Jeweler Lachlan Beattie does the Renaissance Frolicke event each year; it’s the only time he sees costume designer Taran Kimura. Their vendor stalls have been on opposite sides of the site. Then the year’s event package arrives with a new map: now they’ll be side by side.
Taran sees the new map and considers sending a thank-you note to the management. Finally, no barriers to striking up a conversation with the sexy Scot. They’ve been eyeing each other for years. Taran’s almost fifty; it’s past time to step outside his comfort zone.
Lachlan makes the first move; Taran makes the second. Once they start talking, they never want to stop. They have six weekends to see how far their connection could go. By the end of the second, they both know they want forever.
What could possibly go wrong?
Lachlan
I started to turn away, my brain already running the checklist. Then remembered who I was talking to, and my manners. “Can I give you a hand with anything?”
Taran gazed at me as he took another sip of whatever was in his cup. Then his gaze dipped, just for a second, as if he were looking at my mouth. When he glanced up again his smile was the tiniest bit wicked. “Maybe later. Let’s get this show on the road.”
I think I said something. Did I say something? Christ, I hope I said something, rather than reversing myself like a speechless fucking automaton and jogging off back to my car. Honestly couldn’t tell you, though. All that was in my mind was: he flirted with me. Taran Kimura bloody flirted with me. The first time we spoke! First thing in the morning! Me looking as crap as I always did, and him as fine as he always did.
Heaven help me, he was even better up close. All that black hair, shot with silver, pulled back in a sleek braid. Those bright brown eyes, set between winged eyebrows and high cheekbones, framed with the finest lines. From a few feet away I would’ve said he was twenty years younger than me. From the distance we’d been talking (less than arm’s length) I’d revised that. He might be no more than five years younger; might even be older.
Though by any measure more good-looking than me, I suppose he wasn’t truly movie-star handsome. I didn’t care. I had twelve long days to look at him, and look I would.
* * * *
Taran
Was I flirting? Had I actually pulled that off, first thing in the morning, first real conversation, without even one inhibition-lowering beverage under my belt? Did I really do that thing where I glanced at his mouth as if I was imagining a kiss?
I did.
I actually did that thing.
I could feel myself blush at the audacity of it, though fortunately not until Lachlan had jogged off in the direction of his car. Some guys look cute when they blush, getting that sweet pink cheek thing going; I look like a cartoon, red as an apple from my hairline to the top of my chest.
But I didn’t have to worry about it, because my dolly and my garment rack and all my boxes of stock didn’t care about my face. They just wanted me to not drop them in the dirt.
Getting stuff out of the car was by far the easiest part of the day, which was good, because my attention was definitely split. I couldn’t get over the fact that Lachlan came to talk to me. I mean, he really honestly obviously came to talk to me, because he passed everyone else along the way and didn’t stop for longer than it took to shake hands.
And I swear, I would’ve been happy just to make a new friend, but there was more going on than that. I might be shy, but I wasn’t the guy who would say oh, he’s not really interested in me, why would he be interested in me. We had some important stuff in common, based on the simple fact that we were both artists who exhibited at the Frolicke. I was reasonably certain that we were close to the same age. Now I knew that we both also had day jobs. And that we’d both wanted to get better acquainted. And that we, apparently without even thinking about it, stood closer to each other than any two straight men who were talking for the first time ever would.
