should match the people drinking it.”

“And this one does?”

“You said they’ve been together fifteen years, they don’t like anything too sweet, and Sam hates being told what she’s supposed to enjoy.”

“That sounds like her.”

“So I picked something with enough structure to survive the meal and enough personality to argue with her.”

Jack laughs. “She’ll love it.”

“Or hate it loudly.”

“She’ll love that too.”

Their food arrives along with another beer for Jack. Adrian’s glass is refilled almost without discussion.

He doesn’t remember ordering a second one, but he doesn’t object either.

A song starts inside the bar. The opening guitar is familiar enough that Adrian stops with his fork halfway to his mouth.

“This was playing in the garage.”

Jack listens for a moment. “It probably was.”

“From your playlist?”

“Mine and Mike’s. Mostly mine when the music’s good.”

“And when it’s bad?”

“Entirely Mike’s fault.”

Adrian smiles. “Convenient.”

“You remembered the song.”

“I told you. The music made me stop.”

“And everything after that was my fault.”

“Exactly.”

Jack lifts his beer. “I’m willing to accept responsibility.”

The song leads to another, then another. Jack tells him about a cassette Sam once threw out of a moving car during a family road trip because he’d played the same track eleven times in a row.

“Eleven?” Adrian asks.

“I liked it.”

“You were torturing her.”

“She lacked appreciation.”

“She was trapped in a car with you.”

“That isn’t the point.”

Adrian tells him about following music through the streets of Lisbon years earlier and walking confidently into what he thought was a public courtyard, only to discover he’d joined a private wedding reception.

“What did you do?” Jack asks.

“Stayed for dessert.”

“You didn’t.”

“They offered.”

“Did they know who you were?”

“Eventually.”

Jack laughs so hard he has to put down his beer.

Adrian watches him — Jack laughs with his whole body, head tipping back, shoulders moving under the dark shirt — and feels absurdly lucky just to be sitting there.

“Okay. One more story,” Jack says, wiping at his eyes.

“That was already one more.”

“One more after that.”

“That is how people lose entire evenings.”

“Do you have somewhere else to be?”

Adrian meets his eyes. “No.”

“Then one more.”

The next story is about bad dates. Neither of them remembers exactly how they get there — possibly through the wedding, possibly through Jack asking whether Adrian often follows strangers into places he doesn’t belong.

Adrian tells him about a man who spent an entire dinner talking about his ex, then asked whether Adrian thought the ex might be jealous if they took a photo together.

“What did you say?” Jack asks.

“I said I thought his ex was probably having a very peaceful evening.”

Jack nearly chokes on his beer.

In return, Jack tells him about a date who only seemed interested in him after seeing the truck, then lost interest again when he learned Jack repaired expensive cars rather than owning all of them.

“His loss,” Adrian says.

“That sounded almost sincere.”

“It was entirely sincere. The truck is the least interesting large thing about you.”

The words are out before Adrian can stop them.

Jack looks at him over the rim of his glass.

Adrian takes a long drink of wine and considers climbing directly under the table.

“The least interesting large thing?” Jack repeats.

“I was referring to your personality.”

“Of course you were.”

“And your professional competence.”

“Good recovery.”

“I thought so.”

Jack’s smile says otherwise.

Another drink appears. This time Adrian remembers ordering it, though the decision seemed much more sensible when the glass was empty.

The patio fills around them. Plates are cleared. The small lights above their table get brighter as the sky darkens, and the evening settles into that strange, suspended feeling where time is passing and neither of them is paying attention to it.

Jack asks what Adrian first thought when he stepped into the garage.

“The truth?”

“Preferably.”

“I thought you looked like you could lift the truck instead of just fix it.”

Jack laughs, clearly delighted. “That’s flattering. Also not remotely romantic.”

“I haven’t reached the romantic part.”

“There is one?”

Adrian looks down at his wine, suddenly shy despite everything he’s already said.

“I thought you were the kind of man I’d regret not speaking to.”

Jack goes still.

“You came back because of me?” Jack asks.

“The music made me look.”

“And I made you come back.”

Adrian raises his eyes. “You were part of the decision.”

“A large part?”

Adrian’s gaze moves deliberately over Jack’s shoulders before returning to his face.

