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I stared at him, wishing I could peer into his head. The man was a contrary mix of submission and snark, adorable blushes and cutting comments. But which Reagan was the real one?
Doesn’t matter, I told myself firmly. He’s not yours to figure out.
Far too quickly, the bus stopped, double-parked in Midtown, and McGee pulled back the privacy curtain to stand by the sofa. “First stop. We’ve got maybe twenty minutes ’til we get a ticket, so get your bags quick, kid—” He looked up and down at Reagan’s perfect hair and stylish suit and revised his mental calculations. “Or quick as you can, anyway.”
“I’ll take far less than twenty minutes,” Reagan promised. But clearly, he’d caught the hint of disdain beneath my driver’s scrupulously polite tone because when he pushed to his feet, he returned McGee’s up-down look and cocked his head. “Just to say, I’m twenty-eight, and you’re, what, twenty-six? Kid?”
McGee narrowed his eyes. “How’d you guess my age? My own mom thinks I’m thirty.”
Reagan waved a hand. “Spend enough time on social media and you learn to spot the person behind the filter… or behind the hot-as-fuck tattoos and the early onset eye wrinkles, as the case may be.”
“The…” McGee lifted a hand to rub the skin above his eyebrow ring, and his frown deepened. “Hey! I’m not wrinkled.”
“No, of course you’re not.” Reagan patted McGee’s inked forearm comfortingly. “But if you’d ever like to talk about your skincare regime, let me know.” He grabbed his coat from the sofa and dug his keys out of his pocket. “Okay, be right back.”
McGee stared at the door long after it closed behind Reagan. Then, unexpectedly, he burst out laughing. “Jesus Christ. You know, I might actually like that guy? I’ve only ever seen him from a distance over the years, and I had an idea that he was like a younger version of his parents, but now I’m thinking he might be okay.”
“Because he insulted your skincare regime?” I rolled my eyes and felt my headache grow. “You have incredibly strange standards.”
He turned toward me with an easy smile. “He caught that I was giving him attitude, and he gave it right back. You know I love a fighter.”
I’d known McGee since he, himself, had been a rough-and-tumble sixteen-year-old held together by pride and a bad attitude, so this statement earned him another eye roll.
“He was nice to me earlier today, too.” McGee shrugged. “Just saying, he might be a decent guy under the designer duds.”
I made a noncommittal noise and sank back in my seat. The band around my head was getting tighter by the minute. “Can we not talk about this anymore?”
McGee leaned against the wall, studying me. “You don’t like him?”
“I didn’t say that.” I kneaded the back of my neck. “I don’t feel any particular way about Reagan Wellbridge.” Just like I didn’t feel any particular way about him noticing McGee’s “hot-as-fuck” tattoos and then touching them. No discernible feelings at all. “He’s an employee. Moreover, he’s Trent and Patricia’s son,” I reminded both of us. “He and Brantleigh went to school together.”
“Yep.” McGee shrugged again. “But he’s pretty cute despite all that.”
“Did you not hear everything I just said?” I demanded. “Don’t get any bright ideas. He’s off limits.” To both of us.
“Come on, boss.” McGee shot me a wounded look. “I told you, I’m done with hookups for a while. And you know he’s not my type. I like ’em small enough to pick up with one hand.” He lifted an enormous paw in demonstration. “Like Alden, who runs the salon up in Honeybridge. Hot damn. That man has an ass like?—”
“Way, way too much information.” I held up a hand to cut him off. “McGee, how long have you worked for me?”
“Hmm. Driver for eight years, odd jobs for a while before that…” He scratched his cheek thoughtfully with one tattooed finger. “About ten years altogether. Why?”
“In all that time, how often have I asked for the details of your sex life? How often have I shared the details of mine?”
He grinned, unrepentant. “Just showing you it’s okay to be open about what—and who—you want, that’s all.”
“I’m not closeted,” I reminded him for maybe the hundredth time in the years since he’d defiantly informed me that he was gay and I’d shared my own sexuality as a way to help him feel safe and comfortable. “I’m discreet. There’s a difference. I don’t broadcast my attractions, no matter who I’m attracted to, because the gossip and tabloid headlines would last longer than the attraction itself. But I have no problem being open about it with certain… friends.”
By friends, I primarily meant men I hooked up with, and McGee knew it.
Which was why I was shocked to hear him say, “You know, I think Reagan could be your friend. If you wanted him to be.”
“McGee,” I warned.
He mimed zipping his mouth shut.
Surprisingly, Reagan was true to his word. He emerged from his building—one high-end enough I had to imagine Trent and Patricia were subsidizing his rent—in just twelve minutes, carting a rolling suitcase, a duffel, an enormous pillow, and a reusable grocery bag bulging with food.
When McGee ran down to help with the luggage, Reagan thanked him profusely, and McGee gave him a “No problem, man. You were faster than I thought,” which might not have sounded like a compliment to the average person but was more respect than McGee usually gave people he barely knew.
