When the plumber arrived sometime later, Paul still wore the paper-thin boxer shorts and threadbare T-shirt he had slept in. Maybe he could pull on a pair of jeans real quick…
But the heavy knock on the front door demanded an answer. The hell with it—he could dress while the plumber worked on the sink. Snatching a clean towel to wipe his hands, he called out, “I’m coming.”
He opened the door to find a young man on the step, shifting anxiously from foot to foot. Paul’s frustration and anger dispersed like a dandelion gone to seed—he knew this guy, and that sunny smile brought with it a rush of memories that took Paul’s breath away. Ethan, that was his name. It was written on his shirt. “Hey, man,” Ethan drawled. “This the Bryant place?”
He used to be blonde back in high school, Paul thou