“A very large part.”

Jack laughs, softly this time.

“What about you?” Adrian asks. “What did you notice?”

“You looked lost.”

“I was not lost.”

“You were standing in a garage doorway in dress shoes, staring at me like you’d walked into the wrong building.”

“They weren’t dress shoes.”

“They definitely weren’t garage shoes.”

“What else?”

Jack studies him for a moment. “You looked like you were about to apologise for being there.”

“I probably was.”

“And then you smiled.”

Adrian waits.

Jack takes a drink.

“That’s it?”

“That was enough.”

The answer lands more deeply than Adrian expects.

He reaches for his wine, only to find the glass empty again.

“One more?” Jack asks.

Adrian knows he should say no. He says it anyway. “One more story.”

The final drink lasts through several stories. They talk about jobs they had before the ones they have now, songs they’d never admit to liking in public, the worst things they’ve ever eaten while travelling. Adrian tells Jack about passengers who ask questions while standing directly beneath signs containing the answers. Jack tells Adrian about customers who diagnose their own cars through internet videos and then argue with him when he disagrees.

At some point, their knees meet beneath the table.

Neither moves.

Adrian becomes increasingly aware of Jack’s hand around his beer bottle, the width of his palm, the way his shirt pulls whenever he reaches across the table. He’s seen attractive men before. He’s slept with attractive men before. None of them made him feel like he’d only recently discovered men existed.

“I don’t usually do this,” Adrian says.

Jack looks around the patio. “Drink wine?”

“Let someone I barely know take over three days of my life.”

Jack’s expression sobers, though his knee stays against Adrian’s beneath the table.

“For what it’s worth,” he says, “you’ve done a fair amount of rearranging yourself.”

“Mostly to hotel security procedures.”

“That too.”

Adrian smiles, relieved Jack has given him somewhere less exposed to stand.

Jack looks at him another second. “I’m glad you walked into the garage.”

The words are simple. That makes them worse.

Adrian looks down at the table. “I’m glad I walked back.”

Neither of them speaks for a moment. Then Jack lifts his bottle.

“One more story?”

Adrian laughs. “Absolutely not.”

They discover how late it is only when the bartender comes outside to tell them the kitchen has closed.

Adrian checks his phone twice because the numbers seem unlikely.

“That can’t be right.”

“What time did you think it was?” Jack asks.

“Earlier.”

“Very specific.”

Adrian pushes his chair back and stands. The ground moves slightly beneath him. He catches the edge of the table and looks down at the paving stones with deep suspicion.

Jack is beside him immediately, one hand settling around his arm.

“You all right?”

“The patio moved.”

“The patio’s been here longer than either of us.”

“Then it should know better.”

Jack is trying not to laugh. He is not succeeding.

Adrian straightens with as much dignity as he can gather. The wine has settled warmly behind his eyes, and the jet lag he thought had mostly released him has apparently been waiting for reinforcements.

“I should go back to the hotel.”

“You’re not walking back.”

“I walk professionally.”

“You work on an airplane.”

“There is a great deal of walking.”

“You can barely negotiate with a stationary table.”

“It surprised me.”

Jack glances toward the street. “My place is five minutes away. You can sleep there.”

Adrian looks at him.

Jack seems to realise how that sounded. “In the bed,” he adds. “I’ll take the sofa.”

The offer is so obviously decent that Adrian is briefly annoyed by it.

“I am not taking your bed while you sleep on the sofa.”

“You’re the guest.”

“I didn’t fly halfway around the world to evict you from your own bedroom.”

“You didn’t fly halfway around the world to meet me at all.”

“Details.”

Jack puts a hand lightly against the middle of Adrian’s back and guides him toward the gate. The touch is steady, warm, and far too easy to lean into.

They walk slowly. Jack keeps his hand there whenever the pavement gets uneven, though Adrian suspects the pavement isn’t really the concern.

Jack’s house is small and low, set back from the street behind a short fence. Inside, it’s cleaner than Adrian expected, though he immediately feels guilty for having expected otherwise. There are records beside an old stereo, photographs along one wall, a pair of boots placed neatly by the door.

“You look surprised,” Jack says.

“I was expecting engine parts in the kitchen.”

