---

Before he could register what was happening, Brandon was backed into the kitchen counter. The kiss came impassioned, almost urgent.  His hands scrabbled on the edge of the cool quartz as he moved to steady himself against the unexpected force. He could hear the soft thuds of tomatoes hitting the floor.  But before he had decided whether to resist or lean in, the lips pulled away, their owner shaking his head.  

“Damn,” his voice came hoarsely. He put a hand to his mouth, his eyes downcast.  His struggle was obvious.  He almost looked as though he had just been sucker punched and was fighting to steady himself. “I am so sorry, Brandon. That was incredibly inappropriate of me.”  He took a step back. 

For the next few moments, Brandon could only hear the sound of his own heaving breaths.  His lips were buzzing, and he could still feel traces of warmth from the hand that had cupped the back of his neck.  Moreover, his mind was reeling.  Was it possible that—for once—someone apparently wanted him in the same way he always seemed to secretly lust after other men?  The script, it seemed, had been flipped. 

He spoke again. “Can you…can you possibly forget that just happened?” His eyes were now closed. He looked pained—whether from embarrassment or restraint, Brandon wasn’t sure. 

But he knew what needed to happen. 

---

Anthony stepped off the boardwalk, his boots scratching and crackling through the twiggy undergrowth that bordered the path.  He held his cell phone aloft to record himself, but paused and turned back to Brandon, who was shakily leaning against the handrail.  Nothing had even happened yet, but he could already feel the preemptive lump in the back of his throat.  Anthony shot him a sympathetic look. 

“Hey—give yourself a break. This might be hard the first few times. Shit—” he winced. “Sorry. Maybe not the best way to put it.” When he grinned, Brandon felt a small laugh escape him. “But seriously.  If it’s too much, say the word. We’ll stop.”

Brandon shook his head and stared through the weave of gray tree limbs.  There was the faintest touch of a purple haze out there—a sea of swollen buds ready to unfurl with tender green life.  “I feel like a child,” he said bitterly. 

“Nah.” Anthony bent to tug on the adjuster strap on the side of his boot. The silver buckle caught the pale sky and flashed at his fingertips. “You feel vulnerable. And everyone experiences that. Not just kids. You’ll be fine.” He began to ease himself down the slope, wet leaves compacting beneath the toes of the hunters. “Now, enough gabbing. Get me some good b-roll.”  He glanced up and winked at Brandon as he tapped record on his phone. 

Brandon let out a shaky breath and trained his own phone screen on Anthony’s Hunters just as the ground began to yield beneath them. 

---

Kyle’s name flashed on the RAV’s touch screen. Brandon felt his eyebrows rise in surprise as he glanced at it.  He tapped the answer key just as he eased the car onto a gravel path. “Hey, Kyle. How’s it going?” He felt the stab of guilt that had become customary whenever Kyle entered his mind in the last several weeks.  He hadn’t actually seen him since the messy incident in the backyard.  But each time he came home to find the grass freshly mowed, or even when he simply glanced out his back bedroom window, which overlooked the grassy swath between the garage and the woodshed, he thought about how devious he had been to entrap the sexy-but-innocent landscaper.  

“Hi, Brandon.” It was the standard chipper tone—the same one he had used that day as his boot was sinking into the ground and he had assured Brandon that it was no problem, they were waterproof. Famous last words.  “Everything’s been good! Can’t complain, can’t complain.  Say, I haven’t caught you at a bad time, have I?”

A line of mature oak trees was slowly parading past the car.  Brandon peered between them, hoping to catch a glimpse of his destination. “No, not at all. I’m just in the car.  Everything okay?”

“Oh, sure, everything’s great. Hey—I won’t take up a lot of your time. I just wanted to know if you were going to be around this evening.”

Brandon was caught off guard by the question. He looked back at the touch screen as though there would be a transcript for him to read. “Uh, sure. I can be. Do you have a particular time in mind?”

“Well, I’ll be there to cut the grass in a little while. You’re my last job of the day, so…I guess I’ll be done by 6:00?”

Brandon saw a flash of white through the trees. That had to be it. “Okay, Kyle. I should definitely be there by then. I’m just running a few errands, but nothing that will keep me out that long.”  

“Sounds good.  Sounds good. Alright, man, then I’ll catch you later.”

Brandon signed off from the call just as the line of trees opened and a second gravel road split off to the left, cutting through a sloping field of yellowing corn.  Beyond, he could see a whitewashed barn.  It’s sagging Kelly green tin roof was topped by three louvered cupolas, the center one twice as large as the others.  It would have been idyllic had it not been for the lattice of orange scaffolding climbing up its fieldstone end wall.

He parked behind a glistening dark green behemoth of a pick-up truck.  Its doors were emblazoned with a logo that included that letters VRC and a stylized church steeple. Brandon grabbed his satchel and stepped out onto the dusty lane. No one was in sight.  An immaculate farmhouse stood a quarter mile further up the road, where it bent around in a circular drive. Though it was partially obscured from view by a grove of linden trees, he could make out a gracious porch elaborately ornamented with spindle-work and brackets.  Stately rows of tall windows framed with black shutters—the real kind—looked out over a massive spread of farmland. It made Anthony’s house, much improved though it was, look like a settler’s hut.

