Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 88057 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88057 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
“Not TMI.” He sounded so breathless with bright-pink cheeks, though, that I wasn’t sure if he was telling the truth. “That’s…jerking off is an underrated activity, for sure.” He licked his upper lip, the briefest touch of his tongue to the pink flesh, and damn if that didn’t send my blood rushing south.
“It’s fun,” I said gruffly. We really, really should not be having this conversation, but hell if I wanted to stop either.
“Yup.” He nodded enthusiastically. “And it’s not precisely the same thing, but a lot of people want to define how gay a person is by how into fucking they are. Trust me, I’m still plenty gay even though I’m picky about fucking, and a lot of the time would just as soon do something else in bed.”
Something else. My brain was only too happy to supply a long loop of possibilities. I shifted in my seat, jeans suddenly that much tighter.
“Ain’t that the fucking truth.” The conversation might not be appropriate for a client, but man, it felt awesome to find someone who agreed with me. “If you click enough hookup apps, you start to think the whole world can be defined as top or bottom, and that fucking is the end-all, be-all.”
“Absolutely. Finding someone who’s into what you’re into is a challenge no matter how you define yourself or what labels do or don’t apply.”
Damn. I absolutely wanted to hear more about exactly what all Ambrose might be into, but no fucking way could I ask.
“Yup.” I swallowed hard, staring off into the desert to the east. “Anyway, thank you for creating Bishop. And that scene. It…helped.”
“Good.” Ambrose smiled with the same gentleness he had when talking about the show or the dog, like he truly did get how much that episode mattered to me. “And after all that sharing, I think we definitely need a coffee stop.”
“Oh, hell yes.” I grabbed my phone like it was a fucking lifeline. “Let me find some options for us. I need some sugar to soak up all that word vomit.”
“Colorful as that image is, I didn’t mind at all.” Ambrose laughed lightly.
“No?”
“I like talking with you,” he said simply. I admired the effortless way he could admit that. Would have taken me a hell of a lot of hemming and hawing to get the same sentiment out. “You might be my new favorite passenger. Sorry, Hercules.”
“Wow. Beating out the dog. I feel special,” I teased because the alternative was to give into this rising pressure in my chest and try to figure out what it all meant. And not simply how good talking with Ambrose felt, giving voice to things I rarely said aloud, but how he made me actually care about this fake-boyfriend business. I meant what I said. I’d never really had a powerful craving for a relationship before. But damn if I didn’t want to be the best fake boyfriend Ambrose had ever had, even if I had no clue where to start.
Chapter Eleven
Ambrose
“Breakfast, boys.” The waitress at the little roadside café had long dark hair with a blowout worthy of a Hollywood starlet even though we were several hours out of LA. Her down-home attitude, though, was classic small town, to the point that I wanted to put her as an extra in an episode of Traveling.
“Thanks.” I moved so she could set the platters down. A cool breeze wafted through the patio seating area. It was still early enough that the desert air was pleasant, not stifling. And kudos to Harley, who had proved himself an awesome navigator, for finding this breakfast place with outdoor seating so we didn’t have to leave Hercules in the car. Instead, he was on the chair next to me in his bag.
“Eat up.” The waitress didn’t seem in any hurry to get back to the kitchen. We must have missed the earlier breakfast rush because the homey red café didn’t have many other patrons. The covered patio was so inviting compared to the more cramped interior that it made sense why she lingered, stooping to peer into Hercules’s carrier. “That sure is a cute ugly dog.”
I laughed. “He gets that a lot.”
“Especially wearing tacky-ass shirts.” Harley looked up from his giant breakfast burrito with a side of home fries so big it threatened to spill over the edge of the plate. “He looks like he’s ready to do karaoke at a dive bar in the Bahamas.”
“Hey, Hercules loves this shirt.” I faked indignation, which made the waitress giggle.
“Aw, let your boyfriend have his fun,” she said to Harley, who reacted like a squirrel caught stealing nuts, eyes wide as he glanced around like maybe she meant someone else. He swallowed audibly, and the waitress gave an uncomfortable laugh. “Oops. I’m sorry. Are you not a couple?”
“No, we are,” I said with a smile. I could have corrected her, but if we were going to pull off this fake-dating business, we had to start sometime.