Too Soon For Love (4 page)

What did he expect to happen with Michael Stricker? Even if Michael reciprocated his attraction, and there was certainly no indication that he did, with his partner so recently dead, he wouldn’t be in the market for a new lover or even a fling. So what was he doing?

Too bad he couldn’t fast forward a year or even two to when Michael’s heart would have recovered enough to feel … well, something.

As it was, Alan would have to satisfy himself with simply being a friend and doing a good deed. So nothing had changed there.

But oh, if Michael knew how often, and in what detail Alan thought of him, how he’d done so ever since the first time he’d seen Michael standing in Phillip’s hospital room, he might not have been so ready to invite Alan into his home or his life, even as a friend.

✧ ✦ ✧

Phillip Di Martino lay in his hospital bed, a large man, his figure utterly still under the sheet save for the steady rise and fall of his chest and the occasional flutter of his eyelids as he slept. Or just one eyelid really. Seeing him from the doorway, anyone might have thought he was sleeping, until you came closer and got a good look at his face, the way the right side of the mouth drooped, the odd way the eyelid hovered at half-mast, the stillness. Even someone with no medical background could tell that the man in the bed had suffered a stroke.

Alan checked the chart, verifying the last time the vitals
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had been taken. This was his routine, what he always did at the beginning of his shift. It didn’t matter that, as a nurse’s assistant hired by the family, he couldn’t do any actual nursing care, not on his own. He still liked to know the status of his patient, especially when that patient was incapable of reporting on his own condition.

This particular patient had suffered a stroke nearly a week ago while at a conference in Chicago. Like so many stroke victims, Phillip had not gotten to the ER in time to be treated with the miraculous clot-busting drugs that could possibly have saved him from all or part of what he now endured. Brought back to Philadelphia by air ambulance, he now lay in a half-conscious state, unable to speak or swallow, the right side of his body paralyzed.

Alan had just replaced the chart when the door to the adjoining bathroom opened. He turned, ready to question whoever was still here. It was well after visiting hours and everyone should be gone. But the challenge died on his lips, and he caught his breath.

The most stunning man Alan had ever seen stood framed in the doorway, his dark hair tied back in a messy tail, his jaw shadowed with at least two days beard stubble. His clothes looked like he’d slept in them and there was a large dark stain on the front of his shirt.

Still, he was gorgeous. Shorter than Alan by a few inches and younger by maybe five or six years, he wore faded jeans and a dark sweat-shirt with a picture of a moose on the front. The moose wore sneakers and held a can of beer.

The image made Alan smile.

“Who are you?” the man asked, or demanded might be more like it.

“I’m Alan Stuart, the—”

“Oh, the nurse. Or you’re not really a nurse, are you? More of a babysitter.” His lips formed a flat, disapproving line.

“I’m a certified nurse’s assistant. And you are?”

“I’m Michael Stricker. Phillip is my partner.”

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“Oh, Ross mentioned you.”

“Did he?” The man took a step in the direction of the bed.

He moved tentatively, reaching out a hand and touching the footboard before he stepped around to the opposite side where the chair had been. Alan had moved it when he arrived, assuming, incorrectly it seemed, that whoever had been here was now gone.

Phillip’s partner was blind, Alan realized. Ross hadn’t mentioned that.

“Can I help you?” Alan asked.

“No.” Michael groped around with his foot then reached out.

“What happened to the chair?”

“I moved it. I didn’t know—”

Michael rounded on him. “Look, you have no business coming in here and moving shit around. We don’t need a goddamn minder. I told Ross—”

“I’m sorry,” Alan said, ignoring the man’s tirade and concentrating instead on the issue of the chair. “It’s right over here. Let me—”

“No. Just fucking listen, will you? I told Ross not to hire you, that I didn’t want you. Now I’m telling you. I’m not leaving. I don’t care if we’re paying you to sit here all night. I’m not going anywhere.”

Christ, Alan thought, the guy looked awful, like he might fall down at any moment. Lines of strain were etched deep around his mouth and, though his eyes were hidden behind dark glasses, he’d bet that if he took the glasses off, the eyes would be bruised with fatigue and worry.