He followed the drone of machinery around the towers of scaffolding to the back of the barn.  Here was your traditional barnyard.  A paved surface ran along the length of the structure, onto which opened various doors and windows from a stone wall set back from the main floor above.  In the center of the yard was a lift.  On it, Sam stood pressure washing the rafters in the overhang. At least, he assumed it was Sam—difficult to be sure as he was wearing protective eyewear and a helmet.  But this was where Brandon had been told to meet him and nobody else seemed to be around, so…

Brandon knew he couldn’t compete with the roar of the compressor, so he stood with his elbows hanging over the enclosure fence and waited for a break in the action to announce his arrival. He satisfied himself with watching the rhythmic, hypnotic-like sway of Sam’s body as he guided the wand in small switchbacks along a beam, so much so that he nearly forgot to call up to him when the motor cut with a hiss.  Sam turned and waved to Brandon over the lift’s rail before beginning his descent into the bepuddled yard.  When the bucket had lowered to the pavement, he unlatched the small safety gate and hopped down, revealing to Brandon the royal blue and black rubber boots climbing his legs. Brandon all but moaned as Sam crossed to him, his white-rimmed rubber soles flashing like a pair of sinister grins against the wet surface.  This was an inconvenient twist to their rendezvous. 

“Hey, Brandon—looks like you found me!” Sam pulled the nitrile coated gauntlets from his hands and swept the hard hat off his head, running a hand through his hair as he drew up the fence. It was all Brandon could do not to stare.  Though they had only met a few times, Sam had always put together in that rugged coffee shop kind of sophistication. It was a much different aesthetic from—say—Anthony’s boyish tendency toward faded graphic t-shirts and frayed cargo pants. But if Brandon found the tailored jeans and Untuckit shirts sexy, the look he sported now was just plain hot.  His waxed utility overalls shimmered with tiny droplets of water, cinching tightly at his waist and accentuating the v of his torso. The arms of his dry-fit shirt strained over his caramel arms, which he now hung over the top rail as Brandon had done. Their elbows were practically touching. 

“Sure did. God, this is just beautiful,” Brandon replied, though—let’s face it—he didn’t so much mean the farm.  Sam nodded and turned back toward the barn, giving him a chance to ogle his boots. 

“Isn’t she gorgeous, though?” he agreed. Brandon nodded at the left boot, which he had rested on the bottom rail of the fence.  The forefoot was blue rubber with a black toe cap, but the shaft was a sleeve of shiny black neoprene. “Pelagic” proclaimed a white label at Sam’s calf. Brandon made a mental note to look it up later. “Built in 1842,” Sam had continued, “but numerous additions and improvements have happened since then.”  He turned back to Brandon, who had quickly re-established eye contact. 

“How do you know what to restore then? If it’s a patchwork of eras, I mean.”

The wet sole of Sam’s boot squealed against the rail as he flexed his foot and looked thoughtfully at him for a moment. Brandon resisted the urge to glance down. 

“That’s a very insightful question.  Not many people understand that dilemma.  But in this case, we are fortunate to not have to deal with that—this isn’t a restoration. It’s a conservation. 

“I see.  And how is it going so far?”

Sam smiled again and rested his chin on his arm. “Slow, but I won’t bore you with details.  I’m sure driving all the way out here to drop off some paperwork was enough of a waste of your time.”

Brandon waved off the comment as he reached into his satchel and drew out an envelope. “Not a problem at all.  It’s the least I could do after everything you did to get me into Prescott.”

“Good tenants are always worth it,” Sam replied, heaving open a gate and coming around to Brandon’s side. “At least that’s what my dad always said.”

“Well, I hope I can live up to being considered one of those.” He presented the envelope.  “One insurance policy. I’m think you’ll find it’s all in order.”

Sam raised it briefly as if toasting, then motioned for him to follow as he walked past. “Let me put this right in the truck. Walk with me—I’ve got something.”  Brandon gladly took up a stride immediately behind the boots.  He stared hypnotically at the alternating glimpses of white honeycomb treads as Sam plodded up the rise next to the barn. “You know why this style of barn is so popular around here—the overhang, that is?”

“Why is that?”

“It’s oriented to take advantage of the changing angle of the sun.  In summer, when it’s high in the sky, the overhang casts shade into the pens below. But in winter, the lower angle allows for light to pass into the windows and to hit and warm the fieldstone walls, which radiate the heat back through the night.”

“That’s pretty neat.” Brandon stared up at the scaffolding and the air slitted masonry wall behind it.  “I wonder if anyone puts that much thought into designing buildings anymore.”

Sam glanced around at him. “Sure they do. They just don’t have to solve the same kinds of problems.”  They approached the truck. 

“So you work alone?” Brandon queried as Sam opened the door and tucked the envelope into a compartment on the inside panel. 

“Today I do. I try to spread my guys around as much as possible. A little trick I learned: people are much more patient with jobs that draw out than they are with jobs that aren’t even started. I’m a small outfit, so I start as many jobs as I can.” He winked with a grin, then turned to rummage in the cab for something.