Napkins and Other Distractions

by M. A, Wardell

Genres: Contemporary Romance; Workplace Romance

Synopsis

This steamy romance follows two men that find themselves working together after a one-night stand—and explores the balance between career and relationships while also dealing with mental health issues—perfect for fans of Casey McQuiston and Anita Kelly.

On paper, they're a disaster. In the sheets, they're a perfect match.
​​
Kent Lester is proud of the joyful, thriving learning community he's created as principal of Lear Elementary School. But six years after his divorce, he's ready to focus on his personal life and spread his bisexual wings. Things get off to a rocky start when Kent's first date is an uptight control freak — although that doesn't stop them tangling some sheets.​

Vincent Manda never seems able to move past the friend zone, and besides, he's not sure anyone can handle his OCD. But that night with the bearded, older Kent revealed a side of Vincent he'd never experienced before. And he's equal parts scared of and desperate for a repeat.​

When Lear's test scores take a nosedive, Kent finds himself under the microscope. Forced to implement new software to monitor and collect school data, he's horrified to discover that Vincent is working on the project. With his last install ending less than ideally, Vincent's job depends on this one succeeding — and butting heads with the principal won't help. Vincent and Kent need to view each other in a new light, but that could change their futures forever.

 

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 320

Sample

The pristine napkins stacked neatly on the table emit a fresh linen scent. Clean and pressed. I adjust the top one, and the soft cloth soothes my fingers as I ensure it’s lined up with the one below. With each gentle nudge, the pile inches closer to perfection. Staring at the edges, my brain turns. Are they exact? Could I assemble them more precisely? My head tilts down, the familiar tunnel emerging, but thankfully, I’m interrupted.

“Vincent?”

The welcome distraction comes from a white man I’m assuming is my date. Make that hoping. I’d guess him to be about six feet, with silver hair and a beard to match. Way better looking in person than his profile pic, he’s giving me Santa’s-younger-brother vibes, and maybe he’s my early Christmas present. He’s wearing a light blue button-down shirt, and half of the front flaps loose from his khaki pants. I’ve heard about this trend: the French tuck. You can paint it any way you like. It’s unkempt. There’s something on the front of his pants. They almost look … frayed. But the smile on his full face, all cheeks, and maybe a dimple hiding under that scruff instantly warms my heart. His deep brown eyes shine behind red glasses, and a small smile forms on my face. One of his shoelaces dangles undone; it might be knotted, and I suddenly realize my date is more than frazzled.

“Kent?”

“Yes, it’s me. Kent. I’m him. Me. Kent Lester, I mean. Gosh, I’m so sorry I’m late,” he says, shimmying out of his long dark coat and slinging it over the chair. He misses his target, and it thuds onto the dirty floor, the buttons clacking sharply against the wood.

I stand and put my hand out for a shake, and Kent takes it and pulls me into the biggest, warmest bear hug. The faint smell of a campfire wraps me in coziness as his arms gather my inch-shorter-than-his frame. The closeness tingles my skin, and I breathe in his toastiness, attempting to use my senses to shoo the uncomfortableness away.

“There you are,” he whispers into my ear. His breath dances onto my neck, sending a shiver up my spine. “I’m a hugger.”

I am most definitely not. Especially with strangers, but it’s fine. I’m fine. Everything’s fine. I came last week for a dry run with Marvin Block, cute kindergarten teacher, reigning Teacher of the Year (his words, not mine), and current close friend. We first met at this very table almost a year ago. It was a classic Vincent-one-and-done date setup by SWISH.

When I first read SWISH was “a groundbreaking queer dating app that promotes inclusivity by enabling users to chat and meet people who are looking for anything from casual friendships to serious relationships,” I took the bait. While Marvin may not have been “the one,” he kept his promise to stay in touch and we’ve developed a genuine friendship. In that regard, SWISH delivered on its promise. I’ve even been back to The Purple Giraffe with Marvin and his fiancé, Olan. Between the first time and now—many other unsuccessful dates, the two times I’ve come alone, and last week’s dry run—I’ve been here exactly twelve times. Which makes tonight’s date lucky … oh fuck.

“I hope that’s okay,” Kent says, pulling out of the embrace, but still clutching my elbows.

