Let's Fall in Love

  Whit & Eddie Short Stories #1

  By Frank W. Butterfield

  © 2022 by Frank W. Butterfield. All rights reserved.

  No part of this story may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without express written permission of the copyright holder.

  This book contains explicit language and suggestive situations.

  This is a work of fiction that refers to contemporary figures, locales, and events, along with many completely fictional ones. The primary characters are utterly fictional and do not resemble anyone I have ever met or known of.

  Certain fictional names provided by the Fake Name Generator are licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.

  WESS01-E-20230125

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  Contents

  1. First, a few words.

  2. A Valentine's Day adventure.

  3. A note or two about this book.

  4. Thank you.

  5. About me.

  6. A list of my books.

  First, a few words.

  This short story first appeared in its current form in an anthology I compiled, edited, and published under the name Cupid Shot Me: Valentine Tales of Love, Mystery & Suspense.

  This story follows the events found in Getting to Know You, the first novel in The Romantical Adventures of Whit & Eddie.

  A Valentine's Day adventure.

  110 Fremont Avenue

  Daytona Beach, FL 32114

  Thursday, February 14, 2019

  6:00 a.m. EST

  I opened my eyes as the alarm song on my phone went off. I quickly swiped to get it to stop playing. Removing my mask, I rolled over and turned off the CPAP on the nightstand.

  "Let's sleep another hour," murmured Whit Hall, my fiancé of about a month who was stretched out next to me in my queen-sized bed.

  My name is Eddie Smith, and I am the amazingly lucky chubby guy who was waking up next to the most wonderful musclehead in the world, someone I'd met just two weeks and one day earlier.

  I was 52 and sorta, kinda retired. Whit was definitely retired. You see, he'd been a player for the San Antonio Matadors, one of two new NFL teams. And he was 35. According to everything I'd read, he'd played longer than most guys did. By a longshot.

  We'd been set up by Mario Ossler and Bob Jenkins, two of the richest guys in the world. They were married to each other and lived in San Francisco and were good friends of mine. Mario was the owner of the Matadors and had recruited Whit, a tight end (whatever that meant), to play one last season before retiring in January.

  We were in love. We were engaged. We were living together. And we were moving way too fast, and I knew that. We both knew it. But we'd been through a lot in a short amount of time and, in all of that, I'd come to realize Whit was the man I wanted to spend the rest of my life with.

  And I'd never felt that way before.

  Oh, and did I mention? Whit had come out since we met. And that was a really big deal because he was famous for being the son of an even more famous televangelist (Pastor Bobby Hall) and for practicing faith-based abstinence. Just like Tim Tebow.

  I pushed the covers off of me and sat up. As soon as my feet hit the rug, I said, "It's cold."

  "More reason to sleep in."

  I yawned. "Our appointment in Miami is at noon."

  He sighed. "Do we have to go?"

  "Are your feet hanging off the end of the bed?" I reached over and turned on the light on my nightstand.

  "Yes."

  "Are they cold?"

  "Yes."

  "Then we have to go."

  "Why are you being so mean to me?" he whined.

  I stood up, stretched, and then looked down at him. Whit was definitely the most handsome man I'd ever met even though his nose was crooked after being broken by an offensive lineman he'd once pissed off. "I am not being mean to you. You're the one who wants a custom-made bed. I'm perfectly fine in my perfectly wonderful queen-sized bed."

  "Fine," he said as he pulled his feet up and then, as if he was 10, pushed all the covers onto the floor. He looked at me.

  "I'm not cleaning that up.

  "Doesn't matter," he said as he lifted up one long arm and scratched under it.

  "Why not?" I asked as I walked around the foot of the bed, pushing covers out of my way with my foot.

  He sat up on his elbows. "Because we'll have the new bed to sleep in tonight."

  I was on my way to my dresser to get out a pair of underwear when he said that. I stopped, turned, and asked, "Hold on, cowboy. Do you think we'll be coming back with a bed? They have to build it. Hence the phrase 'custom built'."

  He frowned a little and then fell back on the bed. "Fuck! How much longer do I have to live in this hobbit house?"

  I laughed as I pulled open the drawer and got out a pair of underwear for me and one for him. I threw those on the bed as I said, "My feet are not nearly furry enough for me to be a hobbit." I closed that drawer and then pulled open another. "This is a normal house for normal-sized people." We could pretty much wear the same size socks, so I grabbed two pairs and tossed them on the bed.

  He was back on his elbows. "Speaking of hobbits... When we get back, I want to find someone who can remove the ceiling fans. Or, as I like to think of them, your decapitators."

  I walked over to the closet to get a t-shirt from my stack. "You told me you loved me after you walked into my house with its seven-foot ceiling." I chose a blue one with the Ralph Lauren logo on it. Miami meant a fancier t-shirt, of course. "You knew what you were in for." I tossed my t-shirt on the bed.

  He grabbed it and held it up. "Why not a collar? What, exactly, does one wear to a mattress factory?"

  "If it's in Florida, you already know the answer to that question." I looked at his stack of t-shirts. "Do you want cotton or one of the new miracle fabrics?"

