The Lineup(68)

She wipes her tears away and sobers up. “It’s clear he doesn’t know what to do with you either. So no reason why he didn’t kiss you?”

“None.” I sigh.

On the way home from the cabin, I was texting Lindsay, telling her everything that happened, well, everything that didn’t happen. She was as confused as I was, and then when I filled her in on last night and showed her the texts, she lost it—clearly.

“It seems so”—she pauses, her mouth falling open—“oh my God, Dottie.”

“What?” I ask, sitting a little taller. I know that look on Lindsay’s face; that’s the look of understanding.

“He’s gay.”

“What? No, he’s not gay. Emory would have said something.”

“Yes, he is. Why else would he recoil after being so close to you? Moments from kissing?”

“But I saw him staring at my breasts.”

“Of course he did.” She slides my phone to me. “He was probably curious since he usually sees man pecs all the time.” She whispers, “He’s gay, sweetie, which oh boy does that put a kink in your plans for dating him. Deeply and passionately in love, if he comes out, the Carltons are going to call bullshit.”

“No.” I shake my head. “He’s not gay . . .”

Is he?

No . . .

But . . . no.

“He’s not,” I say, trying to convince myself even though Lindsay planted a seed of doubt.

She shrugs and takes a bite of her bologna sandwich. “Suit yourself, but he’s gay.” What? She cannot be serious. Jason Orson . . . gay. No, I can’t go there, especially when I consider his words in the cabin, and how they turned me on more than anything else in my life.

“Your body heaves, your spine straightens and with one small flick of his tongue over your right breast, you tumble over into ecstasy . . . you’re calling out his name, begging him to make it last longer.” It was so hot. But . . . he had ample times to touch me, kiss me. I felt his body hard against my back. He leaned into my neck while helping me make gnocchi. I offered him my body. But . . . he didn’t kiss me. He didn’t take what I offered him. Hell, is he gay?

Huh, that would explain the obsession with his potato salad.





Plants are watered.

Sweats have replaced my pencil skirt.

And my hair is knotted on the top of my head.

On a deep breath, I push up my glasses and raise my hand, knocking twice on the door across from mine.

I told myself I wasn’t going to do this. That I was going to drop the entire fa?ade of trying to date Jason and get him to be in a relationship with me. It’s become such a big mess, and honestly, is the Carlton account really worth it?

But then I got an update on the plans we’ve been mapping out for the acreage and hope and excitement bloomed inside of me.

So, here I am. At the threshold of Jason’s apartment, with one question on my mind . . .

The door swings open, Jason’s torso covered in a boring red apron. He’s wearing a tank that shows off his sculpted shoulders, and on top of his head, he’s wearing a white chef’s hat.

Good God. What on earth am I to do with this paradoxical man?

“Dottie.” He bows with a wooden spoon in his hand. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Are you gay?” I don’t even beat around the bush. I get right to the point because frankly, I’m just tired. Tired of it all.

He blinks a few times. “Gay? What do you mean? Like . . . happy?”

Jesus.

Christ.

“No, like gay. Do you like men?”

“They’re the best kind of friends. Girls are good friends too, but I really only have guy friends. They’re so chill and—”

“Do you like penis in your mouth?” I shout, wishing this man knew how to answer a simple question.

“Ohhh . . . I see what you’re asking here. Am I gay?”

“Yes,” I answer exasperated. “I didn’t think I needed to spell it out any other way. Are you?”

“Gay?” He shakes his head. “No.”

Well, that solves that. I spin on my heel and head back to my apartment, slamming the door behind me.

Back to square one.





“He’s secretly married for a green card.”

“Are you insane?” I ask Lindsay through the phone. “He’s from Chicago.”

“Or so you think he is. People will say pretty much anything to stay in the country. Bet you he has a green card marriage. Ask him.”

“I’m not asking him,” I say, biting on my bottom lip.

“Suit yourself.”





Knock. Knock.

I tap the ground impatiently, my arms crossed over my chest.

He answers the door, still in his apron and white hat.

“Two visits in one night, how did I become so—”

“Do you have a green card marriage?”

He scratches his unshaven scruff with his wooden spoon. “Huh, not that I know of.”

“Ugh,” I groan, walking back to my apartment and slamming the door.





“He’s a virgin.”