Page 67 of The Falcon and the Foe

The more I told myself to stop thinking about Russ and our time in the woods, the more my brain conjured images of Russ’s lust-drunk face, his daring smile, his hot naked dadbod. What made this even more painful was when I saw Russ in person at the next scout meeting; he acted as if nothing had happened. No lingering glances, no awkward pauses, no tenting of one’s official Falcons uniform. What happened in the woods really stayed in the woods for him. He kept his emotions as tidy as his appearance.

That was why it was such a shock to my system when he called me Tuesday night after I’d gotten home from the Falcons meeting. I was recording a radio commercial for AppleFest in the basement, Sourwood’s fall festival coming down the pike at the end of October.

“Hey,” I said when I picked up, my voice overflowing with good cheer.

“Uh, hi,” he responded, taken aback.

“Sorry. I’m still in commercial voice mode. What’s up?” I felt like a teenager talking to his crush. I should’ve been lying on my bed, legs folded above me, twirling the phone cord in my fingers.

“I wanted to discuss some ideas for future Falcons meetings as we push toward the end of the year. We need to ensure our scouts have a path to earning badges and moving up in the organization. I know that’s important for some of the kids and their parents.”

“Right, right. Everybody loves flare.”

I heard him smile over the line. “That is the point of this whole thing.”

“Earning accessories.”

“We haven’t put forth a good plan for the kids on how to earn badges. I was so focused on getting them prepared for the camping trip.” Russ cared, truly cared about the Falcons. He wanted every Falcon to soar, and I found his dedication contagious.

“You had good instincts. If they didn’t survive the camping trip, then there’d be no path to badges.”

“Do you have time to meet tomorrow to discuss?”

“I have an afternoon shift at the grocery store starting at one.”

“I can take lunch at noon and meet at your house,” Russ offered quickly as if the idea had been waiting in his head. “What’s your favorite type of sandwich?”

I scratched my head. “S’mores?”

* * *

The next day,Russ rang my bell (my doorbell!) at ten minutes to noon.

“Afternoon.” He held up a paper To-Go bag from Caroline’s, which instantly made my mouth water. Their food was just as greasy good as when I was a kid.

“The man has taste,” I said, letting him in.

Between the aroma of fresh sandwiches and the whiff of Russ’s fresh scent, I had taken a rocket ship straight to paradise. Russ looked fine in his business casual of a pressed blue button-down shirt tucked into a pair of dark blue pants, his work badge clipped to his belt.

“I thought guys at tech companies wear flip-flops and hoodies.”

“If you ever see me wearing that to an office, shoot me on sight.” He walked past me to the couch, and I checked out his ass, which refused to be pancaked by his work pants. “Where should we eat?”

“We can do it on the couch.” I shook my head, flames engulfing my face. “Eat, I mean, on the couch.”

I bolted into the kitchen to get us napkins and glasses of water. I stuck my head in the freezer for a second to chill the fuck out.

There’s a drop-dead sexy man in my living room? So what. Get the fuck over it.

“What’d you get me?” I asked when I returned, placing the waters on the coffee table. I sat in the armchair across from him for good measure.

“Turkey on rye.”

“Perfect.”

“And this.” He pulled out a piece of s’mores pie from Pie in the Sky. “So you could have your s’mores fix.”

“Russ! You shouldn’t have, but I’m so glad you did!” I sounded more touched than I should’ve been about pie, but Pie in the Sky was tucked inside a strip mall on the edge of town, a good twenty minutes out of his way. “We can share it.”

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