Page 4 of Daddy Marc's Gem

Foster kept hold of Dolly’s leash as he made his way across the yard with Marc trailing behind him. He gripped the wrought iron railing as he climbed up the few steps to the landing of his vintage Cape home, mindful of how excited Dolly still was over her new friend. All he needed was to add to his embarrassment by tumbling off the porch.

Once they were inside, Foster indicated to the guest bathroom beyond the foyer. “Help yourself to any of the towels. I’m afraid anything I have would be too small for you, but…”

He frowned, remembering the box of old clothes Edward left behind. He should’ve donated them by now, but his motivation for the past few months had been zero. Only sheer desperation had lit a fire under him to do the sale.

Marc paused his forward motion. ”You were going to say?”

“Oh, well, umm…” He cleared his throat. “Just that someone who used to live here left some shirts behind that might fit you. I can grab one for you if you’d like.”

Marc glanced down at his shirt, the now drying mud beginning to cake. “Actually, that’s not a bad idea if you don’t mind. I wouldn’t want clumps of dirt making a mess in your nice home.”

Foster gave him a tight smile. His home? Only half. And he’d clearly never be able to buy Edward out, not in his position. And unless he sold everything he owned and started over with nothing to his name, he’d never be able to afford moving out of state again.

“Sure. Let me grab a couple options for you to choose from.” He chuckled. “I have to put Dolly in the backyard first until I can give her a bath. She loves the couch and that’s the first place she’ll run to.”

Marc smiled. “I don’t blame her.”

After he retrieved the clothing and Marc picked out a basic tee, Foster let Dolly loose in the backyard. She’d need a good scrubbing later and he still needed to put everything away from the sale. His shoulders slumped. Doing everything on his own had not been the plan. He was supposed to be part of a team. Not the guy who got dumped.

Marc appeared from the bathroom right as Foster came from the kitchen with some water bottles and almost chokedon his tongue.Oof. Yeah, Marc was doing that shirt a lot more favors than Edward ever had. While a broad, defined chest and muscled arms weren’t required for him to find a guy attractive, it certainly didn’t hurt.

“I thought you might be thirsty.” He offered Marc one of the bottles. “Is there anything else I can get you?”

Like a blow job?

His face heated in mortification. Why was he thinking such inappropriate thoughts? He didn’t even know if the guy was gay or bi.

“Thanks.” Marc’s eyes lit up. “That’s very thoughtful of you.”

Foster fiddled with the cap of his bottle but didn’t crack it open. The likelihood of awkward fumbling was real. Whether it was inappropriate or not, he couldn’t stop having wicked thoughts about Marc.

As if sensing his discomfort, Marc spoke up. “If it’s all right with you, I’d love to take a look around. I’ll confess I’m a collector, and this is the best sale I’ve come across in a while.” He smiled. “You have some interesting things.”

Foster nodded. “Of course, please do.”

Foster trailed after Marc but tried not to hover as he browsed the tables. At the same time, he wanted to know about him. Even if Marc wasn’t into men, perhaps they could bond over their shared love of antiques and collectibles. Not having any friends in the community was beginning to wear on him. Almost six months had passed since his move to Massachusetts, and outside of polite nods to neighbors or brief, friendly interactions with the baristas at his favorite coffee shop, his social life was nonexistent.

“This lidded cup is exquisite,” Marc said, carefully lifting another of the pewter pieces Foster had rescued fromthe orange-haired woman. “Late nineteenth-century German craftsmanship, if I'm not mistaken.”

Foster's eyebrows shot up. “You know your antiques.”

Marc set the cup down with the gentle reverence of someone who understood its value. “I dabble. Nothing professional like you seem to be.”

Foster’s jaw went slack. “How did you know I was—"

“Professional?” Marc smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “The way you've organized everything, the careful pricing, the quality of the collection.” Marc gestured around the yard. “This isn’t someone clearing out grandma’s attic. You have an eye for this.”

“I owned an antique shop in California,” he admitted. “Well, my grandparents started it, and I took over after they passed.” He ran his fingers along the edge of a nearby table. “The plan was to open one here too, but...”

Marc waited, not pushing, his eyes kind and attentive in a way that made Foster's words tumble out before he could stop them.

“My ex and I were supposed to do it together. He convinced me to move here, sell my shop in Palo Alto, and then...” Foster shrugged.

Marc nodded, seeming to understand the unspoken. “Life has a way of derailing our plans sometimes.”

Tears burned at the back of Foster’s eyes. Life had been a rat bastard.

“So… Is there anything in particular you like to collect?” Foster found himself desperate to keep Marc around, even if it was only for a little while. Someone being this nice to him was like having water after being in the desert for too long. “There’s quite a selection, and not just here. I also have a twenty-by-twenty storage space.”

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