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That statement confused me, but it was clear that my duties to get Cole into his apartment weren’t over. After some deliberation and encouragement from the driver, the doorman escorted us up to Cole’s apartment and let us in, since, of course, Cole didn’t have his key.
“You’re such a pretty, pretty boy and so young,” Cole said as I lowered him onto his bed. His driver’s license indicated he was fourteen years older than me.
“That’s what all the drunk men tell me when I pour them into bed.”
I felt a tad smug about my witty response. I removed his shoes and debated whether I should attempt his belt and jeans. Cole solved the problem by taking off his belt and pants in a remarkably coordinated move.
Damn.
I did not check out his package on purpose. Or the tattoos covering his insane body. Purely accidental curiosity. That had to be a thing.
“I hope your day is better tomorrow. Good night.” I tugged the sheet around him, gave a weird wave, intending to return to complicated spreadsheets that made more sense than this night ever would.
Cole grabbed my wrist and yanked until I was sitting next to him on the bed. “You’re a good guy for a wanna-be-Paxton and lapdog for my dad.”
“My life’s goals have been achieved. After all, dogs are man’s best friend, and I always wanted to be someone’s substitute for the real thing.” I smacked his leg as Cole laughed. “I’m going to leave before you ask me to be your new best friend.”
Cole’s chuckle died on the last two words. “Hewasmy best friend. We grew up together. Paxton was my forever love. My one-and-only.“ His torture filled the room. “Then, I killed him.” He dropped my wrist, and his eyes slid closed. "Never love again," he mumbles as he drifted to sleep.
There was no reason to sit there rubbing his leg. And zero explanation for my urge to stay and help him with his grief. Paxton had been in an accident. Cole definitely had not killed him, but his death clearly tormented the man.
Anyone in my position wouldn’t leave a grieving man without provisions. That’s what I told myself. Sometimes a person needed someone else. Anyone. And I was an expert on grief. As I’d suspected, the apartment cupboards were empty, so I enlisted the help of the doorman.
A concerned Alec called again, and I heard his relief regarding the mix-up. He also seemed oddly hopeful that Cole and I had hooked up. That should not have twisted my insides.
Cole wasn’t any of my business.
I left him the essentials on the bedside table. Unable to stop myself, I ran my fingers over his forearm tattoos. His arm farthest from me had a large shield, but the one closest had geometric patterns layered over each other. It gave them a 3D quality. My fingers stopped at the cuff of his T-shirt, where I could see the bottom of an animal. I itched to reach up and explore the ones peeking out on his neck. My behavior was ludicrous, and I had to leave. It didn’t matter that this broken man’s voice soothed the part of me that had been anxious for years or that he’s awakened a new attraction.
Cole was not meant for me. So, I stood, ran my hand through his silky hair, and fled. The probability of running into him again was so low it was minuscule.Undoubtably.
Chapter two
Cole
Thelightwaswaytoo fucking bright. I cracked my right eye open but could not place the blank, beige wall. My loft had dark gray walls and blackout blinds, so last night went horribly wrong. The only image my brain supplied was of bottomless brown eyes, sharp cheekbones, tousled brown hair, and lips too plump to belong to a man. My heart tripped in panic, and my eyes flew open.
Hell. I couldn’t remember the details of winding up in our apartment.
If I fucked that pretty boy in our bed, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself. On the bedside table sat a bottle of water, ibuprofen, and a note. I tossed back the pills and chugged the entire bottle as I braced myself to read it. My heart hadn’t stopped hammering, and I desperately needed to believe I wouldn’t cheat on Paxton in our bed.
The note, written in Sharpie on the back of a drugstore receipt, shook in my hand.
Cole,
My famous hangover cure is in your kitchen. Call your friend Alec; he’s really worried. So, don’t be a dick and make him wait. Most importantly, try not to hurt yourself missing him.
Your Pretty Boy
I scrubbed my hand over my face. That gorgeous motherfucker used proper punctuation on a drugstore receipt. And those four sentences jolted my heart in a way I didn’t believe was possible. My heart had been savagely wrenched out of my body the day Paxton died. I hadn’t felt even a twinge since. He was right; Alec would worry himself sick. I’d ditched him after the cemetery, and he’d want to kick my ass as soon as he knew I was okay.
My laugh turned to a groan as my head throbbed. I stared at the note as if it was my lifeline. The fact that the beautiful stranger cared twisted up what was left of my scooped-out insides. He’d made me a hangover cure. No one had done anything to take care of me in over five years. To be fair, I hadn’t let anyone. I reread the last line over and over again.
Those nine words destroyed me.
Images of his disapproving grimace and then his smile hit me hard, and I clutched my head. That twingey-twist in my chest didn’t matter, and since the pretty boy worked for my father, there was no chance something sexual could happen. But he’d said, “Most importantly” as if my well-being mattered to him and “try” like there was no use telling me not to hurt myself because missing Paxton and my guilt had made me almost insane.
He’d seen my pain and hadn’t dismissed it or told me to get over it. And he goddamn signed it “Your Pretty Boy,” which fascinated me in a dangerous way. No matter what, he was off-limits.