Page 92 of Whiskey Neat

His dad nods, but his expression screams disapproval.

“I guess you know what you’re doing.”

“Will,” Salem’s mother says, smacking her husband’s arm.

I’m not sure what to say, but the urge to defend Salem and our relationship is strong.

Wait.

Our relationship?

I guess that’s what this is. Or what it’s become. After what we did tonight, it’s probably time for me to face facts. This isn’t casual anymore, and I don’t think it has been for a while now.

I grab Salem’s hand and pull him a little bit closer. Salem’s pretty eyes settle on mine and my stomach flutters. Oh yeah. I’m totally fucked.

“We’re adults,” he says. “We know what we’re doing.”

The oven dings, saving us from additional awkwardness when his mom pulls dinner out. Salem’s dad carries the dish to the dining room while Salem grabs the salad bowl and I carry a pitcher of what appears to be iced tea.

The four of us sit at the table while Maggie dishes out servings of the piping hot entrée. I inhale the aroma and my stomach growls in response.

“Smells incredible. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a home cooked meal.”

“Oh?” Maggie asks. “Not much of a cook?”

“I do okay, but our house has been under renovation for a little over a month, so we’ve had to resort to takeout or burgers on the grill.”

“Our house?” his dad asks. “Who do you live with?”

“None of your business, Dad,” Salem says. “Geez.”

I pat Salem’s thigh. “It’s okay. I live with my five friends. One of them inherited his uncle’s mansion, but it was in bad shape. We’re told it’ll be done in another week.”

“Winston Beckett’s old place?” his dad asks.

“Yep. My friend Ridley is his great-nephew.”

“It’s nice to see it being restored,” his mom says. “It was such a beautiful house in its prime.”

“It will be again. Next week it’s being painted on the outside and new landscaping will be put in. I can’t wait to sleep in my own room again, but I need a new bed. New everything actually.” I turn to Salem. “Maybe you can help me.”

The two of us lock eyes, and I’m close to leaning in to kiss his pretty mouth when my brain helpfully reminds me his parents are watching us.

Salem’s cheeks turn bright red, and I clear my throat.

I take a bite of the chicken pot pie and close my eyes for a second. Wow. The pastry is buttery and the filling is good enough to eat on a shoe. “This is incredible.”

Maggie beams. “It’s my grandmother’s recipe. Always a hit.”

“I can see why.”

The rest of dinner is relatively comfortable. I’m aware of his mom’s wistful looks in our direction, and his father’s curious ones, and I wonder if Salem will hate what I’m about to do, but I’ve always been a face-it-head-on kind of guy.

“Do you have any questions for me, sir?”

Salem’s breath hitches as he digs his fingers into my thigh under the table.

“You can call me Will, but I appreciate the good manners.”

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