“Well, I approve of your choice.”
“Me too. Shall we eat?”
Oh—that reminded him. When they went back inside, Drew checked his bag. Fortunately the bottle of wine he’d brought hadn’t broken. “It’s probably not cold enough to drink.” He proffered the bottle for Steve’s inspection. “But we can have it for dessert, maybe.”
Steve had ditched the apron on a peg near the door. He took the bottle and raised his eyebrows at the label. So maybe Drew had wanted to impress him a little. So what? It had been a long time since he had a date to impress. “I’ll put it in the wine fridge.”
He led Drew through the kitchen to a sunny eating area, where the table was already set for two, with fancy-looking flatware and even two pillar candles, though they weren’t lit and Drew didn’t see a lighter. “The wine’s a bit much for barbecue. You want a beer?”
“God yes.”
What Drew really wanted was a kiss. It seemed ridiculous that Steve had invited him all the way out here and yet here Drew was, unkissed. It was cruel, honestly.
At least Steve had good taste in beer—and, it turned out, knew his way around a grill. Whether he could be trusted with potato salad remained to be seen. Drew dutifully scooped some onto his plate, but he held off on taking a bite. “Get much work done before I got here?”
Steve nodded and wiped his fingers with a paper towel. He had barbecue sauce halfway to his ear, which Drew found hopelessly endearing. “Most of the final act. I’m having a little bit of trouble working out what should happen next, but I should finish this weekend.” He paused and gestured at Drew’s plate. “There’s no dill in that, in case you’re wondering. Well, there is, but only in the dill pickles. Dina’s special recipe. I, um.” It was hard to tell because he’d gotten pink across the cheeks from the sun, but it looked like he was blushing. “I thought you might like it, so I asked her to make some before she left for the week.”
Well, now hereallywanted that kiss. But he’d wait until after dinner. “You didn’t have to do that.”
Steve lifted a shoulder. “I didn’t really do anything other than ask.”
None of Drew’s previous partners had bothered to pay attention to his paradoxical love of dill pickles. But he could thank Steve properly later.
If Steve let him.
OVERdinner Drew and Steve learned about each other. Steve had grown up in a small town in Washington; his dad, a writer, had died a few years before. He was an only child, which didn’t surprise Drew, and his nose was crooked because he’d gone skiing drunk while he was in college and hit a tree—which did.
“Two sisters,” Drew said. “Three and six years younger than me.” He winced a little, thinking about it. “It wasn’t easy on them and Dad when Mom packed up to move to LA with me. Sarah was nine; Brit was only six. And Mom was with me for nine years.” His dad had to deal with two girls going through puberty more or less by himself.
“That probably wasn’t fun for anyone.”
Drew took a pull of his beer and set it down, still thinking. “I don’t know. I don’t remember being particularly homesick. Part of it is that I was busy, and part of it is I was selfish; I was doing what I wanted to do. I didn’t really think about how me chasing my dream affected the rest of my family.”
Steve pushed his plate away and pulled a new paper towel off the roll. “You were young. It would’ve been easy to get tunnel vision. Don’t beat yourself up too much.”
“Thanks.” He shook his head. “It does make me think, though. I’ve been meaning for a while to take a break. Maybe I should go back home for a month or two, reconnect with everyone. Or not reconnect. Connect as adults for the first time.” Brit was graduating college next semester. And the last time Drew had spoken to his mother, she’d hinted that Sarah’s boyfriend might propose soon. He’d like to be on closer terms with her before her wedding.
“That sounds nice. I used to like going back to Washington to our place there, but Mom sold it last year.”
“What were you like when you were a kid? I mean, my childhood’s kind of available on Netflix.” Drew lifted a shoulder, feeling a bit awkward. He didn’t want to assume Steve had seen his movies, but Steve was only a few years older than he was. Chances were he was familiar with at least a few.
Fortunately Steve didn’t seem upset by Drew’s presumption. “Busy.” He shook his head. “Scouts, the school soccer team, a competitive league in the summer, school plays, writing competitions. I was lucky. My parents dropped everything to make sure I could do it all.”
More common ground. Drew smiled. “That’s so… normal. Did you always dream of coming to Hollywood?” And what had brought his parents—or at least his mother—here? He’d said his dad was a writer, but Drew didn’t recognize Steve’s last name from anywhere. Maybe he used a pseudonym.
“Maybe not always. But I always wanted to write. I think I wrote my first stage play when I was nine—I bossed my friends into performing it on the playground, but I’m not a very good director. I kept rewriting what they were supposed to be saying.”
God.“I bet you were adorable.”
Steve laughed. “That’s one word for it, sure.”
They finished eating and loaded the dishes into the dishwasher, then washed up so Steve could give a quick tour.
The backyard looked like any Beverly Hills backyard: beautiful pool, neat grass, privacy hedge, patio with built-in outdoor kitchen, sunshade. There was also a sunken spa tub next to a sliding door Drew assumed led to the master bedroom. Dog toys of every size, shape, and color littered the lawn, everything from a large squeaky pretend milk carton to something that looked like a Roomba with a bucket on top.
“iFetch,” Steve explained. Beside him, Rita perked up her ears, and she ran off to retrieve the nearest tennis ball. “Mom spoils her.”
Yeah, right, Drew thought as Rita returned to press the ball into Steve’s hand. She reminded him of Roxy; she was about the same size and had the same intelligent eyes and spring in her step. “I’m sure it’s all your mom’s doing.”
