The air-conditioning hadn't worked since Tuesday, and the temperature inside Hummel Antiques was stifling, to say the least. Kurt sat behind the counter on a rusty milk jug, fanning himself with the sleeve from an old Hank Williams LP, watching the seconds tick by on the German cuckoo clock that hung on the opposite wall. An oscillating fan buzzed noisily as it worked out his hairspray with each gusty pass.

It was the last Saturday in July—the hottest on record in Ohio history, according to the weather service. Not only that, Kurt hated working weekends; it seemed wrong on principle. But until he could afford to hire someone, he would have to tough it out. With an unbudgeted air-conditioning repair, it looked like he might be working weekends for the foreseeable future.

He'd recently purchased the antique shop with the money his grandmother had left him. “Spend it on something outrageous,” she'd told Kurt the week before she died. “Oh, and tell your Aunt Agnes, you get the highboy. That old crone would paint it green and use it as a TV stand or something equally offensive. You have such wonderful taste, darling.”

Of course, was that damned high boy that convinced him to buy the antique shop in Westerville. He'd gone to have a few of his grandmother's things appraised and found out the owner was trying to sell the business. A week later, Kurt was the new owner of Baubles & Things—which he immediately renamed—and began stocking it with his best swap meet and auction finds: fewer baubles and things, more shabby-chic furniture and farm-house couture.

He was considering reorganizing the display of copper pots when the bell over the door jingled and a dark-haired woman with an oversized straw purse walked through. She gave the shop a cursory glance and headed straight to the counter where Kurt was sweating through his thinnest Vivienne Westwood madras shirt. He stood up to greet her. 

“Good afternoon,” he said, putting on his best customer service smile. Years of watching his dad run the tire shop had paid off. “What can I help you find today?”

“Do you have any McCoy cookie jars?” the woman asked, her oversized glasses sliding down the bridge of her nose as she spoke. She shoved them back toward her brow with a chubby, tanned finger and looked at Kurt expectantly.

“I have a couple,” Kurt said, squeezing between the counter and the milk jug to lead her to the back of the store. “Let me—“

“I'm looking for a specific one,” she said, pulling a photo out of her gigantic bag. “It's from the ‘70s.”

Kurt took it from her and had to fight the urge to laugh. The item in the photograph was so ugly he wondered why anyone would ever bother to make it, let alone buy it. The cookie jar was comprised of a sickly taupe-colored man's face with a red, bulbous nose. He wore a large top hat as a lid. “I'm sorry, ma'am. I don't have this cookie jar,” he said, passing her the photo. 

Someone should have warned him that Westerville was in short supply of eligible bachelors and housewives with taste.

She sighed. “No one has that damned W.C. Fields one. It's like finding a needle in a worldwide haystack. I may be forced to try eBay.” She shoved the photo back in her purse just as the bell over the door jingled again.

“I'm sorry,” Kurt said. “If you'd like to leave your name and number, I can call if one turns up.”

“That's all right,” she said. “I'm only in town for the weekend anyway.” She gave him a perfunctory smile and turned to leave. The bell signaled her exit as Kurt reached for his makeshift fan, courtesy of Hank Williams. He was just about to return to his perch atop the rusty milk jug when he heard a crash from the back of the store. He'd forgotten someone had come in while he was talking to Big Straw Purse.

“You break it; you buy it. Store policy,” he called out as he headed in the direction of the commotion.

As he rounded a shelf full of mismatched tea cups and gravy boats, he saw the source of the crash. A dark-haired man wearing a bright blue polo and striped bowtie was on his hands and knees, attempting to clean up what was left of an exquisite carnival glass candy dish. Kurt recognized the dish right away. The guy might be clumsy but at least he had excellent taste in things to break. He was surrounded by chunks of flame-colored pieces that reflected hues of blue, yellow and purple as the light hit it. A tiny chip of it was stuck to the left knee of his almond-colored chinos, which were covered in dust from crawling around on the floor.

“I swear, I'll pay for it,” the man said without looking up. His voice was melodic and sweet, but deeper than expected. Kurt's pulse quickened.

He crossed his arms in front of him and tilted his head as he studied the man's movements. He was collecting shards of glass and dropping them in a wooden salad bowl he must have found nearby. Kurt watched him for a moment, the veins in the man's arms bulging as the muscles beneath them flexed with his movements. He looked small; everything about him seemed compact. His hair, his muscles, his clothes—everything was tightly wound and perfectly molded to his build.

“I'm sure you can afford it, Mr. Brooks Brothers tie and Fred Perry polo. It's only twenty dollars,” Kurt said, even though he'd had the dish priced at forty-five.

“I'm actually— Shit!” The man jerked his hand back and shook it out. He pinched the tip of his index finger and brought it to his lips, sucking on it to stop the blood. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “I think I got some glass in my finger.”

“Let me see it,” Kurt said, taking the man by the wrist and squinting as he focused on the bright dot of blood forming on the pad of his finger. “I think I can see it. Let me get the tweezers and we'll fix you right up.”

When Kurt returned with the tweezers, the man had finished collecting the larger chunks of glass.

“Don't worry about the rest,” Kurt said. “I'll get it with the vacuum later.”

