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“We also have ice cream,” Jude says as though to convince me further. “This house may be old, but it’s got the most soul. And we have Violet. That makes us the winner a thousand times over.”

This time, I laugh. “You won’t hear any argument from me. Let’s go see what she’s whipped up tonight.”

As I start for the door, Jude gently presses his fingertips to my lower back as though to guide the way for me. The touch is intimate and surprising. Worse, I really like it.

I hate that I like it.

I hate that I want more.

Jude

Grandpa likes him.

I’m not sure why that surprises me, but it does. Everyone likes Tate. Everyone but me, apparently.

And even that one is debatable at times. Like now. Observing him at the dining room table, partaking in a meal with Grandpa, Violet, and myself, warms my heart and eases any lingering tension between us.

Tate is…nice.

His coffee-colored eyes light up in a particularly pleasant way when he sees something exciting. My office, the gym, the library—all of it had a visceral effect on him. He may be hiding more than a need to share his kinky lifestyle, but no one is that good of a liar. His responses are genuine.

I spend dinner with my eyes glued on him, watching him laugh at Grandpa’s crass jokes, fixating on how his jawbone visibly moves as he chews, and listening to every small groan of pleasure he lets escape each time he takes a bite of Violet’s hearty stew.

Maybe I’ve been so bored for such a long damn time that anything outside the norm is completely and utterly fascinating to me.

Maybe it’s just him.

I’m not one hundred percent sure what to think about this growing obsession I have with Tate. I’ve never been so enthralled by a guy before. If I think way back to my high school days—pre-fire—I can remember feeling a surge of lust whenever a girl I liked would smile my way or touch my arm. It’s kind of like that. Invigorating and all-consuming.

It’s all the much stranger knowing he’s a guy and has this pull on me.

At least with a female, I can reflect back to what it felt like to get hot and heavy. That first thrust inside of her and the overwhelming feeling that you’ll come at any second from extreme bliss.

Pairing that memory, though, with thoughts of Tate is confusing. None of this makes any sense. When I envision myself on top like in my past, fucking, I can’t see him beneath me. In fact, I still have Serra’s face in mind. We slept together here and there, mostly at parties, but she’s the best memory of sex I have.

If I can’t imagine a sexual encounter with him, then what the hell are these feelings? It’s definitely not platonic. My cock’s been at half-mast ever since he stepped out of the bathroom in his towel. There’s an attraction to him—one I can’t begin to understand.

Not that I’ll do anything about it.

Maybe the guy I once was would’ve been brave enough to explore what it feels like to be with another man.

I’m not that guy anymore.

He died in the fire with Mom.

This guy will be forever alone. No one wants someone they can’t even kiss or see. No one wants a fucking freak.

The spoon in my hand bends in my grip. I realize I’ve been squeezing it. Anger and frustration war inside of me. I can hear the others happily chatting, getting to know each other, but I’m unable to latch onto the conversation.

I’m in a silent battle of wonder of what could be if I ever opened myself up again and hatred at myself for why I’m in this position in the first place.

I can’t be with anyone male or female.

I’m all alone.

“Jude?”

Snapping myself from the tornado of thoughts spinning around inside me, I glance over at Tate, who wears a worried expression. He studies me with those probing eyes of his that slice right through me and cut straight to my core.