Page 91 of The Build-a-Boyfriend Project

Eli hates this, how quickly things have turned awkward. And any attempt he can think of to make things a little easier seems like the wrong move.

“How is your project going? At work.”

“It’s okay,” Peter tells him, still not meeting Eli’s eyes. “We’re behind—my supervisor wants these tests done by February, which wouldn’t be a problem except we have six hundred to run and they each take thirty minutes, and so far, none of them are going well, so . . . we’re already behind.”

“Yikes . . .”

“What about you?”

“Oh, you know. Getting coffee, making copies, going to meetings, resisting the urge to climb up to the roof and throw myself off the building.”

“So, usual stuff?”

Eli cackles. “Pretty much.”

Peter hums, focusing on his hands, clasped together. “I’m sorry,” he says. “For being so distant.”

“It’s okay,” Eli reassures him. “I owe you just as much of an apology. We’ve both been busy with work.”

“It’s that, and . . . I don’t know, I think I was worried that you wouldn’t want to see me after that whole thing at the lounge.”

“Oh, that? Please, Peter. You’re by no means the first drunken person I’ve ever had to take care of. Before I met you, I was spending my Friday nights wrestling bottles of pinot away from Rose.”

Peter laughs at that, and Eli lets his guard down under the familiar sound.

“Besides, it was at least ninety-five percent my fault,” he teases.

Eli dares to reach over, closing the distance between him and Peter. He almost risks going further than putting his hand on top of Peter’s where it rests on the edge of the bench, but he stops himself.

“It’s all right, I promise you,” Eli says.

Peter smiles, and Eli melts, the warmth almost enough to negate the gust of wind that blows in through the open door.

“You okay?” Peter asks as Eli takes his hand back, tucking his arms under his armpits.

“I’m fine, I just always get cold. It probably doesn’t help that I bought this sweater from Spirit Halloween.” So it’s basically paper-thin.

“Yeah, you have cold hands.”

“Well, excuse me!” Eli feigns offense. “Not all of us are born with iron-rich bodies.”

“Maybe if you ate more spinach,” Peter teases him.

“Fine, make fun of me in my time of need,” Eli whines. “I’ll just sit here, brave enough to keep you company while I freeze to death.”

“I didn’t say you had to stay,” Peter says.

“But you know you’d rather have me here.”

Peter doesn’t say anything, but the smile on his face is enough of a reply as he leans over to his other laundry bag where Eli’s guessing he’s stashed his clean whites because he hands a few T-shirts to Eli to hold while he digs.

“Here.” He takes the shirts back and gives Eli a gray hoodie, still warm from the dryer.

It’s cold enough that Eli can’t even pretend to turn it down, slipping his arms through the sleeves easily. “Thank you.”

“You should layer more,” Peter says, pulling the drawstring on his bag closed. “You’ll catch a cold.”

“You sound like my mother.”