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Ryan pulled up in front of Andrew’s house, a two-story Victorian, and killed the engine. It was a nice home, not too ostentatious, with cream-colored vinyl siding and black shutters. A cement walkway lined with newly budding flowers led up to an ornate front door made of multihued glass.

For obvious reasons, Ryan opted to drive his truck, an older model Ford, instead of his bike. It wasn’t new and it wasn’t stylish, but it would be a hell of a lot more comfortable for Andrew than clutching his back on the hog. Then again, maybe driving the truck hadn’t been such a bright idea. The thought of Andrew’s arms around his waist, his groin pressed right up against his ass while the engine rumbled and purred, vibrating underneath them, didn’t sound so bad. It sounded downright uplifting.

Snickering at his own corny pun, he pushed open the door and hopped out. He strode up the walk, his head held high, unruly hair brushed and tamed, his best ass-hugging jeans hanging just right.

Tonight would be great. He and Andrew would get along famously and end up in a sweaty tangle of limbs before morning. Everything would be perfect. It would. And maybe if he kept telling himself that, the butterflies eating through his stomach lining would go away.

He raised his hand to knock and ended up fingering the glass. Upon closer examination, the door was made from one regular pane of glass, rather than the stained glass he’d thought it was, but it looked like someone had applied several different colored and patterned do-it-yourself stain glass applications. The way the colors melded and the patterns blended together seamlessly was really quite good. It almost reminded him of the abstract art he’d done before giving up on his dreams of being a world-renowned painter and settling on more realistic goals. Like a career that would actually keep him clothed and fed.

He looked up to see the interior door swinging open. Pulling his attention away from the glass, he straightened as Andrew appeared, an amused smile on his face.

“You noticed the door, huh?”

“Yeah.” Ryan smiled, taking in the way the snug polo shirt Andrew wore stretched across his shoulders and outlined his well-defined pectorals. Ryan’s attention meandered farther down, appraising the creased chinos, and more importantly, the prominent swell of Andrew’s package beneath. “It’s really good. Did you do it?”

“No. I have no aptitude for art. Actually, the whole thing was Katie’s idea. I helped, of course, but she picked out the patterns. It was one of our little weekend projects. She’s really creative. I think I may have a future Picasso on my hands.” Andrew laughed. “I have no idea where she gets it.”

Curiosity got the better of Ryan. He was dying to hear the story behind how a gay man ended up with sole custody of a little girl. And where the kid’s mother fit into Andrew’s life now. “Her mom isn’t into art either?”

“Angie? Oh, no. Angie couldn’t draw a straight line without a ruler.” Andrew stepped outside and pulled the door shut behind him. “So, where are we going?”

“Oh, I thought maybe we could go to the Dairy King.”

Andrew stopped mid-step and looked at him curiously, a crinkle forming between his brows.

Ryan smiled. “I’m just kidding.” He ushered Andrew over to the pickup and opening the door for him. “There’s a great little Italian place over on 5th Street. They make a delicious marinara sauce. They even have a live band that comes in on Saturday night for dancing.”

Ryan circled around the front of the truck. “Sorry about the truck,” he said, as he slid behind the wheel. “It’s not so easy on the eyes, but it’s a lot more comfortable for two people than the bike I usually ride.”

“It’s fine,” Andrew replied. “So you have a bike?”

“Yeah.”

“What kind?”

Interesting. Maybe they had something in common after all. “You into bikes?”

“Some. I…well, I used to be. When I was younger.”

“Mine’s a 1948 Indian Chief. Rebuilt it from the ground up myself.”

“Damn. That’s sweet. You’ll have to bring it over one weekend so I can take it for a spin.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

“Damn. I forgot. I don’t have my bike license anymore. I never got it renewed after I moved here from New York.”

“How come?”

“Well, you know how things get. You get busy with life and whatnot and time just kind of catches up with you. I haven’t even thought about bikes in forever. I guess since before Angie died. She always loved to ride pinion whenever I came into town.” The last bit was said so low Ryan had to strain to understand him.

“Listen. I’m sorry if I brought up something painful. I didn’t mean to be so nosy.” Although it was killing him not to ask more about Angie, like what she’d been to him. Had she been a lover, his wife, what?

“No. It’s okay. Really. Little things just hit me sometimes, you know?”

“Yeah, I understand.” But he didn’t, not really. Ryan’s parents had passed away the year before, only six months separating their deaths. That had been tough, but it wasn’t the same as losing a mate. Ryan knew that, even if he hadn’t ever experienced love firsthand.

He’d never let himself get close enough to anyone to take a chance on love. Not emotionally. Physically, he’d gotten plenty close to plenty of people, but he’d never opened up. Too many years were wasted, club hopping, bed hopping. Fighting his sexuality by burying himself in one woman after another, just to prove he could get it up for the opposite sex.

Years wasted. And for what? So that he could eventually come out of the closet anyway, admit to himself that he was gay. He was thirty-one and had only been out for five years. All that time, he could have spent looking for his other half, and he’d pissed it away by trying to prove he was something he would never be.

The rest of the ride was quiet. Neither man made more than rudimentary small talk. Safe subjects like the weather or what kind of music they liked, when Andrew began to twist the radio dial searching for a good station.

When he pulled into the restaurant and got out of the truck, Ryan was relieved to have something to do besides think. He escorted Andrew inside and waited with him while the hostess searched out a table and guided them to it.

Their table was in the back, directly off to the side of the small dance floor. In the middle of the white tablecloth sat a vase holding a single, slightly wilted red rose. He hoped it wasn’t an omen of things to come.