“I can’t say as I’m on the pulse of celebrity chefs, now or ever,” Malcolm said, “but did Darry-O make it big?”
“No.” Hurt and grief washed over Iggy like ice water, and he drank his shot without thinking. Wanting the warmth. “His ambition was bigger than his talent. I think our mutual commitment to each other was also a way of acknowledging that our relationship was on a downward spiral. Things ended four months later.”
The simplest, politest way of not saying what Darren had done. Now wasn’t the time.
“Well, his loss was the Saddle Up Saloon’s gain,” Malcolm said. “I’m sorry, though. Sounds like you were together for a while. Through a lot of stuff.”
“Four years and nine months.”
“Irreconcilable differences?”
“Something like that.”If by differences, you mean I wanted to live, and he chose the opposite.Iggy didn’t want to go into that, but he also wanted to be as honest as necessary during this getting-to-know-you-again session. “We were separated when Darren passed away.”
“Fuck, Iggs.” Malcolm’s eyes went liquid. “I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you, and I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Heard. I really am sorry you went through that. I’ve been dumped a few times, but I’ve never had someone I love die before.”
“What about Tomás?”
Malcolm’s attention wandered around the small room before settling on his glass. “I was upset for Liss and upset for the kids, and their loss, but I didn’t know him very well. It wasn’ta personal loss for me in the same way it was for them, or for Tomás’s family. And it’s nothing like you losing Darren.”
Iggy bit back a sardonic remark about not doubting that Tomás hadn’t wanted to leave his family behind. Darren made the choice to go. “Death of a loved one isn’t something I recommend, and I hope you’re spared that for a long time. Truly, Monte.”
“Appreciate it. Damn, we went from joking about butt tattoos to talking about grief and death. Some drinking game.”
Done with serious topics for a while, Iggy pushed his glass away. “A butt tattoo I still need proof exists. Drop ‘em, Montgomery.”
“As long as you promise you can control yourself, Donohue. I know how you feel about my ass.”
Iggy snorted. “I’m not going to maul you, I promise.”
Malcolm stood, all loose limbs and swagger, and pushed his chair back. Took a single step to the side. Iggy leaned back in his own chair and rested his hands on his thighs, curious and excited and a little nervous, too. Malcolm was poised like a private dancer about to do a strip tease, and Iggy had half-a-mind to grab his phone and find an appropriate song. He remembered how teenage Malcolm could move his hips.
Instead of fulfilling a silent dream of Iggy’s, Malcolm methodically undid his belt and fly. Turned around and let his jeans drop to around his knees before they stopped. He wore basic white briefs, just like in high school, and that hit Iggy right in the groin. He’d never found underwear particularly sexy; it existed to hide his ultimate destination. But standing there, filled out and older, still mostly dressed, Malcolm in those briefs was the most erotic thing Iggy had ever seen.
Until Malcolm pulled them down to just below his chisel ass cheeks, showing off twin globes of pale flesh. On his right cheek, just below the elastic indentation on the skin, was the tattoo.Flashes of green, there and gone again so quickly Iggy almost yelled “No fair, show me again!” but didn’t.
Malcolm hitched up his underwear and jeans, and he took a few paces toward the couch while he cinched up his belt. Didn’t turn back around, either, just stood facing away, hands on hips. Head bowed. “Happy? You saw the damned tattoo.” The rasp in his voice wasn’t anger or anxiety, it was…fatigue? Grief?
Iggy stood from his chair and cut the distance between them in two long strides, heart jack-hammering in his chest. Palms sweaty, neck prickling. Keenly aware of the kind, sensitive, sexy man standing in his living room. Still present and trying, instead of doing the easy thing and walking away. He owed Iggy nothing, but he was showing grace.
They were bothtryingin their own flawed ways.
“When did you tell the babysitter you’d be home?” Iggy asked, his voice as rough as a Jaeger-induced hangover.
“Paid her until three. Sure she’s gone home by now.”
“Melissa?”
“If one of the kids needs her, she’ll wake up. They’re fine.”
“Then stay.” Iggy put no forethought into the statement, had no specific intentions behind the two simple words, other than he was lonely. Had been for years. Lonely and tired and desperate for a human connection. To stop hauling all his guilt around, all his anger and resentment, and to fuckinglive.
Even if living started with going to bed and actually sleeping for a few hours, next to someone he still had strong feelings for.
“You still got that little single bed in your room?” Malcolm asked.
