Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 85838 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 343(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85838 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 343(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
“Thanks, me too.” He leans against the counter, meeting my eyes with curiosity in his. “So, you and Zane? When did that start up?”
He’s a goddamn mind reader.
“What do you mean?” I ask, buying time.
“You heard me, buddy,” he says, giving me sympathy now instead of a hard time. He asks because he cares.
I sigh, then turn away to rinse my cup and set it in the dishwasher. “What gave it away?” I ask roughly. Denial is pointless. I just can’t believe he figured it out so quickly.
“Oh, just, you know, the way he curled his hand around your shoulder when you introduced us,” he says.
If he only knew how sexual Zane was when he touched me later in the dark of the cabana.
“Also, the way he ribbed you,” Bryan adds. “He was so on point. It’s like he was dying to poke fun at you in front of me.”
I fight off a smile. “And that made it obvious?” I ask, turning around, genuinely curious.
“A little. It’s like he’s…proud of you? Know what I mean? He just seems like the kind of guy who’s a little—”
“Possessive,” I say quietly, finishing for him.
“Yeah. But in a good way,” he adds.
But if others noticed what Bryan saw, that could be a problem. “Is it obvious to everyone?”
“I don’t know,” he says, turning the question around with a friendly shrug. “Is it, Maddox?”
Zane was cautious at the dinner with Vance when we met. He played it professional in front of Gunnar last night. He only showed his hand in front of Bryan. Like Zane told me in the car last night—he wants my friend to know the score.
“No,” I say, settling that brief debate. “And nothing is going on with us. Not really. But I guess he wants you to know there’s some kind of vibe with us because he sees you as…safe.”
Bryan smiles. “And he also wants someone to know he sees you as his.”
A velvety warmth spreads through me at Bryan’s conclusion, but I can’t give in to it. “Probably, but nothing more is going to happen,” I say, resolute. Last night was already too dangerous. “I can’t take the chance.”
“I hear ya,” he says, but then his brow knits with concern. “Just want to make sure you’re not into his he’s mine vibe because it’s the opposite of Wesley.”
I flinch at the mention of my ex but keep an impassive face. “Not even remotely related,” I say, tensely.
Bryan scrubs a hand over his jaw, nodding a few times. “I get it. And you know I’m just looking out for you. Can’t help it—I’m an older brother to a T. Ask Milo about when he met his girlfriend,” he says, mentioning his little brother with an I can’t help it smile.
I lighten up. “We’re the same age, and you can’t resist big brothering me. I suppose that’s my fate as an only child.”
But it’s my fate too, as a guy who trusted the wrong person. When I met Wesley, he came on strong, the way I like it, the way I want it, but several months of exclusivity later, he asked me to move into an “ethically non-monogamous relationship.”
I have plenty of queer friends in that type of situation, and it works great for them. More power to them, especially the ethical part.
I like one-on-one attention. A lot of it, to be honest.
And I dislike being blindsided.
But my likes and dislikes don’t matter. I can’t act on them with Zane.
Still, I appreciate my long-time friend playing the role he plays best, like he did when he took me out for tequila to drown out the misery of Wesley’s request, then listened to all my stories of what had gone wrong.
“I’ll be careful,” I say, patting his shoulder.
“I didn’t tell you to be careful,” Bryan corrects.
“I know. I’m the one who needs the reminder.” And I need it badly.
I take off for my tee time with Braxton, glad to go to work—where I can make things happen.
The guy with the golden foot stares down the fifth hole with textbook intensity. His dark eyes travel from the hole ten feet away to the white ball inches from him.
Then, he takes a swing, taps the ball lightly, and sends it the rest of the way.
“Nice one,” I say after it lands with a plink.
Braxton laughs, something he only does when he finishes each hole. “Easy for you to say. You’re ahead of me by, what, twenty strokes?” he asks, grabbing the ball.
“Hardly,” I say, as we head to the path weaving through the course.
“Yeah, right. You’re a secret golf pro,” he teases. Pro athletes usually love a good challenge on the links. I never go easy on them. They’d consider it rude.
“Nah. My father just wanted me to learn the game, so I practically grew up with a golf club in my hand,” I say, downplaying my golf skills.