Page 13 of Big Britches
Big.
He couldn’t gauge from the distance, but Pedro would have guessed that the man was at least 6’5”, with broad shoulders and a massive chest. He was dripping wet in a snug, box-cut swimsuit, walking toward Pedro with a steady, unassuming gait–graceful, almost like a dancer.
No. Pedro recalled what Silas had said–an athlete.
He was far from the image Pedro had expected. His smile was infectious, disarming, almost dizzying in its brilliance. Men of Titus’s stature and breed were usually intimidating, but something about the languidly lumbering giant approaching Pedro was the exact opposite. He radiated a humble assurance that was pleasant and strangely calming.
So, this is Titus Shepherd.
Also, to Pedro’s surprise, the man was wearing nothing but a snug, box-cut swimsuit. Customers in the Georgia heat often dressed casually, but never had one approached Pedro so scantily clad and dripping wet.
“You must be the new guy,” said the man, extending his hand. “I’m Titus. Titus Shepherd.”
Pedro gripped the hand encompassing his own, firm and wet.
“Yes, sir. I’m from Compton’s Greenscapes,” Pedro spoke the words automatically, but they felt as if they were rising, echoing up from deep within a well. “Good morning, Mr. Shepherd.”
“Nope. None of that mister stuff. Call me T. Everyone does.”
“Oh, I don’t know?—”
“Well, I do. I insist. And you’re?—”
There it was again, that smile. Intoxicating.
“Oh, uh, Pedro. Pedro Torres.”
Their hands clasped, and Titus laid his other atop, sandwiching Pedro’s hand between both of his–baseball mitts by comparison.
“Nice to meet you, Pedro. You’re much younger than Carlos. What are you, twenty?”
“Twenty-three.”
“Nah ah,” Titus responded, drawing the two syllables melodically. “Really? Me too.”
Pedro was below average height, so he had to look up to meet Titus’s gaze. He was grateful, though. Otherwise, he would have continued staring eye-level at Titus’s broad chest–lost in the immense land of puffed pectorals and pert, pink nipples, all glistening with drops of freshly chlorinated water.
Titus released Pedro’s hand and reached for the towel on his shoulder. “Sorry,” he said. “You caught me after my morning swim. It’s already so dang hot, I hadn’t bothered drying off.”
He used the towel on his head, rubbing briskly. When he finished, his hair remained pulled forward in what looked like an odd Napoleon style. Pedro fought the compulsion to comb his fingers through it, and push it back more naturally. Titus did so instead, and the damp strands fell into place as if summoned. His grin returned, sparkling, amber eyes so intense that Pedro averted his gaze.
Mistake. Big mistake.
His eyes had dropped low where he saw that Titus’s wet swimsuit was near transparent, the taut spandex corralling the shapely bulge of?—
Pedro looked up quickly, finding Titus’s eyes still locked on him, oblivious, grinning with good ol’ boy charm.
“Sorry. I didn’t–” Pedro began, grasping for words as if treading water. He tried his best to suppress the awkward blush rising reflexively, guiltily, from his neck to his cheeks. “I—I didn’t get much sleep last night.”
“Yeah, I get it.” Titus grinned. “Out horn-dogging it in the big city, huh?”
Pedro had no idea what that meant. It was an idiomatic bridge he had not yet crossed.
“I’m just kidding.” Titus continued, chuckling. “We both know Spoon is no metropolis. But there’s always the Dairy Dream. That’s where I used to hang out when I was in school. I’m sure it hasn’t changed much.”
“Oh,” Pedro said, latching onto the familiar. “Yes, I’ve eaten lunch there. I–I don’t get out much other than work. I don’t know that many people here in Spoon.”
“So, you’re a homebody like me. Boring, ain’t it?”