Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 58487 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58487 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
“Doesn’t mean he isn’t disappointed,” Jamie mumbled barely audibly, his words muffled by Ryan’s shirt. “I’m nothing like him. I’m not clever and cool-headed. Not very good at business. If I didn’t have the Grayson eyes, I’d think I was switched at birth.” He chuckled. “Though it doesn’t mean much. Tristan has the Grayson eyes and he’s no Grayson.” He chuckled again. “Actually, Tristan would’ve made a far better Grayson than me. He’s clever and smart with his investments—Zach told me that. Dad would’ve approved of him.”
Ryan took Jamie’s chin and tipped his face up. The look of utter misery in Jamie’s aquamarine eyes twisted his insides into a tight, angry knot. “If being a good Grayson means being an arrogant, cunning son of a bitch, I’m glad you are very bad at it. And if that dickhead Lambert wanted your dad’s blessing to love you, fuck him, then. He’s a bloody idiot. You’ve been seeing him for what, two months? A bit too soon for the meeting the parents part.”
“I guess he was eager to meet him.” Jamie reached for Ryan’s bottle and downed the remaining whiskey in one deep swallow.
Ryan inhaled slowly through his gritted teeth. It wasn’t the first time someone close to Jamie was more interested in Arthur than him. Jamie was used to it by now. But it didn’t mean it still didn’t hurt him.
“Need another bottle,” Jamie slurred out, his eyes unfocused.
“Think you’ve had enough, mate,” Ryan said, taking both bottles away and setting them on the floor.
“No,” Jamie said stubbornly.
“Yes,” Ryan said. “You’ll hate yourself in the morning.”
“If I’m drunk, then you’re drunk, too,” Jamie said.
“Unlike you, I can hold my liquor. Irish blood and all.” Though, truth be told, Ryan did feel a little drunk—maybe not enough to give him a splitting headache in the morning, but enough for the world to seem slow and a little dreamlike.
“I’m not Irish. I’m English,” Jamie muttered with a bewildered look on his face.
In other circumstances, if Jamie hadn’t been so miserable, Ryan would have laughed. Jamie rarely got so pissed that he lost the thread of the conversation. “Yes, you are.” Cradling Jamie’s face, he brushed his lips against Jamie’s forehead. “Everything will be fine, you’ll see.” He kissed Jamie’s temple.
Jamie shuddered. “Don’t. Not now. I can’t—not now.”
Frowning, Ryan pulled back to look at his friend.
Jamie was staring at him oddly, his lips parted and curled in half a grimace, his eyes gleaming with desperation. “I—” he said before suddenly lunging forward and closing the distance between their mouths.
For a moment, Ryan’s alcohol-fogged brain couldn’t understand what was going on.
Jamie was kissing him.
Jamie was kissing him. Or at least trying to, his lips clumsy and awkward but desperate and needy—so needy it was weirding Ryan out.
“Please,” Jamie whispered, fingers clawing in Ryan’s hair and his lips clinging to Ryan’s. “Please.”
Ryan had never been more torn. A part of him was freaking out—it was Jamie, his best friend, the guy he loved like a little brother, for fuck’s sake, and what the hell was he doing?—but he’d never been any good at saying no to Jamie when he was hurting. And Jamie, his cheeks wet with tears, was hurting.
But he had to stop this.
Taking Jamie’s face in his hands again, Ryan pushed him away gently. Jamie actually whined.
“Jamie.”
He watched as awareness finally replaced that creepy, single-minded desperation in Jamie’s eyes. Awareness, self-consciousness, and dawning horror. Jamie looked much more sober all of a sudden. He flushed bright red.
Ryan chuckled. “I’m all for rebounding after a breakup, but… I know you’re drunk, but I didn’t think you were so drunk that even I would do.”
Jamie stared at him for a long moment before dropping his gaze. After a short while, he looked at Ryan again. “Sorry,” he said, clearing his throat. “I just—I wasn’t trying to use you as a rebound. Obviously. I just…Paul said something that got me all worked up and hurt my ego, so I guess…” He shrugged sheepishly. “Sorry.”
“What did he say?” Ryan asked, already knowing he wasn’t going to like it.
“It doesn’t matter. It was in the heat of the moment, just to hurt me.”
“Jamie.”
“He said…he said I was frigid and wasn’t any good in bed,” Jamie mumbled. “And that I’m terrible at kissing.” Jamie was refusing to meet his eyes.
Ryan said slowly, “Jamie, how much experience do you actually have?”
If anything, Jamie looked even more uncomfortable. “I’ve been in the closet all my life.”
“How much?” Ryan pressed.
“Until Paul, a few snogs and a handjob.”
It was Ryan’s turn to stare.
“Did you go all the way with him?” he asked at last, hoping Jamie would say no. He didn’t trust that dickhead to treat Jamie right—Jamie who had practically been a virgin, Jesus. Who the hell was a virgin at twenty-two?
“Yeah,” Jamie said, studying his own hands. “I fucked him.”