smiled with warm affection and left.

Shawn sat.

Ryan remembered high school too well. Any teacher with Shawn’s mannerisms would be teased mercilessly. Unless he was different in a restaurant than in front of a classroom. But Rachel hadn’t seemed at all surprised by how odd he was. Which meant that she remembered him being exactly this way, and was fond of him for it. Students loved him? Well, he was obviously gorgeous, and teenaged girls were bound to notice that. Still, that hadn’t been lust in her eyes.

Maybe the students at Kenfield High found Shawn as endearing as Ryan did. Already Ryan felt protective; it was clear that Shawn was nervous, and he wanted to ease that agitation.

The waitress brought over their drinks. “Your meals will be up in just a minute,” she said, and left them alone.

Ryan watched Shawn add a packet of sugar to his Coke.

“Why do you like to style people’s hair?” Shawn asked with a blink of eye contact.

“I’m good at it,” Ryan said. “People feel good about themselves when they look good, and they get excited about a new haircut. I like making them feel good.” He picked the wrapper from his straw. “I started out helping my sister braid her friends’ hair and it grew from there.”

“Here you go.” The waitress set plates down in front of them. “Can I get you anything else?”

“No, thanks,” Ryan said, and she walked off. He poured ketchup over his fries, watching Shawn cut each strip of chicken into three bites. What could they talk about now? Should he bring up TV shows again? “Do you have other interests?” he asked. “Hobbies?”

“Chairs,” Shawn said. “I paint chairs.”

Ryan couldn’t have predicted that answer. “You mean you paint wooden chairs, or you paint pictures of chairs?” he asked.

“I paint wooden chairs,” Shawn said, mashing butter and sour cream into his potato with his fork. “Rail-backed wooden chairs. Sometimes rocking chairs. Any color I want. Sometimes several colors at the same time. Sometimes I do benches.”

“Do you sell them?” Ryan asked.

“No,” Shawn said. “They’re in my basement. I give them away, but I have more chairs than I have friends.” Flicker of eye contact. “You can have one, if you want one.”

“I’d love one,” Ryan said, before he realized that he was going to say it. Then he thought about it. Actually, he kind of did want one. He wondered if he could fit a bench into his apartment. “How did you get started doing that?”

“My grandfather was a carpenter. I helped him to varnish.”

Ryan pictured Shawn kneeling on a drop cloth, painting a chair. Wearing paint-splattered overalls, and nothing else. His mind helpfully inserted himself into the fantasy; he crouched down behind Shawn, and Shawn turned into his embrace…

Ryan was mentally enjoying post-orgasm languor and running his fingers through Shawn’s now-tousled hair, when he realized that their food was disappearing and neither one of them had spoken for several minutes. Hastily, he searched for something to say. Nothing came to mind.

“I’m sorry,” Shawn said. Thumb to temple. “I’m not very good with people.” Flash of blue eyes looking up through blond lashes. “I’ll pay for dinner.”

“No,” Ryan said quickly. He didn’t want Shawn to think that their date had been a