  "Will it be warm down there?"

  "Last night, when I checked, the app said the high is supposed to be close to 80."

  "Thank God!" he said as he jumped out of bed. "Cotton, then."

  "My stepmother and her farmer thank you for choosing cotton." I pulled out a green one that had the old Sun Records logo on it. That was the one with the rooster.

  I handed it to him, and he tossed it on the bed as he asked, "She has a farmer?"

  "Yes. It's a guy who leases the land she owns." I moved to my stack of khaki shorts and grabbed the one from the top.

  He took it from me and threw it on the bed. "Is it all cotton?"

  "Last I heard. Khaki or olive?"

  "Is he cute? Khaki."

  I picked the next one of those and handed it to him. "I think so. He's also a kind of poet. He has a Facebook page that she shares every now and then."

  "Not this one. It's too short. This isn't 1979." He handed the pair back to me. "A gay poet farmer?"

  "He's not gay." I reached for a pair that was longer and handed it over before placing the shorter one back on the stack. "At least, I don't think he is."

  Whit threw the second pair on the bed and then wrapped his long arms around me from the back. He began to run his hands up and down my belly, jiggling it a little as he did so. "Maybe he's secretly gay. You know... Like the cowboys Willie Nelson sings about."

  "Maybe," I replied as he kissed the back of my neck. After another kiss or two like that, I turned around and looked up at him. "Speaking of cowboys... Good morning, cowboy."

  "Mmm. Good morning." He kissed me, pressing hard against my lips like it was 1947. Using my tongue, I tried to pry them open, but he kept them closed tight. "Not until mouthwash," he murmured.

  I just laughed.

  About 45 minutes later, we were in Whit's black Escalade and on our way.

  "Where do you want to get breakfast?" he asked.

  "Let's get down the road a bit."

  "Cool. Can you find a place for us to stop?"

  I looked over at him. "Are you hungry now?"

  "I will be in an hour or so."

  I nodded and pulled out my phone.

  "Also, music."

  I swiped open my phone and said, "Your wish is my command."

  "Careful with that kinda talk."

  I chuckled. "What are we in the mood for?"

  "I'm a little burned out on 'Brandy'."

  "But she's such a fine girl."

  He chuckled. "How about we dial back about 20 or 30 years?"

  "So..." I scrolled through my playlists and found one I'd never played for him before. I got it started and waited for his reaction.

  "It's too early for an accordion."

  "But this is Miss Dinah Shore!"

  "What's that song?"

  "'Buttons and Bows'."

  "I'm not... No."

  I laughed and pushed pause. "OK." I scrolled again. "How about this?"

  A piano began to play.

  "No Petula."

  "No 'Downtown'?"

  "No. Sorry I'm being so difficult."

  "Maybe third time's the charm."

  "Maybe," he said.

  "What about this?"

  "I'm liking the trumpets."

  "It's Ella."

  He began to snap his fingers. "Cool. What is it?"

  "'Let's Fall in Love'."

  "Nice."

  I was about to put my phone on the console when I got

a text.

  Hearing the ding, Whit said, "Isn't it a little early?"

  "Not if it's Darío." He was a friend of mine who lived in Orlando. "He gets up at 4:30 every morning."

  "What's he say?"

  I read the text and then sat back. "Damn."

  "What?"

  "Do you have any idea what day it is?"

  "Thursday."

  "What's the date?"

  "I have no idea. Since I moved in with you, the calendar has no meaning."

  I glanced at him.

  He was grinning at me.

  "Eyes on the road, cowboy."

  He winked before turning to look at the long stretch of road that was taking us to I-95.

  "It's the 14th."

  "So?"

  "Of February?"

  He shrugged.

  "Are you serious?"

  He glanced at me. "What?"

  "St. Valentine's Day."

  "A pagan holiday."

  "Really? You didn't celebrate Valentine's Day? Not even at school?"

  He started strumming his long fingers on the dashboard. "Back when dinosaurs roamed the Earth, did y'all do a card exchange thingie in elementary school?"

  "After walking uphill in the snow both ways, yes, we did."

  "Don't be silly, Eddie. There are no hills in Lubbock, Texas."

  I laughed. "True."

  "Well, in the nowadays times of 1993, we had the same thing but guess who didn't participate?"

  "Really?"

  He nodded. "The only child of Pastor Bobby Hall did not show up to Miss Ellen's third grade classroom with a box of Valentine cards. No, sir, he sure as hell didn't." His voice cracked a little at the end.

  I reached over and rubbed his belly. "Whit..."

  "Wow. I had no idea how much that still pisses me off." He switched driving hands and then took my hand in his.

  "Was it your father or was it your mother?"

  "It was like always. Mama told me how Daddy wanted things and that was fucking that. He never said one word about it."

  "Why the third grade?"

  "I have no fuckin' idea."

  I took a deep breath. "I'm sorry. To be honest, though, you didn't miss much."

  He glanced at me. By then, we were on I-95, heading south towards Miami. "What's this song?"

  "'Fly Me to the Moon'. Astrud Gilberto is singing."

  He nodded. "Frank Sinatra sings this, too, right?"

