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“I’m so glad you’re not—you came back.” Ian moved quickly and wrapped his arms around Alek’s waist, pressing his face into his stomach. “Am I hurting you?”
“No.” Alek reached for the clipboard and pen.So what’s this about us being partners?
Ian lifted his head. “I panicked. I meant business partner, but they assumed otherwise, probably because of how upset I was.”
Business partner was a woefully inadequate label for what they were to each other.I like being called your partner, Alek wrote.
“Me too.”
I have to know. Is there still a chance?
Alek held his breath.
With dark eyes sincere and the line of his jaw sharp, Ian answered, “Yes.”
Alek thanked him, but whether it was Bulgarian or not, he was too tired to care. He dropped the pen, pushed the clipboard to the side, and patted his lap. After Ian rested his head again, Alek ran his fingers through his velvety brown hair. It made everything hurt, but it was worth the pain.
8
IAN
THREE YEARS EARLIER
Ian had first met Alek over email when he’d reached out to inquire about some emerald and gold stained glass pendant lights he’d seen in an antique listing. Alek had suggested they exchange the priceless items at an Art Déco hotel at the old town waterfront.
Over email, Alek sounded like a stuffy, aristocratic professor clad from head to foot in tweed. Far too many five dollar words and a subtle level of condescension nestled between each letter.
But the man sitting on the third barstool from the left as they’d previously discussed was nothing like he’d imagined. He was dressed in all black with wide shoulders and a wiry build, the bones at the base of the back of his neck just visible as he bent over a paperback book. Glossy midnight hair flounced over his forehead, the perfect length for Ian to tangle his fingers in.
Ian dropped onto the barstool beside him, eyes trailing over the strong forearms revealed by a collared shirt pushed up at the sleeves, but by the time he opened his mouth to introduce himself, Alek turned and rendered Ian speechless. Alek had high cheekbones, an angular jaw, and striking pale green eyes that flashed in contrast with Mediterranean skin.
He looked close in age or a little younger. Late twenties, maybe?
“You must be Ian,” Alek said in a voice low and lyrical.
“You’re not what I expected.”
His lips quirked into a half-grin. “I get that a lot.”
Ah, there was the arrogance. “Where are the light fixtures?”
Alek mocked a pout. “I’m really rather attached to my antiques. How will I know if they’re headed to a good home if I don’t get to know you first?”
Alek spent the next hour seducing Ian between talking shop, finding any excuse to touch him, dropping a hand to his wrist under the ruse of getting his attention, leaning closer when the bar was loud to speak against his ear. His tactics were shamelessly obvious, but Alek was like a book Ian couldn’t stop reading. There was something magnetic and dangerous about him. Ian nursed a single beer until it was lukewarm and still felt drunk, his words flowing freely, as if Alek wasn’t just a book, but a drug.
“Why do you restore historical homes?” Alek asked, tracing long, delicate fingers around the rim of his glass. “Why not commercial buildings?”
“Still interrogating me, I see. Are you this thorough with every sale you make?”
“Certainly not. Most people are exceedingly dull, but you intrigue me. Now, answer my question.” He wet his lower lip and leveled his jade gaze through thick black lashes. “Please.”
“Commercial and new builds have no character. For me, every abandoned house is a person with its own secret history. Tarnished engraved doorplates. An old well in a basement. Built-in book cases layered with cheap paint. Hidden wounds, yes, but held together by the skeleton of a survivor. Scars that can be erased. For me, restoring a historical building is liketraveling back in time. The closest thing to magic we’ll get in this life.”
Alek’s lips had parted slightly. Ian wanted to dip his tongue inside and taste the single malt whiskey.
Ian flushed and looked at his hands. “I should go.” He peeled a twenty from his wallet, tucked it beneath his beer and stood. The stool legs scraped, pulling the attention of the other bar patrons.
“I’ll walk you out,” Alek said, seemingly unruffled as he hailed the barman and closed out his tab.
