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Harry sat up. “I’d have been sad too. You’re the best.” He stared at his phone. “Martin’s a lovely guy. I’d go to dinner as family, too. But it might hurt. What should I say?”
“Tell him you already have plans. Say thanks for the room, but you’re nicely settled here.”
Harry started typing, and deleting, and typing again, until Lake opened his hand.
A relieved sigh fled Harry’s mouth and he handed over the phone.
Lake sent off a text, and Harry dropped his head on Lake’s shoulder. “Has he read it yet?”
Lake checked. “Yes.”
“Is he answering?”
“No.”
“Does that mean he’s upset?”
“Or he’s in the middle of a conversation with your grandma. Give him time.” Lake found his phone and scrolled to a message from Philip. He waved a shot of Harry’s pictures fanned out on a kitchen counter. “Look who got your pictures printed!”
“That was really nice of him.”
“Well, he’s into you.”
Harry smiled.
Lake tossed and turned under twisted sheets, unable to rid himself of images of Knight. His body tingled all over, strung taut with pent energy, and . . . Christ.
He gave in to the pleasure of a slick hand.
Some of his tension abated, but it was only after Knight returned home—alone—that he succumbed to sleep.
Lake woke freshened, curious to find out about Knight’s work gathering. He wouldn’t dwell on past embarrassments, and Knight had probably forgotten about it. That whole moment was a blip. Something they’d recall later—much later—and laugh about.
Dressed in shorts and a slim-fit polo, Lake trotted downstairs, Moby Dick tucked under his arm. He slung himself on the firm armchair.
At the sound of Knight’s heavy footsteps creaking the wooden stairs, Lake lifted his book so the cover was visible and peeked over the top. Knight breezed in with a waft of aftershave—smooth-jawed and crisply dressed in navy chino shorts, a short-sleeved button up, and brown ankle socks—and strode past him. Calves flexed, and reflected light caught on the delicate skin at his ankle.
Lake shifted the book, read another sentence, and guffawed.
Another peek. Knight glanced in his direction with a murmured “morning,” before ducking into the dining room.
Lake followed him, reading the whole way.
A shadow landed over the pages, but Lake continued to read.
“Could you be any more obvious?”
He feigned innocence. “What?”
A blank look. “You’re angling for praise.”
Lake couldn’t hold back a grin. He snapped the book shut, set it on the counter, and jumped up next to it. Knight veered around his swinging legs.
“It’s a fight to turn pages. Praise would be nice.”
Knight poured water into the kettle. “When you’ve read Shakespeare, Bacon, Austen, and Christie, I’ll consider it.”
Of course. “Bacon sounds good.”
“The Wisdom of Ancients.”
“Especially with a side of eggs.”
Knight gave him a withering look, but Lake caught his lips hitching as he busied himself making coffee.
Lake’s heels rhythmically bumped against the cupboards. “So. How was Paul last night?”
Knight paused, a heaped tablespoon of coffee hovering over a filter cup. “There is nothing between me and Paul.”
“Good.” At Knight’s gently raised brow, Lake cleared his throat and added, “I would have to think less of you, otherwise.”
Knight switched on the machine. “I should hope so.”
“I don’t like the idea of thinking less of you.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“Instead of focusing on the forbidden, what if I helped you find Mr. Right?”
Knight pulled out mugs from beside Lake’s legs. “That sounds torturous.”
Lake laughed. “Come on, it could be fun!”
Knight rose from a crouch, and a wash of air stirred over Lake. He settled the mugs on the counter beside Lake, then stepped in front of him.
Tightening everywhere, Lake blinked hard at the swift, powerful response.
“No more talk about matching me up with someone else, okay?”
Knight cupped his knees, hot palms and skating thumbs on his bare skin, and gently urged Lake’s thighs apart.
Lake’s breath hitched. “What are you—?”
Knight pulled out the cutlery drawer and drew out a couple of teaspoons.
Oh.
Lake clamped a hand over his nape. He suppressed a panicked chuckle. He didn’t suppress the tickles Knight left behind on his knees—that sensitive skin on the inner side . . .
The scent of percolating coffee lured a bouncy Harry in jean shorts, an epically bright pineapple-print shirt, and matching socks.
“Coffee?” Knight offered.
Harry accepted a cup and downed it in three large gulps. “Sorry, got to run for the bus. Audition. Cashier man, three lines! Wish me luck.”
The moment the front door shut, Lake snuck into the chaotic shambles of Harry’s room.
“Lake?”
Lake jumped, swinging toward Knight who frowned at him from the doorway, cradling a mug of steaming coffee. “Shit, you surprised me.”
“I wish I could say the same. Why are you sifting through Harry’s things?”
“If you came to bring me sustenance, you can leave the coffee on the desk.”
Knight sipped. “You can pour your own. Right now might be a good idea.”
“Just a sec.” Lake plucked through a mound of laundered but unfolded clothes.
