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Dad: Hugo wants everyone over for dinner tonight. He has an announcement. This means you too, Son. Bring Tate. See you in fifteen.

I should be irritated at my dad’s bossiness. He always assumes I can drop anything to be there at a moment’s notice. But since he wants me to bring Tate, I don’t complain. It gives me an excuse to seek him out and spend more time with him, whether I deserve that gift or not.

“Thanks,” Dempsey says to Tate as I prowl down the stairs. “See you at dinner.”

He slips out the front door without another word. Tate glances my way and gives me a tentative smile. My stomach dips and it’s fucking exhilarating despite the self-loathing threatening to drown me.

Unable to stop myself, I take several long strides toward Tate until I’m towering over him. He holds his ground, craning his neck to look up at me. I want to touch him, even if only my fingertips to his pillowy lips. I bet they’re soft. I bet they taste sweet too.

I stifle a groan and clear my throat. “Walk with me?”

His eyes twinkle and he grins. “I’d like that.”

He would?

My heart stutters to a stop. It’s shocking that he keeps giving me chance after chance to be a human when I’ve been nothing but a raging asshole monster thus far. I’m greedy, though, and don’t question how he’s able to do such a thing. Instead, I reach for his hand to see if he’ll allow me to take it once more.

He doesn’t pull away, squeezing my hand once it’s safely nestled inside of mine. “Lead the way.”

I itch to thread our fingers together but decide that might be a bit too intimate despite the longing in my gut to keep pushing the envelope with him. Holding his hand just like this will have to be enough.

He lets me guide him out of the house and into the chilly evening air. Neither of us bothered with a jacket and I’m already regretting that decision. But since it cools my throbbing dick some, I continue forward, the porch groaning under my weight.

“It’s peaceful out here too,” Tate muses aloud. “I like it here.”

Pride surges through me. I’ve always loved our property and home, but knowing he loves it too unlocks something deep inside. It makes me want to share with him more of the things I’ve found simple joy in.

He steps closer to me. When he releases my hand, I nearly protest, but then his arm hooks around mine. His warmth seeps into me at his close proximity, dizzying my every thought.

“You were in there with Dempsey for a long time. Everything okay?” I ask roughly. “I’m not jealous.”

He chuckles, no doubt amused by the last part I quickly spit out. “It’s fine. He’s just working through some things like everyone else. More than anything, he needs someone to confide in and get things off his chest.”

I wonder what Dempsey, the Park bad boy and spoiled baby of the family, could ever be troubled over. He and Gemma have it better than anyone. They’re truly the golden children who can do no wrong.

“Is he crying again because Daddy won’t buy him a car?” I say with a sharpness in my tone.

“You’re not the only one with trauma and problems,” Tate responds tightly. “You’re teetering into asshole territory again.”

Guilt swallows me whole and I force out a groan. “Sorry.”

He shrugs it off, but the magical feeling between us has cooled. As it should. The heat between us is unhealthy and clouding my judgment. My duty is to protect this family, not find pleasure in the one person who is doing his damnedest to help them.

As we approach Dad’s house, I feel Tate’s grip around my arm loosen. He releases me to walk ahead. I speed up, chasing after his lingering scent and hoping to get high off his magnetism. Unfortunately, he beats me inside and is quickly swept up into the chaos of a typical Park family dinner.

Seconds later, I spot him taking a seat beside Dempsey at the table. I quickly sidestep Gemma and duck into the chair on his other side before she can take it. She frowns at me in confusion. I ignore her, leaning slightly toward Tate to listen in on his conversation with Dempsey.

They’re not talking about anything of importance. Dempsey’s regaling him with a tale of how he took his mother’s car for a joy ride when he was twelve, wrapping it around a telephone pole up the road, barely escaping with nothing but a broken arm and a few stitches on his eyebrow. And yet he wonders why Dad won’t buy him a car…

Fucking idiot.

Callum sits directly across from me, his grin wolfish and knowing. He lets his gaze teeter back and forth from me to Tate. It’s irritating. How could he possibly know I’m all twisted up over the family therapist?

He can’t know.

Maybe he’s just gloating over the fact Tate’s here mostly because of me. He probably also knows that it’ll only be a matter of time before Tate breaks down all my walls.

Even with my mask, I’m apparently readable.