  "Yep."

  He sighed. "So, what did Darío have to say?"

  "He wanted to know what I was going to do for you for Valentine's Day."

  Whit nodded. "Yeah! That's right! I'm the younger one. You should be treating me."

  "Uh, huh."

  "So, where are we going, big boy?"

  "Keep this up, and you'll be lucky if you get Burger King."

  He laughed. "Actually, I can't really think of a better gift than a bed that's big enough for me to sleep in without my feet hanging off the end."

  "You're awfully sweet, but I've been waiting for this day all my life. And it looks like I blew it."

  He glanced at me. "What do you mean?"

  "This is my first Valentine's Day while in a relationship."

  "Are you...? Really?"

  I nodded as I gazed at the freeway stretching out under a cloudy sky. "Yep. Remember how I told you about my two very short 'relationships'?"

  "Sorry. What's this song?"

  "Good question. I've heard it a thousand times." I looked down at my phone. "Oh," I said with a chuckle. "'Manhattan'."

  "Makes sense with all those references. Who's singing?"

  "Blossom Dearie. I have no idea who that is."

  "Sorry for the interruption. What about your relationships?"

  "The first one ended right after the beginning of the year. 1997, I mean."

  "You told me about that. You got snowed in and it was in Austin and you two spent three long days together."

  "You have a great memory. I don't know whether to be scared about that or not."

  Whit squeezed my hand. "Don't be."

  I tried to squeeze his hand back. But, like always, I couldn't really. I have big hands but his are bigger. And he's a lot stronger than me, too.

  "But what about the other guy? You said that ended in March."

  "You do have a good memory and you're right." I thought for a moment. "We might have done something for Valentine's Day, but it was likely very low key. He didn't like to go to fancy places."

  "This is Fred Astaire singing."

  "Yep. 'The Way You Look Tonight'."

  "This one I know. I've watched the movie a couple of times."

  "Which one is it? You're more up on Fred Astaire than me."

  "Swing Time." Whit glanced at me. "He's playing the piano in the living room while Ginger Rogers is washing her hair in the bathroom. It's really sweet."

  I looked at him. "I swear to God that you have to be the only NFL player who ever watched Fred and Ginger."

  He reached over and put his hand on top of my mouth. "Don't swear, Eddie."

  I gently bit his palm.

  "Ow."

  I licked his palm.

  "Now that's nice."

  I pushed his hand away. "Admit it, Whit."

  He pulled his hand back, grabbed mine again, and squeezed it. "Admit what?"

  "You're the gayest NFL player ever. Your fascination with Fred and Ginger is the proof. Just admit it."

  "I don't mind admitting it. But I'm a retired player. There's a difference."

  "Fine."

  "What's this song?"

  I looked at my phone. "It's French."

  "That part I got."

  "The title is something about Venus."

  "The planet?"

  "No, the tennis player."

  He shook his head. "Eddie... you're cruisin' for a bruisin', son."

  I snorted.

  "When are we having breakfast?"

  "I guess I need to get on that."

  "Yes. You're falling down on your role as navigator."

  I picked up my phone and opened the map app. "Stand by." I did a search and then looked at the results. "How about this? Here's a diner in Titusville that has good reviews."

  "What's it called?"

  "Country Thyme. But the second word is spelled like the herb."

  "Cute. How far?"

  "Computer says 15.2 miles. Get off at Florida 406."

  "How far is that?"

  "I dunno."

  "Navigator ain't navigatin'."

  "The state of Florida is happy to announce upcoming exits and their distance at convenient intervals along your freeway journey."

  Whit snorted. "That's smart-ass for 'I'm too lazy to be a good boyfriend'."

  I put my phone on the console. "The navigator has spoken."

  He laughed and squeezed my hand again. "I love it when you're sassy."

  "I try my best."

  "The food must be good," said Whit as he pulled into the parking lot.

  "Why do you say that?"

  "Two sheriff's cars and one cop car."

  "Maybe."

  He parked the car and killed the engine. "Are you doubting my knowledge of roadside eating?" he asked as he opened his door and got out.

  I opened mine and did the same. "You didn't spend five years on the road like I did, so, yes, I am, as a matter of fact."

  By then we were in front of the door. I pulled it open. "Youth before beauty."

  "You wish," he said with a wink as he walked in.

  I followed right behind. The place was a standard strip-mall kind of diner with plastic plants and specials on a chalkboard. There were a handful of occupied tables including one with two deputies and a cop, all white guys.

  "Where?" he asked.

  Pointing with my chin, I said, "That booth over by the wall."

  He led the way.

  "What'll y'all have to drink?" That was a white gal with bright red hair dressed in jeans and a grey t-shirt.

  "Water, no ice," said Whit.

  "Same for me."

  "Be right back."

  Once she was gone, I picked up a menu from the small stack stuffed behind the napkin dispenser and handed it to Whit before taking one for myself.

  "Thank you."

  "What looks good?" I asked.

  "Everything. I'm starving. How about you?"

  "The western omelet."

  "With hot sauce?"

  "Yep." I put my menu back where I'd found it.

 

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