“They’re in the dining room.”

Adrian turns to look.

Jack laughs. “I’m kidding.”

“I’m too tired for your sense of humour.”

“You’ve been encouraging it for six hours.”

Jack gives him water and a new toothbrush still in its packaging. Adrian stands at the bathroom sink, staring at his own reflection while brushing his teeth. His glasses are slightly crooked again. His face is warm from the wine, and his eyes look brighter than they should at this hour.

He looks happy. That’s almost more disorienting than the alcohol.

When he comes out, Jack has turned down the bed. He’s standing beside it in a pair of dark boxers, broad chest bare, looking even bigger without the shirt.

Adrian stops.

Jack glances down at himself. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“That wasn’t a nothing look.”

Adrian has no intention of explaining that the sight of Jack nearly naked has wiped several basic words from his vocabulary.

He removes his own clothes with considerably less confidence, folding them over the back of a chair before standing in his briefs.

Jack looks at him, then very deliberately looks away. That small act of restraint is somehow more arousing than staring would have been.

“You take the bed,” Jack says. “I’ll be right outside.”

“No.”

“Adrian.”

“I told you. I’m not sleeping in your bed while you sleep on the sofa.”

“Then you take the sofa.”

“Also no.”

Jack folds his arms. “Those appear to be the available options.”

Adrian looks at the bed, then at Jack. The wine has removed just enough caution to let the truth out before he can disguise it.

“I’ll sleep in your bed if you sleep there too.”

Jack’s arms fall to his sides.

For several seconds, neither of them says anything.

“You sure?” Jack asks.

Adrian nods. “I’m drunk, Jack. I’m not confused.”

“I know. That’s why I’m asking.”

“Ask me again when I’m sober. The answer will still be yes.”

Something changes in Jack’s face. Not triumph. Something softer, more careful.

“All right.”

They get into the bed from opposite sides, leaving a polite and entirely unnecessary distance between them.

Adrian lies on his back, staring at the ceiling. He can feel Jack beside him without touching him, the heat of that enormous body close enough to register through the sheets.

“This is ridiculous,” Adrian says.

“What is?”

“The distance.”

Jack turns his head. “You put it there.”

“I was trying to behave.”

“How’s that going?”

“Badly.”

Jack laughs quietly.

Adrian rolls onto his side. Jack does the same, and suddenly they’re facing each other in the dark, close enough that Adrian can make out the shape of his mouth.

The room goes very still.

Jack lifts a hand but stops before touching him.

“Can I kiss you goodnight?”

Adrian’s heart gives one hard, adolescent beat.

“You’d better.”

Jack’s hand settles at the side of his neck.

The kiss begins gently, almost cautiously, but Adrian has spent the entire evening trying not to imagine it. The first touch of Jack’s mouth against his strips away whatever restraint the wine left behind.

Adrian moves closer.

Jack’s arm comes around his waist, pulling him against a body every bit as solid as Adrian had imagined. Adrian grips Jack’s shoulder, then the back of his neck, and the kiss deepens for several breathless seconds.

It’s warm, intense, and dangerously easy to keep going.

Jack is the one who slows it down, resting his forehead against Adrian’s.

For a few seconds, neither of them moves. Adrian keeps his hand at the back of Jack’s neck, still feeling the warmth of his mouth and the solid weight of the arm around his waist.

“We should probably sleep,” Jack says quietly.

Adrian lets out a tired breath. “I think I’m going to have to give in.”

“To what?”

“Sleep.” Adrian smiles, though Jack can barely see it in the dark. “I can’t keep my eyes open much longer.”

He turns away from Jack and shifts backwards until his body settles against the solid warmth behind him, his back pressed to Jack’s chest.

Jack goes very still.

Adrian is already too tired to wonder whether he’s been too forward. He just presses himself a little closer and closes his eyes.

A moment later, Jack’s arm comes carefully around his waist, tentative at first, like he’s still giving Adrian the chance to move away.

Adrian places his hand over Jack’s forearm and draws it closer.

“Goodnight, Jack,” he murmurs.

“Goodnight, Adrian.”

Soon, his arm settles more heavily around Adrian’s waist. Adrian is asleep almost immediately.