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Jack was shirtless and barefoot, showing off his muscled chest and arms, which looked like they could benchpress a fucking ton. He was wearing jeans that hung low on his hips and were threadbare around his strong ass. The lack of waistband indicated he might be going commando, and George lost a few brain cells, processing the whole view.
“Grab a seat. Breakfast is coming up,” Jack said, grinning when George stayed glued to the floor. “You lost your tongue there, cupcake?”
“My tongue and my brain,” George muttered. “Plus my ability to move.”
“Hmm, let’s get you that coffee first, then.”
Jack poured a steaming mug of coffee and set it on the kitchen table, a high top that looked rustic and homemade. The sight of the coffee finally broke through George’s stupor, and he climbed onto the high chair that matched the table. Jack turned his attention back to the stove, where he was making an omelet that seemed stuffed with a lot of healthy crap. George spotted bell peppers, mushrooms, spinach, and was that feta cheese? Not his jam, but considering his breakfast usually consisted of a few ready-made pancakes with a crapload of Nutella, maybe he shouldn’t complain.
A tall glass of strange-looking juice was put in front of him. “Enjoy.”
He frowned. “What’s that?”
“Fresh juice from several kinds of fruits and veggies, with some added fibers.”
“That sounds really healthy.”
Jack laughed. “It is.”
He turned off the stove and slid the omelet on a plate, then quickly cut it into parts and put it on the table. The strips of bacon—six in total—were on a separate plate, and they were mouthwateringly perfect, with enough crisp to make it crackle when eating but not so hard the whole thing was dried out.
George reached to grab one, but Jack slapped his fingers. “Healthy things first. Drink your juice and eat a piece of omelet, and then you can have some bacon.”
The man was joking, right? He had to be. But Jack’s face was serious. “Why? I’m not your…”
He wasn’t even sure how to end that sentence. Not his son? Considering what they had done the night before, thank fuck not. That held true for all familial relationships. What was left, then?
His friend? Partner? His boy? Wait, where had that last one come from? Maybe because George had been around Gale and Saxton too much, he’d gotten used to the way Gale took care of Saxton, which was kind of similar. Making sure he ate healthy, got enough sleep, exercised.
“My house, my rules,” Jack said, his stern tone leaving no room for discussion. Fuck, George seriously needed therapy because why the hell would that tone turn him on? They were talking about food, for fuck’s sake, about him drinking some kind of healthy concoction that looked like spinach had made out with some strawberries and had fathered vaguely green kids. Ew.
“I hope it’s like cum in the sense that it tastes better than it looks,” he said, shooting another wary eye at the glass.
Jack chuckled. “Only one way to find out.”
With a sigh, George started on a piece of the omelet first. He’d been right. The thing had a lot of healthy crammed in there, but it still tasted good. “Didn’t think you’d be the type to cook,” he said.
“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Jack admonished him.
Wait, what? George chewed quickly, then swallowed. “You cook, and you insist on manners?”
Much to his surprise, Jack shifted in his seat, looking uncomfortable for the first time since George had met him. “If I didn’t cook, I’d starve, what with my job. And yeah, I do care about manners. When I’m home, at least.”
And the plot thickened. “What do you do for a living?”
Jack sighed, then met his eyes. “I’m the foreman on a crew of lumberjacks.”
George’s mouth dropped open. Was he serious? He was. Not a single muscle on his face showed he was kidding. “You’re an actual lumberjack and your name is Jack?”
Jack let out another sigh. “I know. With my name, I should’ve picked another profession, but after serving in the Army, I was kinda lost. A friend of mine saw I needed structure and a job, so he hired me for his lumber crew. I never left, and I now have my own crew.”
“Wow. How old are you?”
“I hit the big four-oh last month, cupcake. Quite a bit older than you if I had to hazard a guess.”
“I’m twenty-six, so not too bad. Besides, I like older men.”
What was wrong with him that he kept saying shit like that? No wonder he couldn’t find a boyfriend. He was always saying the wrong things.
