“Leaving so soon?”
“I have many miles to ride before dawn.” Though he said it like a statement, a sorrow colored his words. As though he regretted the miles, or perhaps, the distance.
In a rush of movement, Garek donned his coat and cowl, tromping for the door. Tomasz stayed behind the bar, gripping his cup for fear of the thoughts rushing through his mind. That Garek would walk into the night and leave him behind. That his travels would take him to different roads and different taverns. That they already had, and this odd conversation would be forgotten by morning. ThatTomaszwould be forgotten by morning, little more than a passing blip in Garek’s life.
He stepped onto the rubble in the door, one large hand gripping the threshold, and the odd fear of never seeing Garek again drew forth a question.
“Why have you never come in before?”
Garek froze. Leather creaked, and wood groaned as he gripped the frame and turned his head. “You were never open, before, to invite me in.”
And with that, he stepped into the winter night and vanished.
Three
Garek arrived the next night on the back of a winter gale.
The winds had screamed through the day, keeping Tomasz well away from the door. Instead, he warmed by the fire with a book and a mug of tea, telling himself he was not waiting for Garek to appear. That would be sad and silly. Too hopeful a pastime for a bartender at a crossroads tavern.
Solitude was the nature of his work, and while it was not the life he would have chosen, he was as good at managing the long, lonely hours as he was at donning a friendly smile and keeping track of faces and names.
When the storms did not keep the villagers away, they came by frequently and stayed for hours. And while Tomasz had lived alone these last ten years, he was not lonely. Not with Oj Pavel, Fenra, her wolf, and the travelers wandering through his front door.
So, when the ice and snow kept the road empty, he told himself it was not silly to sit and wait for one traveler when none crossed his threshold, even as he sat with his chair angled so that when Garek arrived, his dark-clothed mass forming out of the shadows and wind and snow, Tomasz saw him immediately.
“Come in!” He jumped up, spilling the blanket from his knees. “Please, come in. I’ve made soup.”
Garek hesitated halfway through the door. “You made soup?”
“Perhaps ‘made’ is an exaggeration.” Tomasz grinned, knowing the lop-sided smile made him look boyish and young. Enough passing men with his tastes had told him so before showing him how much they enjoyed it. “It is a hunter’s pot, though I did tend the flame.”
Garek hung his scarf on a peg. The cowl followed, and the wry expression he wore thrummed something sweet in Tomasz’s chest. A thrum that grew when Garek’s riding coat filled the third peg.
“I wonder … is it the food that draws customers to your tavern?” Garek said. He rolled his shirtsleeves as he strode across the tavern. Tomasz’s eyes fell and stayed fixed on muscular forearms dusted in dark hair. “The gorza? Or you.”
“Well, you have already sampled the gorza,” he replied, unsure if he imagined the light, teasing tone in Garek’s voice.
“I have.”
He stopped in front of Tomasz, a light in his eyes that had not been there the night before. This close, the scent of oiled riding leathers and crisp winter wind teased Tomasz’s nose, stirring the desire to draw even nearer. To follow Garek when he crossed over the threshold and disappeared into the night.
Without breaking his gaze away, Garek bent and stirred the pot, removing the wooden spoon and bringing it to his mouth. He flicked his tongue out, testing the heat, and then sampled the soup properly. Red lips closed over the spoon. His eyes fluttered closed, and the deep, satisfied sound that left him punched Tomasz in the gut.
It had been months since a man with Tomasz’s preferences had visited the tavern. Months since he had been held in burly arms or had thick, strong fingers tug his hair.
And in that low, hungry sound, months of ignored desire and need came roaring to life.
Tomasz swayed toward Garek, drawn to him like a beacon in the night. No traveler had ever visited three nights in a row, and the desire to know why Garek returned was as strong as the desire to know his touch.
“And now I have sampled the soup.” Garek opened his eyes, that arresting gaze taking in Tomasz’s nearness. The wry smile reappeared, showing not the least bit of surprise. “Perhaps I should sample what else this tavern has to offer.”
Tomasz licked his lips. “Perhaps.”
The spoon clattered against the side of the pot. Garek raised his hand, hovering it beside Tomasz’s cheek. The fine hairs along his jaw raised, seeking the other man’s touch like a flower seeks the sun.
“I worried you would not be here tonight.” Garek’s voice rasped between them.
“Where else would I be?”