“I can’t make you leave.”

“Damn straight you can’t.” Michael found the chair with his foot, hooked it and dragged it back to the bedside. He sank onto it with a sigh then reached through the rails and took his partner’s hand in his. He held it gently, his thumb rubbing small circles on the back of Phillip’s hand.

Alan walked to the chair in the corner and sat down. He had
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no clue what Michael Stricker’s problem was, but he wished to hell that Ross had given him a heads-up with regard to Phillip Di Martino’s partner. The guy was clearly spoiling for a fight. Well, he wasn’t getting it here, that was for sure.

Alan picked up the book he’d brought but didn’t open it.

Instead he watched the man seated by the bed.

Several minutes passed in silence.

“Are you just going to sit there all night?” Michael demanded.

“That’s what I’m being paid for,” Alan replied.

“Yeah, well.” Michael snorted. It was a derisive sound that made plain what he thought of that. After a moment he said, “I like to talk to him. The doctor says he might not be able to hear me, but I think he can.”

“I think so too. In any case, it can’t hurt.”

“I just want him to know I’m here, that he’s not all alone.”

And what was he, chopped liver?

“He’s not alone. I’m here.”

Michael said nothing, yet his silence and his expression spoke volumes.

Alan tried again. “It’s good for him to have company. But it must be rough, staying here all night, then getting up and going to work.”

“I don’t go to work, not in the way you mean. And even if I did, I wouldn’t leave Phillip. I won’t, not until I know …”

Michael’s words trailed off.

“Not until you know what?”

Michael didn’t answer, just shook his head.

Silence fell once more. It filled the room like a fourth presence.

Alan opened his book and tried to read but without much success. His gaze slid down the page, the lines running together, the words meaningless.

Michael began to murmur.

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Alan closed his book and looked up. “Excuse me?”

“I’m not talking to you.”

Alan bit back the urge to ask the man what the hell his problem was. But doing that would give his rudeness too much validity. Instead he simply said, “Oh, sorry. I thought you were.”

✧ ✦ ✧

And that was how they had passed their first night together, the three of them.

Alan grinned to himself at the odd turn of phrase, but it had been the first of many nights he’d spent with Michael Stricker, the two of them sitting by Phillip’s bed, Michael holding his lover’s hand. Thankfully over time Michael’s hostility had diminished and eventually they had begun to talk. Not much, because Michael spoke mostly to Phillip, but some. And gradually Alan had found himself looking forward more and more to these quiet evenings with Michael and his partner.

When Alan reached Guy and Rosie’s house, a sprawling rancher situated on several acres of land, he didn’t bother to knock or ring the bell. His oldest friend and former college roommate was just as likely to be in the dog kennel as anywhere else, so Alan simply let himself in.

Guy Tremane and his wife of fifteen years bred and trained service dogs for people with disabilities. It was a tough business, Alan knew, that kept both Guy and Rosie on their toes. They also had three very active kids ranging in ages from twelve to two.

Between the dogs and the kids, he didn’t know how they did it.

The homey fragrance of simmering red sauce greeted him along with the soaring vocals of some soprano he couldn’t have named if someone had held a gun to his head.

He followed the music and the aromas through to the kitchen.

He found Guy’s wife, Rosie, sprinkling shredded mozzarella atop a large casserole, and humming along with the music.

“Mmm, lasagna. My absolute favorite.” Alan slipped an arm around her waist and brushed a light kiss over her dark hair.

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“When you finally get sick of your old man, why don’t you blow this joint and move in with me. I’ll treat you much better than he ever did.”

She laughed and, finishing with the cheese, wiped her hands on a dish towel. “If you weren’t gay, I might take you up on that.”

She turned and hugged him. “It’s good to see you, Alan. It’s been a while.”

“I know.” And he was sorry for it. Guy and Rosie were two of his favorite people. “If you didn’t live all the way out in Sticksville, I might get to visit more often.”

“We couldn’t have the dogs if we lived anywhere else.” She covered the casserole with foil and hefted it. “You’ll have to go see the new kennel after we eat. I haven’t seen Guy so proud since Joey was born.”

“I’d like that.”

