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“Huh.” There was muttering and then Simon was back. “Twenty minutes.”
“Meet us at the pub.”
For the second time that day, Martin and Nick walked into the Steam Donkey. He’d seen Simon’s Jeep in the parking lot, so he knew Charlie and he had beaten them there.
“Over here,” Simon called out, as if Martin wouldn’t be able to find them. Nick hadn’t wanted to come, but Martin had put his foot downandbribed him with a blow job. Orgasms definitely put Nick in a more mellow mood. Maybe he and Charley wouldn’t kill each other. Miracles were known to happen.
They slid into the booth across from Simon and Charley.
“Nick, this is my ex-work husband Simon and his real husband, Charley. Guys, this is Nick.”
Charley shot Martin an evil grin. “I told you all the boys would come running.”
“Charley,” Simon said warningly, putting his hand under the table.
Charley shifted, protesting, “I’m just pointing out that I was right. Martin is a catch.”
“Anyway,” Simon began, “like Martin said, we used to work together.”
“I was Simon’s emotional support while he pulled his head out of his ass and sorted everything out with Charley,” Martin added. “Just in case these two yahoos make it sound like they are the epitome of how to start a relationship. We are miles ahead of them.”
“Hey,” Simon protested.
“He’s not wrong,” Charley said. “So, let’s skip all that and get down to the good stuff.” He pinned Nick with a stare. “How do I meet the guy who carves the princesses? Someone posted a picture of a couple of them on Insta and whoever the artist is, they’re talented. Sorry, dude.” Charley shook his head. “I’ve seen better dicks than yours drawn by six-year-olds, so I don’t think it’s you. Dicks just aren’t that hard.”
“Oh my god,” Simon groaned, slapping his hand over his eyes.
Next to him, Nick angled forward and spoke quietly, like he was telling Charley a military secret. “They should be hardall the time. But”—he leaned back again—“if you must know, my friend Liam is the person who carved those.”
“Can I meet him?” Charley asked. “And when?”
This time, when Simon and Charley drove away, Martin and Nick stood side by side, watching as their taillights disappeared around the bend.
“No offense—I ended up liking your friends—but I’m glad they’re gone.”
“My sentiments exactly. Ready to go home? Jane’s probably pissed off.”
“Jane is always pissed off.”
They both looked toward the cabin. Jane sat on the windowsill, her mouth opening and closing as she complained.
“You should see if she’ll take a leash. Maybe she’d like to be outside.”
“Maybe,” Nick said skeptically.
“I had a cat growing up that loved to hike with us,” Martin told him. “We never put her on a leash. She hated the car but also wouldn’t let us go away without her. Of course, that was in ancient times, but she’d hike right along with us and sleep in the tent too. Singed her butt a couple times at the fire pit. There’s no more disgusting smell than burning cat hair.”
“What happened to her?”
Martin was pretty sure Nick imagined Basty had been eaten by a bear or lost in the wilderness forever.
“To Basty? The meanest cat that ever lived? She died peacefully at twenty-six, while I was getting my PhD. Probably dreaming about the two—or was it three?—dogs she sent to the vets.”
Nick stared at him. “Are you kidding me?”
“No, but the dogs were assholes, and she only weighed six pounds. Come on.” Martin grabbed Nick’s hand, weaving their fingers together. “Let’s get inside and placate Jane so she doesn’t kill us in our sleep.”
Nick looked down at their joined hands and then back at Martin, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.
