Like Heaven on Earth by Jaime Samms

Author:Jaime Samms [Samms, Jaime]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: gay romance
ISBN: 978-1-63477-574-8
Publisher: Dreamspinner Press
Published: 2016-08-29T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 16

WELL. SO that had been a dick move, Preston realized, even as he hurried away down the path, crushed gravel shushing underfoot. Cobalt had just opened up his soul, and Preston had left him splayed and vulnerable. And taken his dog to boot.

“Fuck!”

A tiny, wrinkled man with a tinier dog stopped and leaned away from him as he passed, startled looks on both their faces. Preston smiled—or grimaced, more likely—at them. They scurried past and he was alone again.

“Why New York?” he asked Chance. “Why that ballet?”

Chance licked his fingers and trotted on next to him turning his doggy attention from his own anxieties to soothe Preston’s.

“He should dance. He needs to dance. The modern company he’s starting is a good idea, but ballet again?”

Chance huffed.

“And why Cal?”

Nothing from the dog there.

“Yeah, buddy. You and me both. You and me both. And what about you?”

A slight tug on the leash made him look down, and he realized the dog was now loping to keep up with his agitated pace. He slowed and glanced around. The two of them were alone near the far edge of the park. He could look clear across the grassy, puddle-ridden expanse to the bench where Cobalt still sat, lanky legs held at the most proper angle, tight together, like he was trying to keep himself small against the damp spring chill.

He looked thin, sitting there. Not small, because he was too broad shouldered for that. But brittle. Breakable. Alone.

“Come on.” Preston gave the leash a tug, and Chance fell in beside him, taking Preston’s fast lope at an easy canter of his own. Crossing the park was a wet business. Spring had left the softening earth soggy, and with every step, his heavy boots sank deep into the turf. But it was faster than going back around the way he had come.

He slowed before he reached the bench, approaching from directly behind Cobalt. The dog tugged forward, showing the first inclination all day that he could stand to be more than half a foot from one of them. He chafed at Preston holding back.

“Are you done fuming?” Cobalt asked without turning around.

Preston grunted. He hadn’t thought Cobalt knew he was there.

“Maybe.” He stopped but let go of the leash.

Chance trotted over to plop down directly on Cobalt’s feet and rest his head on his forepaws.

“At least you brought my dog back. He’s soaked.”

“What are you going to do with him in New York?”

“Nothing. He’s staying here. With you.”

Preston pursed his lips so hard the scar at the corner of his mouth twinged.

“While you house-sit. You can”—Cobalt waved a hand over his shoulder in a very fluttery way—“fix things.”

“Like floor tiles?”

“And windows.”

“But not you.”

Cobalt’s throat worked for a moment. “Not me,” he agreed quietly.

For a few minutes—agonizing, long, fraught minutes—they remained where they were, Preston standing six feet behind Cobalt’s bench. Neither of them said a word.

The ball was firmly not just in Preston’s court but in his hands.

“I said I would back you up.”

Cobalt nodded.

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