Joey was their youngest, a blond, blue-eyed toddler with more energy than a pack of wild dogs.

“Anything I can do to help?”

“Nope.” She carried the dish to the stove and set it down.

“Or actually yes, there is. See that bottle of red wine over on the other counter? You could open it and pour us both a glass while I get this in the oven. Then we can have a visit and you can tell me all about your love life.”

“I can do that. Though I’m afraid there’s not much to tell on the love life front.”

He noticed the way she moved around her kitchen, the confidence and ease she exhibited. Never before had he given much thought to her blindness. Rosie was just Rosie. But ever since meeting Michael and seeing how Phillip’s family treated him, Alan couldn’t help comparing the only two totally blind people he knew. He suspected that anyone who dared to question Rosie’s ability to take care of herself and her family would get a serious dressing down, if they were lucky, and a foot in their backside if they weren’t.

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He spotted the bottle of cabernet on the counter next to the sink, the cork-screw lying beside it. He walked over to it and, as at home in her kitchen as he was in his own, took a knife from the silverware drawer, slit the foil around the top of the bottle and set the cork-screw in place.

“What happened with that architect you were seeing?” The oven timer beeped as Rosie set it to time the lasagna.

“It just didn’t work out.”

“How didn’t it work out? I thought you really liked him.”

He grinned to himself. Even in college she had never been shy about asking for detail, excruciating amounts of detail about the guys he dated. “He was nice, but we just wanted different things.”

“Hmm.” She changed the subject. “Guy should be in in a minute.”

Thank you, God
. He really did not want to talk about his and Terry’s break-up. If you could even call it that. After three months of dating, and some very decent sex, the affair had simply faded from, he supposed, lack of attention. And the pathetic part was, Alan couldn’t even bring himself to care all that much. Oh, sure, he’d missed the sex and the companionship, but the two of them really hadn’t had all that much in common. For a moment he was tempted to tell her about Michael. But what was there to tell?

“Hey, Rosie, I went to a funeral last week just so I could see this guy who
looks sort of like a rock-star. The only problem is that it was his partner’s
funeral and I don’t think he’s quite ready to fall into bed with me yet. What
do you think?”

Oh, yeah, he could just imagine how that conversation would go. Instead, he steered the talk on to a much safer topic. Still, on some level, he wondered what she would say.

“Where is Guy anyway? With the dogs?” Alan poured the wine. He held out the glass. “Here’s your wine.”

She nodded. “Taking care of the evening feeding.” She accepted the glass he held out to her. Sipped and hummed her
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approval. “You’re taking Oscar tonight, right?”

“That’s the plan.” He sampled his wine. “I’m still not sure how you two talked me into becoming a puppy raiser.”

“We’re good.” She laughed. “Besides, you love animals. You’ll make a terrific puppy raiser. Not that Oscar’s all that much of a puppy anymore.”

“I don’t know. Discipline’s never been my strong suit.”

“You’ll do fine.” She sobered. “You’re doing us a huge favor, taking him. When Patty brought him back, she was literally in tears over having to leave him.”

“Patty was the woman who was raising him?”

Rosalyn nodded. “She’s having some pretty serious marital issues, I think, and just can’t deal with everything else and raising a rambunctious puppy too.”

“I may not want to give him back when the time comes.” He made it sound like a joke, but what he was afraid of was that he was going to get attached. He’d seen those puppies when they were first born, and very nearly lost his heart then.

She chuckled. “Getting too attached is one of the biggest risks in this business.” With a sigh she sipped from her glass.

“There are just some dogs you don’t want to let go. But they all go to good homes. Or at least we believe they’re good homes.”

The back door opened and her husband came in on a gust of freezing wind, a dog at his heels.

“Hey, look what the cat dragged in.” Guy snapped his fingers and pointed. “Oscar, no. Sit.”

But the yellow Labrador puppy had already spotted the new and very interesting visitor and was halfway across the kitchen before Guy got the command out. He skidded to a stop, big feet scrambling on the tile, and glanced back at Guy before plopping his butt down. He sat, though clearly from the way he trembled all over with suppressed excitement it took every ounce of training and will-power to manage it.