Chapter 8

Mitchell shrugged, clearly letting his friend off the hook for now. “Where to first?”

Craig looked at his phone. “We’re less than a mile from Mark Twain’s boyhood home. We could just walk over right after lunch.”

Mitchell grinned. “Sounds great.” He dug into his French toast.

They ate in silence for the most part, enjoying the retro-homey feel of the restaurant. Craig wasn’t sure what was going through Mitchell’s mind, but he was just trying to keep himself from reaching across the table and circling Mitchell’s wrist with his fingers. He wanted to touch him. He alwayswanted to touch him.

And then Mitchell’s foot bumped his and stayed put and Craig bit back a grin. Maybe there was hope.

* * * *

They walked back out into the sunshine, the temperature higher than when they’d arrived. Mitchell opened up a paper map he’d grabbed from the restaurant, showing Craig they were only a block or so from the home.

“Hey, the place is actually a museum,” Mitchell added.