“Sure, yeah, I love a friendly hug,” I fib. My skin prickles under my shirt, where his fingers still make contact. I find his eyes and they sparkle with kindness. A simple glance and he’s somehow settling me. With a deep exhale, I offer a small smile and attempt to appear like a person this man might find acceptable to date. At least once. Dinner. Tonight.

After the last few SWISH matches crashed and burned, Marvin suggested we have a “mock date” here so he could offer some tips to tweak my game. It’s not my fault Jason (date five) never stopped talking, even with a full mouth. Crumbs shot across the table at me like a personal meteor shower. And then there was Mark (date eight), who took one look at my bald head and asked if I’d ever considered a hair transplant. When I didn’t answer, he asked if I wanted the number of his toupee guy.

Marvin offered suggestions on managing my OCD, starting conversations, and body language, and I’m ready to implement them all. Stay open. Listen to your heart. Be brave. Take a leap for love. That, plus his encouragement to talk with my doctor about changing my medication, and I’ve been doing much better. Marvin is a sweetheart. He wants me to be happy.

As I take refuge in my chair, Kent, never breaking eye contact, attempts to sit, but slips on his coat, still sprawled on the floor, and almost falls off his seat.

“Are you okay?” I quickly move to assist.

“Fine. Sorry,” he stammers, catching himself on the table, “I’m a bit disoriented, is all.”

“Take a breath. There’s nothing to be anxious about,” I offer—Marvin’s advice to me now attempts to soothe my date as I neatly fold and hang his coat on the back of his chair.

“Oh, I’m not nervous about, about, you. Us. This.” Kent motions erratically to the table and the small votive flickers in fear. “It’s Sweetums. My cat. He gets medication, and well, have you ever tried to pill a cat?”

“I have not.”

“It’s a bit like trying to cram a bowling ball into your pocket,” he says and lets out a loud guffaw that startles the people at the next table. “Anyway, that’s why I’m late. And, well, a bit of a mess.”

“You’re fine. I was only here a few minutes.”

Kent’s eyes fall on mine, and his smile returns. The whiskers in his beard prickle, but there’s nothing dodgy about him.

“Thank you. Honestly, sometimes I wonder who’s in charge, me or the damn cat.”

“Is he sick?” I ask, attempting to calm Kent and get our date moving along.

“Oh no. It’s for his nerves.”

“You have a nervous cat?”

“Apparently. Technically, it’s his tummy that’s nervous, and the medicine helps.” He indicates the splotch and scratches on his pants. “Me cramming it down his throat every other day, not so much.”

“Well, you’re here now. And looking exactly like your profile pic on SWISH, I might add. I can’t say that about most guys.”

“Really? I mean”—Kent runs his hands through his thick wavy hair—“Thank you. I mean you, you …” He cocks his head.

“Shaved.”

“Yes, that’s it.” He nods approvingly, and his lips turn up. His smile, sweet and kind, and the first hint of his teeth make my stomach flip.

“I tried the mustache and goatee for a minute,” I say, rubbing my naked chin, “but it was hard to keep tidy. I probably should take a new profile photo.”

“No. You look, well …” Kent tilts his glass to take a sip of water and somehow misses his mouth. “Cheese and rice!”

Water pours down the front of his shirt, and I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a more discombobulated human.

He takes a deep breath, pats his shirt with his napkin, and, with a lower voice, whispers, “Can I be honest with you about something?”

The hairs on my neck tingle, and I need to remember to shave lower next time. We’ve just met, and he’s already confessing.

“Of course, please.”

“My cat is only half of it.” He pulls his lips in and continues, “I literally just installed the app. You’re my first match.” A small giggle escapes his lips. “And my first date. Since I divorced my wife. Seven years ago.”

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

“I’m bi. I mean, I was bi the entire time we were married. She knew. Knows. Corrine, that’s my wife. Ex-wife. She’s totally supportive. We’re friends. Exes. But the split was amicable.”

Not that I’m keeping score, but so far, Kent is late, frazzled, rumpled, divorced, wet, has a cat with a nervous stomach, and I’m his first match on the app. This is his first date since his divorce. Seven years ago. From a woman. My fingers fondle the napkins, pushing the corners closer, tighter.

“Oh, well, that’s nice,” I fumble out, tugging a loose thread on the bottom napkin. “You’re still friends with your ex. Not that you’re bi.”

