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Coming back behind the counter, Keith told the unseen Joe, “Tuna on white with some chips and broth for Mr. Riggins,” then took over a glass of water. A few more minutes passed, but finally he returned, leaning against but not across the counter. Wiping with the dishcloth at an invisible spot, he asked, “You want some ice cream?”

Keeping his voice low, John looked up, trying to meet Keith’s eyes. “I’d love some cream.”

Keith didn’t blush or look scandalized. He just took a quiet breath, then made eye contact. “I can’t serve that here.”

It wasn’t an outright no. John pushed for more. “There are other places we can go.”

The tempted, conflicted expression on Keith’s face gave John hope. Then it was like Keith made a decision. In a calm, nonjudgmental tone, he asked, “Were you listening to what I said earlier? About casual sex and—”

“And you being a hopeless romantic?”

“Right. I…I really like you,” Keith said, like it was an important point but not a brutal thing to say. “I’m really attracted to you, but I like you, too, and the more I get to know you, the more time I want to spend with you. I don’t want to make a big thing out of this, but it seems like if we”—he coughed—“go too fast all of a sudden right now, it’ll mess things up. If we wait, not forever, just for a week or so, it’ll be better pacing. And pacing is everything.”

“You’re giving me a yes-but-not-now? You’re saying yes and still putting me off?” John couldn’t believe this. Oh, God, hell. “I hate you.”

“You don’t seem to mean that,” Keith said, with an amused, perplexed smile. “At all.”

“I freaking—of course I don’t mean it. Give me the ice cream, give me—no, give me a whole sundae. You owe me that much for this yes-but-no crap, and make it to go, because I’m going to need a few extra minutes alone in the men’s room before I get back to work, after this—yes-but-not-now?!”

“You’re used to getting an immediate yes without conditions.”

“I look like this and I can string a coherent sentence together. I was one of the most celebrated players on the field, and…” And now Keith was laughing at him. “You’d better not keep me waiting for too long,” he warned.

Still chuckling, Keith made a visible effort to pull himself together. “You don’t want to take a sundae out in that heat,” he said, coaxingly. “I’ll make it for you right now, and you’ll have enough time to finish it before you go.” Moving over to the ice cream machine, he asked, with a sweet smile, “Hot fudge or caramel?”

“Caramel.” He wanted to lick it off of Keith’s body, tracing the drizzles of it across his lean, firm chest. “With extra whipped cream.”

Making an indecipherable noise—it sounded half appreciative, and half like “oh, God, don’t do this to me in public”—Keith made the sundae. Carrying it over to John, he set it down carefully. “One sundae, plenty of caramel, loads of whipped cream and a sweet little cherry on top, just for my favorite customer.”

Catching Keith’s wrist before his hand could retreat, John brought it close to the sundae and, “Oops.”

“Shit,” Keith whispered, maybe to himself. His index finger white with cream, he suddenly stopped trying to withdraw.

Slowly, deliberately, and licking his lips with anticipation all the while, John guided Keith’s hand near, bringing it to his mouth. Curling his tongue around Keith’s finger, he sucked it into his mouth and—

Keith whimpered.

—nursed it, licking it clean, his teeth gently grazing the sensitive tip.

Another whimper, helpless, like Keith just couldn’t hold the tiny noise back.

Gradually releasing it, John sat back. Looking up, he smiled innocently. “Can I get a spoon?”

Keith’s hand hovered there in the air, finger wet. Suddenly he dropped it back to his side and cleared his throat. “Yeah, right, spoon.” He fumbled for one without looking, gaze still on John. “So you’re not, uh, too, ah, macho to…help a teammate out, return the cheerleaders’ favor…”

Was that what Keith thought? John grinned, taking the spoon from Keith’s trembling hand. “I’m exactly macho enough. The thing about a halfback is, he has to be versatile. I run, I block, I’m a great receiver, and sometimes, if you’re lucky, I’ll even throw a pass.”

There was a long moment of silence, when Keith simply stared at him, slowly turning red and saying nothing. Then: Ding! “Food!”

Snapping back, Keith glared at him. “You’ve caught me off guard and unprepared by proposing something that I was fantasizing about but not ready to act on, and then you—I think that you just violated some sort of health code. I have other customers to tend to, and I can’t even remember my own name when you’re sitting there smoldering at me like that, so why don’t you take your sundae and go, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He liked seeing that he’d flustered Keith, and he had no trouble being kicked out. He knew that he’d be eagerly welcomed back later. “You said—”

“Yes, well, I was wrong, and you were right. Take your sundae and get out. You can bring the glass and spoon back tomorrow. You’re a good customer, I trust you.”

“Your favorite customer,” John reminded him with a smirk. “I don’t know.” He slowly, meditatively licked at his spoon. “I think that I’ll just eat here.”

Keith’s eyes grew wide and he bit his lip, but before he did, John distinctly heard him whisper, “Porn, it’s spoon porn,” which was just designed to make John smug all year long.

Ding! “Food!” Joe called again.

Hearing the bell a second time seemed to clear Keith’s mind, at least somewhat. “You,” he said firmly, wiping his hands on his apron, “I will see on Thursday.” Then he turned away, took a tray to Mr. Riggins, and sat over there.

Finishing his sundae, John watched Keith, and fantasized, and got a decent hard-on. Then he left some money on the counter and went back to work.

Oh, yeah. He still had it.