Page 22 of The Build-a-Boyfriend Project

Again.

“Oh, God . . .” Peter reaches for the napkins once again, this time picking up the entire dispenser with the force of his pull, leaving it to fall over on the table.

There are more than a few eyes focused on the both of them now, which only seems to make Peter more nervous as he attempts to clean up the table, handing more napkins to Eli. “I didn’t mean for that to happen,” he says, the panic clear and present in his voice.

“Well, I’d be more worried if you did mean it,” Eli tells him, taking the napkins from Peter and mopping up.

“God, I’m sorry.” Peter ducks under the table, picking up the empty soup bowl and doing his best to pile the napkins onto Eli’s lap, not even paying attention to how he palms Eli’s crotch in an effort to clean up the disaster.

“Whoa there, cowboy!” Eli recoils from the sudden touch.

“Oh, God!” Peter shoots up, his head colliding with the underside of the table. “Crap! Ow!”

“Are you okay?” Eli can’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. And hearing a grown man say the word crap. He can’t remember the last time he heard that out loud.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine, I didn’t mean to— Jesus.”

“Peter?” Eli peers under the table, and Peter refuses to look back at him.

“Yeah?” His voice sounds so quiet, like he’s ashamed.

“Please get out from under there,” Eli pleads.

Looking like a child caught in a fib, Peter crawls out and sits back in his spot. His hair is mussed and out of place, his cheeks burning a bright red. And yet there’s still something so intriguing about him.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” Eli tells him, leaving the stained napkins on the table. “I’ll try and clean up.”

“Okay.” Peter still won’t meet his gaze.

Eli stands, grateful that the soup was room temperature. In the bathroom mirror, he can see that the sweater is fine, and after some scrubbing with soap and water, his pants are okay, even if it looks like he’s wet himself if he stands in the wrong light.

His shoes, however? They’re done for.

The orange spray of the soup has colored them, leaving stains with no hope of coming out. Eli knew the risks of buying all-white shoes and wearing them pretty much anywhere.

He just had to listen to Patricia.

When he steps back out into the restaurant, he takes a moment to spy on Peter, still sitting there. His hands cover his face, but the way his shoulders are slumped tells Eli everything he needs to know.

He wants to end it here, go back home, hang out with Patricia and Rose and watch a terrible movie. But there’s something that tugs at his heart when he looks at Peter. It was an accident, after all. And the shock of the groping was enough to pull him free of any lingering drunkenness that his food hadn’t solved.

He sees Peter’s phone light up again, this time with a message that he can reply to easily via text versus a full phone call. He types for a bit before he lets the phone fall to the table with a clack, raking his hands along his hair and letting out an exasperated, and clearly frustrated, huff.

“Okay, I’m back,” Eli says, scooting into the booth, noticing that Peter asked the waitress for a cloth to clean things up himself.

“I’m so sorry, Eli. I can . . . pay for your dry cleaning or something.” There’s a desperation to Peter’s voice that almost makes Eli feel like the guilty party.

“It’s fine, Peter. Just forget that it happened.”

“I—” Eli can almost hear the second “I’m sorry” on his tongue before he gives Peter a look, and Peter closes his mouth.

“We have the spicy pork.” The waitress sets down the sizzling cast-iron plate in front of Peter. “And your rice. Careful, they’re both hot.”

“Thank you.” Peter nods.

“Let’s hope that doesn’t end up in my lap next.” Eli chuckles.

The waitress laughs, taking some of the empty dishes, but Peter just stares at Eli.