Kent’s eyes go wide.

“I mean, that’s great too. I mean for me, right?” My shoulders creep up into a feeble shrug.

Kent’s friendly smile returns, and my fingers pause. The man may have a laundry list of cons, but Marvin’s words replay in my head. “Vincent, romance isn’t about tallying points.”

As if on cue, knowing the awkwardness was about to explode like a suddenly active four-thousand-year-old volcano, our server Val approaches.

Portland, Maine has more restaurants per capita than any other U.S. city besides San Francisco, but I’m always going to end up at The Purple Giraffe. Yes, they have a clean report from the health inspector, but also, familiarity. Control. Val.

Even when I’m unable to snag my usual table, Val claims me. Since we first met, she’s cut her hair, the high ponytail gone, replaced by a sharp bob that frames her pale skin. When I was here with Herbert (date four) she told me the fresh cut was part of her trying to embrace her thirties.

After my disastrous date with Marvin, I returned the next week solo. The food—a fusion of Mexican and Korean, a unique explosion of flavors in my mouth—beckoned. And I had a plan. If I kept coming back, I might become more comfortable and be able to relinquish some of my usual date rituals.

During that first return dinner, Val and I chatted. I explained and over-apologized for my OCD, and to my surprise, she was quite understanding. She always keeps a close eye on me and brings extra napkins without asking.

“How are we tonight, gentlemen?” Val asks, her familiar voice a welcome salve.

“Good, we’re good,” I say, willing it into reality.

“Have you decided on drinks?”

We haven’t discussed drinks. Or food.

“Kent, do you like wine?”

“Very much.” He folds his damp napkin in his lap. Maybe there’s hope for us after all.

“Merlot?”

He nods, and his sweet smile, perhaps even a little goofy, prompts me.

“How about a bottle?” I say, pointing to the wine list.

Val dips her chin and raises her left eyebrow.

“Absolutely. I’ll be right back with it.”

I move my hands to my lap, the promise of wine and a small connection lulling my fingers to relax. Marvin’s words replay in my head. Be in the moment. Don’t dismiss outright. Sitting across from me, even in his tangled state, something about Kent intrigues me. He’s clearly older, but the SWISH age ranges only told me he’s “over 40,” which technically, even though only by a few months, so am I.

Finally settled, Kent scans the restaurant. “This place is nice.”

“Yeah, I love it. The food is fantastic.” I dab the napkin on my lap. “Thanks for agreeing to meet here.”

“Oh please, I’d meet you anywhere,” Kent says, and his smile, soft, kind, and full of empathy, sparks something in my stomach.

“So, you’re divorced. And you haven’t dated in … seven years?” I ask.

“Honestly, no. I haven’t had the courage. Corrine and I were college sweethearts, and well, I’m so out of practice. With apps and all, it’s not quite the same. Back then, you went to a club. A bar. Or met at a party. You gave out your landline number, went home, and waited impatiently for your answering machine to blink.” He grabs his phone and lifts it. “None of this nonsense. My family takes a lot of my time. And my job can be consuming, and now, well, things at work are …” Kent’s eyes drop to his lap and his voice trails off as he bites his lower lip.

Kent’s mention of work turns my thoughts to tomorrow. A fresh start for me—a new school implementation. After the last disaster, I need this one to be successful. Hopscotch, the software company I work for, gathers and analyzes data more effectively for schools. If it’s rolled out correctly. This time I won’t fuck it up. My OCD won’t derail things. This time will be better. It has to be. My job depends on it. Bringing up work on these first dates is a convenient option, but it can be a minefield. Perhaps Kent shares this perspective.

“Kent, may I propose we don’t discuss our jobs?” I suggest. “Just for tonight.”

His eyes find mine again. Tiny lines crinkle around the edges as he grins at my offer. My heart beats a little faster. When he’s not tripping, falling, or spilling, Kent’s face has a warmth that’s doing it for me.

“Really? You know, that sounds amazing—no shop talk. Let’s get to know each other without those boring details,” he says.

“Deal.”

“Deal.”

