Casey had been staring at George’s door for a good five minutes. And during that time he realized he didn’t even know George’s last name.

Which okay, George was a neighbor not a friend, and he didn’t really even know the names of his other neighbors surrounding him in the condo complex.

But the thing was ... Casey did have a history with George. Albeit a brief one.

A year ago, Casey had a plumbing disaster when his kitchen faucet fell off. He’d run outside in a panic, trying to locate the water shut off valve, and had run directly into George. Together they’d shut off the water and George had ended up following Casey into his condo.

For a brief moment, Casey had thought maybe George had some plumbing knowledge Casey didn’t have. But alas George knew absolutely nothing about plumbing other than the number of one to call. After the plumber left, Casey opened a bottle of wine, which they’d shared. It had sort of occurred to Casey that it was a little odd for George not to have gone back to his own home, but whatever. Casey had no trouble playing the friendly neighbor.

But after a few glasses of wine, Casey ended up being a friendlier neighbor than he had intended and George ended up with a blowjob. Funny, afterward, Casey had wondered if George was even gay or if he had basically assaulted a straight guy or something.

George had left and thereafter Casey pretended nothing ever happened and he avoided seeing George when he could. And it seemed George felt pretty much the same because he certainly didn’t see a lot of the man either.

So it was twice over stupid for him to be standing in front of George’s condo about to knock and ask him to Thanksgiving dinner as Casey’s fake boyfriend.

Casey tapped lightly on the door. If he didn’t knock too loudly maybe George wouldn’t hear him and Casey could tell himself he tried.

But he’d forgotten George had a dog until ferocious barking began behind the door the minute he’d done his light tapping.

An ugly dog as Casey recalled. A big black terrier mix of some kind called some name like, Abraham. Stupid name for a dog.

The door opened abruptly.

A dark brow arched at him from behind black-framed glasses.

That was the thing about George. He was gorgeous. Insanely so, actually. So far out of Casey’s league as to be laughable. Only Casey wasn’t laughing.

George had Italian and Irish ancestry. At least according to George while they were drinking that wine. His coloring seemed to favor the Italian side. He had dark brown almost black hair. Smoldering brown eyes. And a perpetual five o’clock shadow that gave him an unfair sexy advantage as far as Casey was concerned. Sometimes he wore the glasses and sometimes not, but either way he was dreamy.

“Yes?” George asked.

Casey cleared his throat. “Can-can I come in?”

George stepped back, holding the door open. “Plumbing problem?”

“What? No. Of course not.” Casey eyed the big terrier as George shut his door. “He doesn’t bite, does he?”

“No. Abraham is friendly.” George patted the dog’s head and the dog stuck his big tongue all over George’s hand to demonstrate, Casey guessed. “I was about to make coffee. Want some?”

“Oh. Sure. Thanks.”

George went into his kitchen, which looked very much like Casey’s own, except instead of Casey’s all white appliances, George’s were stainless steel.

Casey sort of went toward the kitchen but hovered on the outskirts. Abraham had followed his master and was now lying at his feet.

“Nice dog.”

“He is, yes. You have cats, right?”

“Right. Betty and Wilma.” Casey kind of felt hot and he didn’t think it was because it was warm in George’s condo. He was pretty sure he was blushing. “From the Flintstones.”

George smirked. “I understood the reference.”

“You like cats?”

“Sure. I used to have one.”

“Did Abraham eat it?”

George arched both brows. “Abraham is a good dog, Casey. Relax. And no, he didn’t. Daisy was almost twenty when she died.”

Casey ignored the flush of pleasure he felt at George remembering his name. Honestly he’d had his doubts. He wasn’t exactly memorable to someone the caliber of George.

“You get attacked by a dog before?” George asked.

“Yeah, actually. Years ago when I was a kid.” Casey shrugged. He pointed to a small scar on his left cheek. “Still have the evidence.”

“Sorry, I didn’t know.”

“Like I said, years ago. I’m good with most dogs as long as I know them.”

George, who looked like he was dressed for a warm day in jeans and a blue tank top, even though it was only in the fifties outside, which was cold to Casey, reached up to take mugs out of his cabinet. The movement lifted his shirt enough to expose some stomach skin, which shouldn’t have been quite so appealing.