Page 15 of The Meaning Of You

“Ow.” I shoved him away and straightened up. “Why thank you,NurseHart. Your approval makes me feel so much better.”

He chuckled. “Someone has to keep an eye on you.”

“Not you,” I grumbled. “Besides, I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself.”

Gazza cocked his head. “See, now if that was true, then you wouldn’t have any skin cancers in the first place. Slip. Slop. Slap. Remember?”

I groaned. “In my generation, that meant slip off your shirt, slop on some oil to make sure you baked your skin to crackling, and slap the closest bare butt on the beach I used to cruise in my misspent youth in the hope I might get blown or laid because I wasn’t yet out. In the olden days,” I said with no small amount of sarcasm, “we believed tanned skin was healthy, not to mention sexy, sunscreen was for wimps, and the only fake tan available made you look like a pumpkin. By the time the message changed, it was too late for most of us.”

Gazza circled a finger my direction. “There’s an awful lot to unpack in those statements. If only we had more time, starting with you cruising in any way, shape, or form? I’m not sure I’ll recover.”

I grinned. “What happens on the cruising beach stays on the cruising beach.”

He waggled his brows. “I do love a good challenge.”

I chuckled, but when his gaze rose to my forehead again, I found myself dragging a lock of hair over the offending wound.

His eyes snapped back to mine. “Don’t worry. The doc did a good job. And with your uneven skin tone, you’ll hardly notice it’s even there once it’s healed.”

I huffed out a laugh. “Pretty sure there was an insult in there somewhere, but I’m too tired to look. Besides, I need to go. Remember to check your blood sugar and eat something before you hit the road. Drive safely.”

It was something I’d been saying a lot since learning about Nick’s husband.

Gazza groaned. “Yes, Dad.” But he couldn’t hide the pleased smile that crept over his face.

“Stop daddingme. Makes me feel old.” I made my way across the studio toward the interior of the house. “It would be a pain in my arse to have to replace you is all.”

Behind me, Gazza chuckled. “Yeah, that’d be right. But if it’s okay with you, I might leave early as well. I have a date tonight.”

A rare enough phenomenon to stop me in my tracks. “Adate?” I spun around. “Really?”

Gazza rolled his eyes. “Jesus. Don’t look so surprised. I do date, you know.”

“Which century are we talking about?”

Another eye-roll. “Shut up. Ben’s . . . nice.”

“Oh... nice.” I drew out both vowels and then sashayed my way back to Gazza’s bench, batting my lashes. “Sounds irresistible. Tell me more.”

His eyes widened in dismay. “For the love of God, stop that. You look like Blanche Devereaux from theGolden Girls, and not in a good way. Although I have to admit, the hair is close.”

I snorted. “I’m impressed you even know who that is.”

He waved a dismissive hand. “TheGolden Girlsdon’t just belong to you old-time gays. It’s a cult classic.”

I snorted. “I’m only fifty-five, so watch your mouth. And also, it’s only a cult classicbecauseof us.”

His lips twitched. “Maybe. But I wouldn’t be too smug about the fact, considering you were also responsible for the lamentable popularity of crop tops and jorts.”

I almost choked. “I’ll have you know that predated me by a long stretch, and I’ve never worn a crop top or jorts in my life.”

He arched a brow and my cheeks blew hot.

“Okay, maybe once,” I flustered. “But it was to a Pride parade, and in my defence, I was very, very drunk.”

Gazza grinned. “Calm down. I actually have a couple of both in my closet.”

My brows popped. “You do? I thought you were into painfully cutting-edge clothes made by some fringe sustainable designer so abhorred by the idea of being successful that they only sell by word of mouth on the dark web.”

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