Val returns with a tray carrying two wine glasses and a bottle. She pours the wine. I taste it, give her a single nod, and my shoulders drop as I sip. The weight of work, the stress, and the worry disappear down my throat along with the full-bodied, smooth liquid. Kent’s radiating kindness, which is incredibly sexy, overshadows his scattered nature and messiness. Something about the wine and this man across from me has my head swimming, and I’m optimistic this night won’t be a total disaster.

Did Sweetums take his pill with the enthusiasm of a lion crammed into a tiny cat carrier? Yup. Did he gag, hack, and spit up all over me? Twice. Was I worried about being late? Of course. Did I arrive discombobulated? Obviously. But that head. That bald, shiny, perfect work surface of a noggin shakes me to my core.

Vincent’s photo did not do him justice. Sure, he lost the facial hair, but he doesn’t need it. I can see more of his face this way. His beautiful punim. His creamy skin. Perfection. The photo was sweet. Cute. Approaching handsome. In person? Vincent is scorching hot. As my daughter would say, all the flame and chili pepper emojis.

Theo, the prickly, but sweet custodian at school, assures me I’m a catch. He says anyone would be lucky to date me. For him, a certified grump, it’s a massive compliment or a complete load of crap. Ruth, the PE teacher and my work wife (Corrine’s words, not mine), told me guys might consider me a “daddy.” My daughter, Gillian, is twenty-six and hasn’t called me Daddy since she was in pigtails. “Dad” suffices just lovely now. Sweetums is my kitty baby, although sometimes our relationship borders more on warden and prisoner. Theo and Ruth are the only queer people I’m close with, and I’m beyond grateful for their counsel. Seeing Vincent in person, something springs alive I haven’t felt in a long time. Something primal, deep, and it knocks me off center.

Agreeing not to talk about work is the blessing I need to get through this evening without melting into a puddle of despair. My life revolves around Lear Elementary. The kids. The staff. With our test scores nose-diving, the board mandated new software to collect and report on student data. The district is spending a fortune on the rollout, and I’ve got until spring break to see the implementation through. That will give us the rest of the school year to show growth with the new system. I see through Hopscotch’s innocent name; this is anything but good news.

“To no talk of work,” I say, lifting my glass. Vincent smiles, and his eyes sparkle. Maybe it’s the prospect of being on a proper date with a man for the first time in, well, ever, but I really hope Vincent doesn’t think I’m a complete dolt.

“None,” he replies, crashing his glass against mine. The force of the impact shoots an eruption of wine onto my shirt.

Vincent’s eyes open wide, and he immediately sets his glass down and grabs a napkin.

“Kent, I’m so sorry.” And he’s up, over, dabbing at my shirt.

“It’s fine. Honestly, it was only a matter of time before I made a mess. You’re simply helping me hurry things along.”

I move my hand over his, and when my fingers brush his knuckles, a warmth sparks in my hand and travels up my arm. It’s been less than twenty minutes, and we’ve made skin-to-skin contact. Add that to the hug, and this is more intimacy than I’ve had in over seven years. My center simmers, and I shake my head, attempting to shoo the dizziness away.

He doesn’t stop, his determination clear as he vigorously tries to remove the stubborn spot, but even I know that red wine stains are no match for a cloth napkin.

“Vincent, it’s okay. Really,” I say and gently remove his hand, but keep ahold of his fingers. “I’m good.”

He moves back to his seat, breaking our contact and biting his lower lip. And for the first time, I notice the way his eyelashes frame his eyes. Maybe it’s the lack of hair on his head, but they’re long and curl up, almost touching his eyebrows when he blinks. How soft would they be between my fingers? Crap. I’m staring at Vincent’s exquisite eyelashes.

“Tell me something you love,” I say, scrambling to redirect myself.

Vincent’s eyes stare at the ceiling, searching. “Rumours.”

“Gossip? About celebrities? Ummm, I remember when Demi Moore and Bruce Willis split. That’s where my knowledge of celebrity news runs out.”

“No, the album,” he says with a laugh. “By Fleetwood Mac. I love it.”

Nodding, I try to remember which songs are on that specific album. The CD might be in a crowded bin under my bed with other vestiges from college.

“A solid choice. And what do you do … for fun? Not work,” I clarify.

“Hmmm.” His eyes find the ceiling again, apparently his tell for deep thought. “Well, I love LEGO.”

“Really? That’s brilliant.”

“Something about the organizing, counting, building, following directions … it calms me.”

