Page 12 of Mornings By the Linden Tree
“Most generally, although I do try to temper my honesty most times. I’m exceptionally tired today, so I will apologize for anything I say that’s sharp.”
“Nah, I’m good with sharp.” He leaned in closer, the smell of fresh lime coming off his pale skin. “I was born in the north end. We don’t do nothing dull.”
“Ah, so Italian roots then?” I asked, being well familiar with the section of town known as Little Italy or as we Bostonians called it, the North End. I ate there often as the dining was excellent.
“Sort of, well, yeah, but not pure. My father’s side is English, like British with some Scottish, and my mother’s side is Italian. My dad likes to say we’re like the ketchup.” I watched how he spoke with fascination. His mouth was divine. Lovely lips tinted pink formed words with flair to match his hands as they moved. When I said nothing, he tipped his head, sending a thick chunkof golden-brown tumbling into his eyes. “Like we’re fifty-seven varieties.”
“Oh yes, I assumed that was the reference. Apologies, I am so sluggish.”
He draped his arms over his bent knees, forearms peppered with blond hair bared to the sun. “You look done in, no offense.”
“None taken. It’s been a rough few weeks in my house. Valeria is having sleep issues,” I blurted out, then wondered why I had done so. Generally, I was a very secretive man, keeping my woes and worries to myself. Why I’d divulged such a personal thing to a man I met once while he was wearing a purple top hat and crooning about flappy beavers was a mystery.
“Oh yeah, kids not sleeping is tough,” he commiserated. “Does your wife not help with your daughter during those long nights?”
I took a drink of his coffee as I perused him through the steam rising from his cup. He began to smile, a twitch of the corner of his mouth at first, then grew wider the longer I stared at him. “Okay, you caught me. I might have been fishing for information.”
“I noticed that. You lack polish in your approach, but your charm makes up for it.”
“Oh, so I’m charming. Nice to know.” He leaped to his feet to catch an incoming frisbee and tossed it back to the young man who’d overshot his friend. When he sat back down, he was beside me, his hip touching mine. I should have slithered over to make space between us, but I was too tired to move. Also, this good-looking young man flirting with me was a spot of joy in a month of trying, depressing times. “So in case you’re wondering, I am gay, single, and love older men who wear designer clothes to a kids’ sing-along.”
“So you like wealthy men with bags under their eyes who may possibly be married with children?”
He blushed slightly, a pinkening of his creamy skin that made him just that much more desirable.
“That sounded better in my head,” he replied with a glance that made my tired old bones warm from the inside out. Nothing heats the marrow like a young man giving you that look. “I am into older men who know who they are and what they like. I amnotinto married men. Given the way you checked me out a few weeks ago, I’m going to say you also are gay.” I nodded as I slowly sipped his coffee. The sweetness was growing on me, rather like this forward man in the holey jeans and sweater. “My gaydar is never wrong. I did look for rings but saw none, but that means little. So are you married?”
“I am not, nor have I ever been.”
“And the little girl, Valeria, is she your child with someone? I love kids, obviously, but I also like to know what I’m getting into when it comes to potential lovers.” I choked on his coffee. He reached over to pat my back as I coughed and sputtered. “Too much sugar?”
“Too much honesty,” I wheezed, handing his cup back to him so I could remove a wrinkled handkerchief from my back pocket to dab at my chin. Our eyes met. “Are you always so forward?”
“Yeah, mostly. You said you were a man who speaks his mind, so I thought I would do the same.”
“Hmm,” I hummed as I tried to sort my chaotic thoughts. “I’m not sure I’m in any place to take on a lover, even one as appealing as you. I’ve recently become a guardian to my niece after the loss of my sister and…well, the transition isn’t going as smoothly as I had hoped.”
The sparkle in his light blue eyes dimmed. “I amsosorry for your loss. It’s never easy for kids to be uprooted. I remember when we all moved in with my grandma in Philly for a year after my dad died. Mom and us kids had a really tough time.”
“I am sorry for the loss of your father. I’ve buried both of my parents and know it is a darkness that doesn’t always fade completely.”
I patted his knee in what I hoped was a comforting way. My fingertips grazed the soft, warm skin covering his kneecap. A flash of heat ran from my fingertips to my balls. Not at all the kind of reaction a person should have when discussing the dearly departed.
It seemed my metabolism was in shambles, which was wholly true. I was not eating well, nor sleeping properly. My exercise routine had regressed into doing sprints around the house with a bath towel while trying to catch a wet little girl fresh from her bath. There was no routine or structure at all, which was obviously affecting my whole being. Normally, I had a low sex drive. Not non-existent but certainly less vigorous than most men my age, or so I assumed. I didn’t spend my days discussing how many erections I had or how many times I thought about getting laid. Sex just didn’t seem important to me most of the time. And now Valeria was in my home, and our lives were in utter chaos, sexual attraction should be at an all-time low. Yet, oddly enough, this peacock of a man who entertained children for a living was stroking my libido as if it were a cat seeking a chin scratch.
“No, it doesn’t. He was a cop. Killed in the line of duty. One of Boston’s finest. His passing left my mother with seven kids to raise alone.” He plucked at a stray thread at that sexy knee of his as I gawked rudely. Blue eyes skipped from his knee to me, a little grin tugging at his candy floss pink lips. I think he wore gloss. He had to. No one had lips that shade of pink that were so shiny. That gloss would smear nicely if someone were to kiss him hard.
Dear Lord. Wesley, the man is discussing his dead hero father and you’re dreaming of kissing him? For shame.
“I’m sorry. Seven children?” I blurted out partly to hide my lecherous thoughts and partly because I could not fathom having that many children. I had one and had been reduced to sleeping under trees in Boston Common like a discarded shoe.
“Yep, seven. Loren, Leigh, Levi, Louis, Lawson, Lane, and me, Lennon.” He rattled those names off with a twinkle in his eye. “Mom wanted her boys to all be named L names like my dad, who was Leander.”
My shock intensified. “Seven boys?”
“Yep.” He chuckled. “She gave up trying for a girl after Lane, the youngest, was born.”
“God bless that woman,” I whispered as I tried and failed to imagine seven boys rampaging around my tidy home. Well, tidy when Mrs. Polkowski came in. As soon as she left, the house looked like a tornado had blown through. A tornado named Valeria.
