Free Handyman by Claire Thompson Page B

have a meaningful relationship. Why would Will want to bother with someone like that? Why waste his time and energy? He could have his pick of men—why choose one so unlikely?
    Why indeed? What made a person fall in love? Was it really something so simple as the way the other person smiled when you talked? The way he stroked the wall before applying paint, feeling for any hidden roughness he would sand away? Was it the way he’d touched Will’s elbow as he stood close behind him at the pool table, guiding him with a gentle, sure touch that spoke of his quiet self-assurance? Was it his scent, a sexy combination of male essence and whatever soap he used, mixed with the fresh laundry scent of his faded, soft denim work shirts?
    Am I in love?
    Surely it was too soon to say. Will knew he was in lust. He knew he wanted to explore Jack’s newfound interest, if that’s what it was. He was dying to pick up the phone and call him—just to see if he got home okay, if he was okay with what they’d talked about. He looked at his watch. Two a.m. was a little late to be checking, seeing as he’d sent the guy away hours before.
    With a sigh, he hauled himself off to bed.

    ***

    In the morning a single beam of light fell onto Jack’s face, waking him. Before he was fully conscious he knew something had changed. Something had happened that made him feel different, though still in a semi-sleep state, he couldn’t recall what it was.
    He became aware of the chirping of birds outside his bedroom window. He sat up and opened his eyes, squinting in the bright sunlight to see two robins, their red breasts proudly puffed as they whistled their springy duet. Jack smiled. He’d always regarded seeing robins as a sign of good luck.
    He glanced at the clock. It was after nine. He rarely slept this late. Must have been all that brandy. The night returned to him with a flash, scrolling across his brain like a silent movie. He lay back against the pillows and put his hands behind his head. Just what exactly had gone on last night?
    He tried to recall Will’s precise words. I feel a kindredness, something between us that sometimes I imagine you feel too. I have this crazy idea maybe we could explore it—together.
    Men didn’t say that sort of thing to one another. Not straight men, anyway. Yet when Will had said it, Jack hadn’t recoiled, though he hadn’t known how to respond. He felt the same way, really. At least as far as feeling a certain connection—an easiness he rarely felt with anyone.
    Will had crept up on him. He’d slipped past Jack’s usual reserve with his disarming admiration and open friendliness. Was that all it was? Was Jack merely lonely? Was Will the first person to bother, since Emma had been gone, to push past his defenses?
    Or was there something more? Did he find Will attractive? As a man? As a potential…lover?
    Just the word made Jack flush, though he was alone in the room in his empty house. Did he flush because the idea repulsed him? Or because it excited him? Was he finally ready, twenty-six years after the fact, to explore whatever homoerotic feelings he might have buried beneath a lifetime of denial?
    Jack got up and went into the bathroom, his bladder for the moment distracting him from his ruminations. After he peed, he turned on the shower and waited for the spray to heat as he shucked off his pajama bottoms and underwear.
    He stared at himself in the bathroom mirror. What could Will possibly see in him? He was in his forties, the hair on his chest going gray, the laugh lines around his eyes pronounced, as were the grooves along either side of his mouth.
    His body was still strong and firm, as a result of steady, hard physical work all his life. No gym workouts and tennis games to keep in shape, not for Jack Crawford. He’d built his muscles through the labor of his back and the sweat of his brow. He grinned at himself, aware for a horrible moment he sounded just like his father.
    He turned sideways,