“I can see that,” I say. “I haven’t built a set in years. My granddaughter is more into … dramatics.”

“You should do one sometime,” he says, and my face immediately scrunches.

“I’m not the most … graceful. I’d lose a piece. Knock it over. Ruin it somehow.”

Vincent’s entire body seems to tense at the mention of a missing piece. Or maybe it’s me.

“Listen, I need to tell you something,” he says.

“Shoot.” I wink and hope I don’t appear an ass.

Vincent takes two quick breaths before speaking.

“I have OCD. Messes … They’re one of my triggers. Crumbs. Dirt. Chaos in general.”

My ribs grow tight, and I’m suddenly short of breath. The dizziness comes marching back, dragging along some lightheadedness for flavor. If you looked up “mess” in the dictionary, there’d be photos of me in various states of disarray. Slipping with a tray of food in the cafeteria. Tripping on my own feet and falling on my ass during the third-grade science fair. Stumbling over the wires on the stage at the holiday concert.

“But that’s not it. Sometimes I get stuck. It’s hard to explain.” Vincent nudges the napkin sitting next to his plate. “But with certain tasks, it’s like falling into a pit and not being able to climb out until the job is done.”

“You like to finish what you start,” I say, offering a smile.

“Yeah, you could say that.” Pushing his shoulders back, Vincent takes a deep breath. “And while I’m confessing, contrary to my profile, I’m not really allergic to cats. Or dogs. Animals just scare me. Technically, the germs scare me. Generally speaking, animals are filthy,” Vincent says, glancing in his lap, and somehow this moment of vulnerability makes him even sexier.

“Oh, well, that explains the wine on my shirt.” I take my napkin, tuck it into my collar, and fan the fabric to cover the offending spot. “There, all gone.” I smile. “Out of sight, out of mind.”

“Thank you,” he says, “I just want to be honest because, well, it’s been an issue. For other men.”

“Vincent, I don’t know much about OCD, but you seem sweet, and nobody’s perfect. Look at me.” I motion toward my oversized napkin bib. “And, I’m not other men. And well, your SWISH photo didn’t do you justice,” I say, and Vincent’s ears tinge pink. His lack of hair allows me to notice the gentle flush of his skin around his ears, enhancing his handsomeness.

“Oh. Um, thanks. You too, I mean, you look better than your photo.”

“Thank you. My daughter took it and promised it was the best option. She tried to convince me to color my beard first, but this is me.” My fingers run through my soft scruff. “I try to take care of myself, but you know, once you round fifty, everything gets so much harder to, well …” I pause and pat my stomach. “Take care of.”

“I bet. I mean, I can imagine. I just turned forty in September, but I can already feel gravity becoming an adversary,” he says. “And the beard. Don’t change a thing.”

A smile blossoms on my face. He likes the gray.

“Ah, forty, you’re a baby. Forty is fabulous. I started discovering my true self when I hit forty. But fifty, fifty is the new thirty, or that’s what I’m told. I’m fifty-two, by the way.”

I search Vincent’s face, hoping to catch a glimpse of his true thoughts on our age difference, but he only lifts the corners of his mouth as if I’ve just told him he’s won a luxury Hawaiian vacation.

“If fifty is the new thirty, then forty is the new twenty. Which makes you a real daddy,” he says playfully, twiddling his fingers on the napkin still resting on the table.

“I’ve been told.” I smile through the nerves in my tummy. “Nobody’s called me that in a very long time.”

“Well, take it from me, it’s hot,” he says. Vincent raises his eyebrows, and my wine glass slips, but I catch it before adding to the mess already paying rent on my shirt.

Val comes and takes our order. Vincent gets a bulgogi taco salad, and, feeling adventurous, I order the Seoul Burrito. When the food arrives, Vincent plays a game with his napkin. He’s doing some kind of origami. There’s folding, unfolding, refolding, moving, dabbing, and then he repeats the whole thing. When he catches me staring, he smiles.

“I’m aiming for a clean spot each time I wipe, and well, I wipe often,” he says with a chuckle. “You should’ve seen me before. Piles and piles of napkins.” Vincent motions to an imaginary tall pile on the table. “A friend taught me this trick. Now, I get by with only one or two.”

Vincent’s candidness is a breath of fresh air. Transparency, especially abo. . .