The man ducked his head and rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “I swear, I'm not such a klutz when I'm on stage.”

Intrigued, Kurt lifted an eyebrow. “On stage? Are you an actor?”

“Musician,” the man replied. “My name's Blaine.”

“Kurt.”

“Pleased to meet you, Kurt,” Blaine said, holding out his right hand.

Kurt looked down at it. Blaine looked like he'd have a firm handshake—strong, stable, warm. Kurt cleared his throat. “We should probably take care of that splinter first,” he said.

Blaine pulled his hand back. “Uh, yeah… sure. Of course.”

“I'm going to need that hand,” Kurt said, laughing.

“Right.” Blaine's cheeks flushed pink as he ducked his head.

His hand was warm; callused, yet soft.

“Do you play guitar?” Kurt asked, pinching Blaine's finger between his own.

“A little. I also play piano and sing.” Blaine hissed as Kurt squeezed the skin around the shard of glass.

“Easy,” Kurt said. “Just hold still and try to think of something else.” He could just see the edge of the iridescent glass sticking out of Blaine's finger.

“Do you play any instruments?” Blaine asked.

“A little piano, but I prefer singing.” Kurt kept his eyes on Blaine's finger, even though he could feel the man's eyes on him. “Almost got it.”

“I really like your shirt,” Blaine said. “Westwood?”

Kurt smirked. “You know your fashion.”

“It looks great on you.” Blaine's voice cracked on the last word. He cleared his throat.

“Got it!” Kurt held up the shard of glass between the tweezers and gave Blaine a triumphant smile. When his eyes met Blaine's, Kurt felt like his heart had stopped in his chest. He sucked in a sharp breath.

Blaine's amber eyes were illuminated by the dull light streaming in through the windows. The color reminded Kurt of sticky golden threads of honey as they fell from the honeycomb when his grandmother extracted it from the frames in her manmade hives. As a boy, he'd love to watch her work her magic with the bees; it fascinated him. But Blaine's eyes were better—just as sweet, but without the threat of bee stings.

“Thanks,” Blaine said, pulling back his hand, his eyes never leaving Kurt's.

Kurt shifted his feet and bit his lip. “So, Blaine, what did you come in here for? I assume it wasn't to break my candy dish.

Blaine's laughter rang like a bell through the stuffy shop. “No. I actually came to find a birthday present for my mother. She likes milk glass.”

“Oh, I have some really great stuff over here,” Kurt said, gesturing over Blaine's shoulder. Blaine stepped aside to allow Kurt to lead the way, and suddenly Kurt was acutely aware of the sweat under his arms and down his back. “I'm sorry about the heat. The AC went out on Tuesday and they can't fix it until next week.”

Blaine had a bead of sweat forming at his left temple, and the hair at the base of his neck was curling from dampness, but he said, “It's no problem.”

“What about this?” Kurt asked. He held up a bud vase made of opaque white glass that had a lacy-looking pattern adorning it. “It's feminine and delicate but plain enough to fit with several styles of décor.”

“How much?”

Kurt turned it over; the sticker underneath read $30—overpriced. “How about twenty-five?”

“Plus twenty for the candy dish.” Blaine's eyes lit up, the right corner of his mouth quirking into a shy smile. “Store policy, remember?”

Kurt felt his own face flush this time, but he felt bold all the same. “Tell you what,” he said, “take me to dinner some time, and we'll call it even.”

Blaine broke into a full smile. “How about coffee? We could go now if you'd like. There's a Lima Bean around the corner.”

“I'd love to, but it's just me today,” Kurt said. “Every day, actually.”

Blaine's smile faded just a little. “Some other time then?” 

Kurt nodded as he mentally cursed the entire shop and everything in it. He reluctantly led Blaine to the register. As Kurt moved, a bead of sweat trickled down between his shoulder blades and down his back before disappearing below his belt. The heat was oppressive in the shop, and he'd only had two customers all day: Big Straw Purse and Blaine. Maybe he could close early.

As he wrapped the vase in newspaper, he heard his father's voice in his head: “Starting your own business isn't a game, Kurt. You have to treat it like a regular job with regular hours.”

No, he decided, closing early would not be in his best interest, especially considering he'd only been in business a few weeks.

“I'm really sorry about coffee, Blaine,” he said, writing his cell number on the back of the shop's business card. “But call me about dinner. I really would like to see you again.”

“I'd like that too. Thanks for your help with the gift, Kurt. I'm sure my mom will love it.”

“Thanks for your business,” Kurt said, smiling broadly. He was sure his expression bordered somewhere between manic and idiotic.

And as Blaine turned to leave, Kurt found himself breathless for the second time that day. Blaine's almond-colored chinos were tailored perfectly, that much he had already seen, but when Blaine had begun to walk away, Kurt got the first clear view of him from behind. Kurt's eyes trailed slowly from waist to thigh and back up again. He hated to be so superficial, but it was a great view.

“Blaine, wait,” he called out, grabbing a piece of paper and scribbling CLOSED FOR LUNCH. “Make it an iced coffee, and you've got a deal.” Underneath his uneven scrawl, he added “Be back soon … maybe.”