Dissonance by Shira Anthony Page A

sunroom on the side of the house. That was when he noticed two bare feet sticking up in the air behind the couch. He peered around to find Galen in a handstand. And not just any handstand. Galen’s hands and forearms rested flat on the floor, his face hovered an inch or two above it, his back was arched, and his legs, bent at the knees, hung over his head.
    The thin cotton pants and fitted black tank left little to Cam’s imagination. Galen’s sculpted body was a revelation after the baggy T-shirt and jeans of the night before, the muscles of his arms and legs tensed as he maintained the pose. Cam watched Galen, noted the steadiness of his body and the relaxation of his face despite the obvious effort. Why hadn’t he noticed how beautiful the man was? He’d always preferred men with nicely honed bodies, especially since he himself was far less substantially built.
    Max nudged Cam again, bringing him back to himself.
    “Max,” Galen warned. He wore the same apologetic look as the night before. “Sorry. When he gets used to you, he’ll leave you alone.”
    Cam did his best to force a smile as he wiped the slobber off his cheek. “Not a problem,” he lied. He’d manage. There were more important things than having clean cheeks. Like food or a roof over your head.
    Five minutes later, after Galen had rolled up his yoga mat and put it away, they made their way to the kitchen. “Toast all right with you?” Galen asked, holding up what looked to be a homemade loaf covered in oats, seeds, and nuts.
    “That’d be perfect.” Any food sounded perfect.
    Galen popped several pieces of bread into the toaster, then asked, “Tea or coffee?”
    “Tea, if you don’t mind.” In spite of his penchant for coffee, Cam preferred tea for breakfast, a holdover from his childhood. Some of his best memories were of sipping tea on the veranda with his father in the summer. They hadn’t talked much, but Cam had felt close to him.
    “Coming up.” Galen turned his back to Cam and opened one of the white metal cabinets. “Earl Grey, Irish breakfast, Assam, or Darjeeling?”
    “Irish breakfast, please.” Another surprise. The man didn’t serve Lipton. Or tea in tea bags, Cam now saw. Galen seemed to be brimming with surprises.
    “With milk and sugar?”
    “Yes, thank you.”
    Galen whistled and got to work. The tune was vaguely familiar. Not jazz. Classical? Mozart? No, Beethoven.
    The table reminded Cam of something from a 1950s sitcom, with its chrome legs and laminate top with silver and gold sparkles baked in. Cam sat in one of the chairs, which wobbled a bit on the uneven tongue-and-groove floor. A few minutes later, Galen set down a large cup of tea and a beaker of milk, followed by the toast, butter, and several jams that looked homemade.
    Cam picked up one of the jars, opened and sniffed it, then spread the jam on his toast and took a bite. The taste of fresh strawberries danced on his tongue, reminding him of the jam Cook used to make at the castle when he was little. He’d helped the staff pick them when they ripened, and he’d watched the cook can them afterward.
    “Excellent jam,” he said as he picked up his tea.
    “We’ve got a great farmer’s market not far from here,” Galen explained.
    “Oh, I see.”
    “Lots of local produce.” Galen spread butter on his toast, then piled several spoonfuls of jam on top of that. “Most people don’t realize how much of Jersey is farm country.”
    “Mmm.” Cam, mouth full, figured agreeing with this statement was easiest. He didn’t particularly care, although the jam tasted quite good. After he swallowed, he asked, “Was that yoga before?”
    Galen nodded and took a sip of his tea. “I’ve been practicing yoga for about ten years now. Keeps me centered. On the right track.”
    “I see.” Cam didn’t, of course, but he’d be polite nonetheless. Riley had been on some hot yoga bender a few years before. Like everything else she’d taken up in what she’d