By the Numbers by Chris Owen and Tory Temple Page A

could feel his eyebrows go up despite himself. He wasn't the best at knowing when he was being hit on, unless things were rather obvious. Deuce was making them obvious. "I'll see how I feel on a given day," Trey chuckled. "You could be surprised."
    "That sounds promising." Deuce lifted his bottle and drank. "So, you're serious? I can move in?"
    "Yeah." There, it was done, and Trey felt a sense of relief that he couldn't back out. He actually wanted Deuce to move in, and that realization was something to be explored at a later time. "You can move in. The only condition is that you have three dogs or less when you do, and that includes Q." His carpeting and wood floors were four months old and a man had to draw the line somewhere.
    "For sure -- including yours." Deuce nodded. "I think I found homes for two more, by the way. Oh, and can I put a doghouse or a small kennel or a crate or something in the backyard? Somewhere they can play that's all theirs?"
    The oven timer went off. Trey nodded and turned back toward the kitchen. "Definitely. Where do you want them to sleep?"
    "Q is used to sleeping with me and likes her bed on the floor. The puppies should probably be in a crate for a long time -- it doesn't matter to me where, though if we have two they might want to be together." Deuce followed him and leaned on the counter. "Can I help with anything?"
    "Wherever you want to put their crate is fine with me. Lacey will want the puppy to sleep with her, so if you keep another one, they can both go in her room." Trey pulled the stuffed artichokes out of the oven and nodded at the salad dressing ingredients on the counter. "Can you put all of that stuff into the bottle and shake it up? I hope you don't mind homemade dressing. I have regular ranch in the fridge, too."
    Deuce did as he was told, pouring carefully. "The added bonus to having them in her room is that once they can hold their pee all night, we can close the door and not have to listen to the middle-of-the-night wrestling matches. You're brilliant."
    The baked chicken was bubbling at him, so Trey took that from the oven as well and inserted the meat thermometer. "They wrestle at night? Why don't they sleep? Sleep is important." He should know, after all the sleepless nights at work.
    "After sharing a room with them for a couple of months, I can promise you that there is wrestling at night. They sleep all day. It's frantic for an hour, then a three hour nap. Repeat." Deuce shook up the bottle of dressing. "Q is ready to have her own space back, I think."
    "Poor dog. I should have told you to bring her tonight." Trey got the artichokes on two plates and added a chicken breast, then spooned a bit of creamy dill sauce over the meat. "Chow call. Hungry?"
    "Starving. This looks amazing and not at all what I'd expect at a fire station. Corkscrew? This calls for the white, I think."
    "Well, we're not at a fire station. But you'll get plenty of that kind of food too, trust me." He got the plates on the table and then opened his junk drawer. A moment or two of digging revealed the corkscrew, which Trey presented to Deuce. "Go ahead. Screw away." Oh, for God's sake. Now that was lame.
    "Heh. I see what you did there." Deuce took the corkscrew and put the tip to the top of the cork. "First you stick it in..."
    "Then you pull it out." Trey watched as Deuce deftly removed the cork from the bottle. "And then... you sniff the cork or something, right? That's what they do in the movies." He sat and pulled a leaf off his artichoke, proud of himself for engaging in sexual banter. Even if it was a little lame.
    "I think that if I sniffed the cork, it would smell like cork." Deuce poured the wine into two glasses and sat. "Really, this is amazing." He started in on the chicken. "I can do a couple of really wow Indian dishes, if you're into that. Spicy or mild, I can do both."
    "Never had it, I don't think. Is it like Greek? Holly's family is Greek, and they made amazing food. Almost thought