Men of All Seasons Box Set

The Fine Art of Reading Riley-3

Plimpton had been under a snowstorm warning. Between Stone’s short travels from The Basket Grocery Store to his next stop, Finnegan’s Floral, the falling snow had thickened. Whirlwinds of the whiteness made it difficult to see just five feet in front of him. Some would have called the current state of the weather a whiteout, but Stone didn’t want to jump to that extreme thinking, telling himself that the snow falling from the white-blue heavens was temporary and nothing that would prevent him from carrying out his day’s errands prior to the book club function.

Finnegan’s Floral sat on the other end of Plimpton, next to Turn the Page Books. Stone could kill two birds with one stone, pun intended. He could pick up Lance’s early birthday lilies and a stack of barely used and inexpensive Robert Riley paperbacks for the book club guests.

On the drive from Elmerstein Way to West East Road, his cellphone buzzed. He snagged it from the middle console, pressed a button, and held up to his right ear.

“This is Stone.”

Nothing. Dead air. No one answered. Dammit. Such annoyances were happening a lot lately. Half of him believed it to be Jack Panda being immature and ludicrous, still angry over The Cat Breed. Their recent fight centered around a certain client named Miss Jacqueline Showalter. The sixty-year-old woman had three pristine and majestic shorthaired snowshoes: Canaan, Babel, and Eden. Miss Showalter loathed Jack Panda, though, and probably knew he enjoyed kinky restroom s*x along Interstate 79 with random, unhealthy men, most of which were hairy truckers. She wouldn’t dare have the man even look at her p*****s. Instead, she chose Stone Daye to assess her felines for future showings.

Bottom line, Jack held a grudge about losing Showalter as a client and probably felt pissed off at Stone for stealing business away from him. Filled with much hate, what better way was there for Jack Panda to celebrate such drudgery than with random calls, hang-ups, and heavy breathing?

Whatever. Stone had a busy day ahead of him, and nothing would prevent him for doing his errands, including Jack and his childish pranks. Important things had to be done for a fun-filled evening. So, to hell Jack Panda and his immature hang-ups.

Finnegan’s Floral included an all-glass building the size of a shoebox with every imaginable flower nestled inside its humid shell. Finnegan Reach opened the place four years ago when he turned thirty-four. The business had been a gift to him from his wealthy parents, Rowan and Maeve Finnegan, who had made their fortune by owning and operating seven beer distributors throughout the tri-state area during the last three decades.

Finnegan and Stone had a past, of course, and one that could never be construed as smooth. Finnegan, a truck-sized ginger, and hairy, which Stone loved about the guy, had once banged Stone’s ass like a gold-winning Olympian. Finnegan used quick and hard strokes to Stone’s rear, pleasuring them both. Stone dated Finnegan prior to Jack Panda. Although Finnegan wanted to have a long-term relationship, calling Stone his boyfriend/lover, Stone learned that Finnegan had a severe drinking problem and suffered from alcoholism. Therefore, they never really hit it off as a couple.

Fortunately, Finnegan decided to find the antidote for his alcoholism and attended AA meetings at least twice a week. Stone only knew this because Stan Marshall, his next door neighbor and alcoholic, attended the same meetings as Finnegan and violated AA bylawsules talking about Finnegan.

Stan did not give Stone a week-to-week update on the Irishman, but he sometimes did say to Stone when seeing him in his paved driveway, “That friend of yours. The one who looks like a roid-induced leprechaun, he’s a nice guy. I just wanted you to know that, and he’s recovering well. I rather like him.”

Yes, Finnegan had always come across as a nice guy, but he liked his alcohol a little too much, always drunk, which Stone really didn’t want in his life. Maybe Stone acted too selfish or didn’t want the leprechaun’s baggage in his world. Or maybe Stone simply wanted to remain single, unable, or unwilling, to attach himself to another man, even though he believed in a happy-ever-after story with someone other than the drinking ginger. God only knew. Stone certainly didn’t. Yet another mystery he noted in his strange life of wonders and unpredictable challenges.

After Stone entered Finnegan’s Floral, not even a patron for more than two minutes, the charming Irishman slipped up to him and pressed his left palm against Stone’s bulky chest.

“I missed you, guy. Give me a kiss for old time’s sake, stud. What do you say?”

Stone backed away from Finnegan’s reach and replied, “You’re sexy as hell, Finnegan, and you were always good in the bedroom, but you know a relationship will never work out between us. We’ve been there and tried that. Let it be the way it has turned out.”

“Trust me, I’ve got the drinking under control now. I’m sure your neighbor told you that. Stan Marshall’s in everyone’s business, including mine, which sort of pissed me off. But that has nothing to do with you.”

“He’s told me enough about you. I’m glad you’re doing well, Finnegan. Life is hard, and we never know what is going to be thrown our ways. It’s good to know you can handle your balls.” Stone regretted the use of balls as soon as he said the word. Whatever, though.

Finnegan chuckled, hearty, open-mouthed, and wide-eyed. “I could handle your balls with care, Stone. You know I always liked them.” He asked, “So what do you say about asking an old friend, who is now clean and sober, out on a date?”

Stone ignored his question and said, “I’m here for the lilies I ordered.”

“A dozen,” Finnegan said, coping rather well with the immediate rejection. “And don’t think I didn’t notice you just blew me off about a future date.”

“The flowers, Finnegan. Can you put them on my credit card?”

Finnegan had a copy of the card in his files. Stone maybe should have been afraid of someone stealing the card’s numbers or his identity, but he was a risk-taker by nature, except for dating handsome men with ginger hair and massive, bear-like chests who had a history of drinking too much.

Finnegan grumbled something Stone couldn’t hear as the Irishman fetched the dozen lilies. The ginger bear vanished into a cooler, returned a few seconds to Stone’s side, and presented the bundle of lilies to Stone. “Is it true you’re hosting the book club meeting tonight?”

Stone rolled his eyes. Finnegan was a huge fan of Robert Riley’s writings. Finnegan could name every title the author wrote and what year each book came out. Plus, he could give facts about Robert Riley no one else in the reading group could.

“You didn’t invite me again, Stone. How many times have I asked to be a part of your group? Oprah would be upset with you, and Robert Riley would, too.”

Frankly, Stone never intended to invite his ex-boyfriend to his reading club. Why should he? They were over as a couple, unbound and single. Even if they both enjoyed Riley’s books, Stone didn’t want to feel awkward having the ginger around his other reading friends. No rules or laws applied to the situation, but Stone just didn’t want to feel uncomfortable during his own gathering. Too bad for Finnegan Reach. Sometimes the cookie crumbled that way.

“There’s no need for a reply, Stone. I understand exactly when our relationship ended. Don’t think I’m a fool who is living lies. You don’t want me as a book club member, and I have to respect that.”

The guilt-layered comments didn’t work. Stone simply whisked away from the man and said over his shoulder while exiting the flower shop with his arrangement of flowers, “Don’t forget to bill my card, Finnegan. I will see you soon.”