Page 12 of Meeting Mr. Adorkable
“About Sunday.”
What about Sunday? Arlo rummaged through his not quite clear head to find some clue to what Hank was talking about.
“… starting a little later, we’re going for 3:00pm. Francine says don’t worry about bringing anything with you.”
Bringing anything to what and where?
“Arlo, have you got any clue what I’ve just said to you? No, don’t answer. The BBQ. We’re starting later. Do I have to send somebody to pick you up, in case you forget?”
Of course. But now he remembered and wished he hadn’t. Francine’s birthday, and Cousin Wilbur, produced out of nowhere to be his gift, as though he were the birthday boy. Fuck.
“No, I’ve not forgotten. How could I do that?”
Hank snorted. “Just make sure you don’t. Okay, I know a family BBQ isn’t your thing, that it’s not a fancy-pants New York restaurant—”
“Hank—”
“But if I didn’t drag you out of that big ol’ house of yours, you wouldn’t go anywhere. Admit it, man. I’m right, ain’t I?”
“I won’t admit it, because that’s not so. I go plenty of places.” But he was stumped to think where. Hank was right, and it was an unsettling thought that his old friend had, once again, read him so well.
“You’re not supposed to be a hermit, Arlo. That just ain’t you. We’ll see you Sunday.”
CHAPTERTEN
Lucian slumped onto the couch and groaned. Why did he always stick his enormous foot into his very wide mouth? Why didn’t he engage his brain before even thinking of uttering one solitary, single word? And why did he do it over and over and over again? He was twenty-four, not four, so shouldn’t he have grown out of whatever it was he should have grown out of? Maybe he had a death wish? Or maybe he was just congenitally stupid.
He lay back and closed his eyes. Arlo had got him out of a fix, and all he’d done was piss him off by accusing him of being a stalker.
“Errggghh…” Lucian groaned as he shoved his fingers through his hair. He liked Arlo. The man made him smile and laugh, a big solid gold star in his favor when no man had done that for what felt like a lifetime. Arlo had all the makings of a friend — or he had until he’d opened his big, unfiltered mouth, and screwed up that chance.
A friend. It was a warm, welcoming thought. Apart from Bibi, he’d made no other connections in Collier’s Creek. It’d be good to have Arlo McDonald as a friend. A very good-looking friend. Lucian’s lips twisted in a wry smile. Just a friend, and definitely not a boyfriend, because that was just ridiculous and totally the last thing he wanted. Hadn’t he come halfway around the world to one hundred percent, absolutely not have a boyfriend?
“I should apologize,” he said to nobody but the silent room. But how?
There was no way Arlo was going to return to the flower store, so other than finding out from Bibi where his house was, how was he going to make his apology? Lucian snorted. Yeah, right… Turning up unannounced at Arlo’s door… Who was going to look like the stalker then? No, he was just going to have to hope he ran into Arlo in town. And then he’d pounce.
A loud, complaining growl from deep in his stomach was the reminder he’d not eaten since early that morning, an incinerated piece of toast.
He dug through his refrigerator, finding not much more than a dry lump of cheese, a tub of butter, and a wilted lettuce. “What’s my name, Old Mother Hubbard?” The food cupboard wasn’t much better — or not until his gaze fell on a jar of instant happiness. He smiled. Joy in a jar, butter, and the remains of a loaf of bread he could toast. Dinner was all but served.
Less than five minutes later, Lucian unscrewed the top on the big brown jar and breathed in deep. Heaven. Heaven on toast. Literally on toast. He dug the knife in, piling up the thick, dark brown paste, trailing a thin thread between jar and the thick slice of heavily buttered toast.
“Oh, Marmite, how I love thee,” he muttered just before chomping down.
Lucian slumped back in his chair and closed his eyes as the salty, savory, unctuous goodness overwhelmed him. It was a taste of home, in the midst of the pretty little town he’d discovered by a crazy act of sheer randomness.
He took his time chewing. As much as his family, he had known he’d needed and wanted some time out, just for a few months… and Collier’s Creek was as different from his life at home as it was possible to get. He’d struck lucky with the Wyoming town. There were worse places to be lonely in.
Licking away the salty smear of Marmite clinging to his lips, Lucian eyed the rest of the loaf. Another slice of toast, and then the rest of the packet of custard cream biscuits — thank you, mother dearest, for the care package — along with a cup of strong tea, and that would be dinner done and dusted. He should get some veggies and fruit, but he wrinkled his nose; he didn’t much like them, which was pretty inconvenient for a vegetarian.
As he picked up the knife to hack off another slice of bread, his cell phone burst into life, buzzing and vibrating across the tiny kitchen table, the familiar ringtone instantly lifting his spirits.
“Mum!”
“Honey, how are you? Thank the lord you haven’t been eaten by grizzly bears.”
The distinctive tones of her Southern California accent were still strong, despite the many years she’d spent flitting between the family’s London house and Danebury Manor, the ancestral home of the Blaxstons deep in the rolling hills of the Hertfordshire countryside.
