Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 92536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
“She told me she thinks we should have a fucking baby.” He snorted, shaking his head. “You believe that shit?”
He did believe it. He loved his sister-in-law, but Whitney was crazier than Randy, and together, they were a volcano of insanity. No one knew when they would erupt, but they were active and exploded frequently and without warning.
Tate zoned out as Randy rambled on about his dysfunctional marriage. Keeping up with their drama was a full-time job, and Tate didn’t need or want a second one. Randy could talk, and he did while they stopped for their crappy coffee, filled up on gas, and all the way to their job site. Finally, he shut the hell up when they parked.
“Okay…” Tate searched for his boss’s email explaining the details of the job estimate. Their boss was lazy as a damn slug and should have handled his own estimates, but he threw Tate an extra hundred bucks each time he handled an estimate that led to a job booking, so he sucked it up and did them. Maybe someday he’d be the one in charge, and he could forget about having to bow down to a boss who didn’t care about him.
“What do we got today?” Randy asked.
“We’re finishing the job at the McMillian’s ranch at ten, but first, we have an estimate for this new dance studio. They’re looking to have the locker rooms and bathrooms retiled. The business owner apparently has some pretty detailed ideas, so let’s go on in and see what’s up.”
“Oh, fuck no,” Randy said. “I ain’t goin’ in there. No fucking way.”
“What?” Tate glanced up from his phone to see Randy staring at the dance studio through the windshield, shaking his head. “What’s the problem?”
“Look.” Randy tipped his chin in the direction of the studio. The sign read Dance For All Studio. Through the windows, he made out the outline of a man walking through the lobby with a clipboard in his hand.
“I don’t get it. You got a problem with dancers?”
Randy snorted. “Some of ‘em, yeah. Look what’s in the damn window.”
It took a moment, but Tate finally found what had Randy freaking out. An icy wave washed over him, leaving him cold and empty. In the bottom left corner of the storefront windows gleamed a rainbow sticker with the words LGBTQIA+ Owned and Operated Business.
“You see it, right? You know what it means?”
Of course, I fucking know what it means.
Goddammit, why did he have to be the one assigned to this job?
“I know what it means, Randy.”
“It means this place is owned by a fag,” he plowed on as though Tate hadn’t spoken.
“It’s owned by someone who wants to pay us money. Get the fuck over it.”
“Ain’t going in there.” Randy was still shaking his head. You’d think Tate had asked him to climb in a coffin and shut the lid.
Tate clenched his teeth so hard his jaw spasmed. “You know it can’t rub off on you, right?” He turned to face his ignorant brother. “You’re not gonna walk in there wanting pussy and come out with a thing for dick because you spent ten minutes measuring the guy’s bathroom for tiles.”
“Ain’t worth the risk, T. I ain’t doin’ it.”
“For fuck’s sake.” Tate shoved his door open, stepped out of the car, and tromped toward the dance studio’s entrance.
Don’t let them see your legs wobble.
His insides churned like the wall of a hurricane, fierce and destructive. He clenched his fists at his side to keep his hands from trembling.
Don’t vomit.
A door slammed behind him, and Randy called, “Fine. But I’m not shaking his hand. Got it?”
Tate plowed on toward the door. He wrenched it open too hard, making the overhead bells smack against the glass with a harsh clatter. “Shit, sorry,” he mumbled.
The man with the clipboard whirled around at the same time Randy came through the door, looking as excited as he’d be if he’d been there for a colonoscopy.
Tate froze. His blood stopped pumping, and his lungs seized. Alarm bells blared in his brain louder than a parade of firetruck sirens.
No.
This cannot be happening.
Liam met his gaze, and his expression went from neutral to surprised to excited in the blink of an eye. “Oh, my God,” he whispered, leaving his mouth dangling.
“Uh…” Leave it to Randy to capture the moment with eloquent words.
Liam crossed the room with a smile stretching the lips that had wrapped around his cock and made him come harder than ever before. “I can’t believe it’s y—”
Fuck.
He worked to keep his face blank despite the riot in his chest. “Mr. Brady? William Brady?”
“Wha… uh, yeah?” Liam shook his head as he wrinkled his nose. “But it’s Liam, reme—”
Tate thrust his right hand out. “Good morning, Mr. Brady. I’m with Expert Flooring and Tile. Thanks for meeting with us this morning.”