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Oliver hummed as he sorted through the light green ones that had a cute V-neck. “Do what?”
“Flatter me.”
Oliver froze, then turned when he realized that Victor was serious—and not in the pity-me kind of way. Just in a matter-of-fact, people didn’t spend enough time telling him he was beyond fucking beautiful kind of way.
Oliver draped one of the shirts over his arm and faced him properly. “Okay, real talk? You are one of the hottest men I have ever spent an evening with. And I know I’m pretty, so I don’t have trouble meeting hot men literally anywhere I go.”
“That’s not difficult to imagine,” Victor said, and Oliver couldn’t get a good read on his tone, but it didn’t sound resentful the way some of his clients did. “But I was being serious, Oliver. I’m very aware of how I look.”
Oliver took a step closer to him. “I’m not entirely sure you are. I’m not going to bullshit you and say that I don’t notice your walk is different from most people I hang out with.”
“And I’m a lot older than you,” Victor added.
Oliver rolled his eyes. “Sweetheart, that does not make you less hot, trust me. We just met, and there’s nothing riding on this night, so I have zero reason to lie. You’ve got amazing eyes and this kissable mouth, and you’re funny and so quiet about it I think most people probably miss that. And anyone who says humor isn’t one of the sexiest things on the planet is full of shit.” Oliver took a breath, then added, “You’re also sweet, even when you’re not trying. You’re a catch, and I’m sorry anyone ever made you feel like you weren’t.”
Victor took in a deep breath, then looked at his feet as he muttered, “Thanks.”
Oliver wanted to keep going. He wanted to wax poetic about the timber of his laugh, or the way he blushed, or how everything about him made Oliver feel oddly safe—which was a goddamn novelty. But he didn’t think that would do Victor any favors.
Victor had been through the damn wringer, and the last thing Oliver wanted to do was make it worse. The fact that he was lying to him about who he was and that he most definitely was not his hired driver was bad enough. He had no regrets, but he knew it wasn’t going to end well as soon as Victor found out.
Taking his arm again, he tugged lightly, keeping up with Victor’s slow gait as they made their way up to the register. When Oliver started to dig into his pocket, Victor curled a hand around his wrist.
“They’re both on me.”
Oliver shook his head. “Sorry, honey, but you paid for dinner.” He shoved his card at the cashier, and neither of them said anything until Oliver had the bag and the receipt in his hand.
“I know you know I have money,” Victor said quietly as they started toward the exit. “And you’ve made what would have been a terrible, lonely night one of the best I’ve ever had. I can’t even begin to repay you for that.”
“That’s…”
“Please don’t say sad,” Victor begged. “I feel pathetic enough as it is.”
“I wasn’t going to,” Oliver said because it wasn’t sad. It was fuckingtragic. Making Victor hurt like this should have been a crime. And unless he was hiding some narcissistic sociopath under his adorably clueless façade, the world had done this man dirty for his whole life.
Oliver held out his hand to Victor, who stared at him. “Come on, take it. I don’t bite. Unless you beg me to.”
Victor’s cheeks flushed again, and Oliver realized he was getting a little addicted to flustering this poor bastard. The tension fizzled into nothing, though, as Victor linked their fingers together, then led Oliver to a small entryway with a guard.
“Victor Bennett,” he said to the man, who just waved them on like it was nothing.
Was this seriously how the other half lived? Oliver wanted to laugh, but he was too busy being shocked by the view. The owner’s box—or whatever it was—was fairly basic. The seats were nicer, and it didn’t smell like beer sweat and Axe body spray, but otherwise, it was just stadium seating. But being able to see over the entire arena was wild, and he started to feel a little dizzy.
He tumbled slightly sideways, and Victor caught him with a strong, warm arm around his waist. It took everything in Oliver’s power not to cuddle in as Victor held him upright.
“Sorry. I think I got vertigo.”
Victor just smiled at him, and Oliver’s whole chest went warm. Which was…new. Definitely new and not at all terrifying. He cleared his throat just as a gorgeous, tall man walked up and offered a hand.
Oliver immediately recognized Gabriel Morales—not because of sports, or even because he was offensively rich, but because he was one of the first retired NHL players to do a queer spread for the Pride issue ofSkinSkin!magazine.
Oliver had clipped out every photo of Gabriel—and bits of his interview—and jerked himself until he chafed at the tender age of seventeen. And he hadn’t forgotten that chiseled jawline or the perfectly groomed facial hair, which hadn’t changed in six years.
“…friend?”
Oliver blinked and realized he’d completely lost the thread of the conversation. Victor started to choke on his reply, so Oliver blurted, “I’m his date,” before realizing that was probably a terrible idea.
Instead of getting upset, however, Victor’s body sagged in relief, and he nodded. “Oliver. This is our first date.”
