Page 36 of Carry On (Love Doesn’t Cure All #4)

NASH

Are you dating anyone?” I asked. I stopped strumming my guitar for a moment as I realized just how stupid that question was.

The longer we sat here talking about our lives and little stupid shit, the more comfortable I got.

The more I wanted to know. Honestly, I couldn’t remember the last time I had an interaction like this.

Jay and I talked, but not like this. It also didn’t hurt that I was warm, relaxed, and as fed as I could handle being.

Was this what I was signing myself up for?

Is this what you’re burdening him with? the voice countered. A lifetime of you?

I shoved the thought away and focused on Lincoln and the way he frowned at me for even asking. I couldn’t blame him for that.

“Why do you ask?”

“Well,” I hummed as I tried to find the best way to play it off, “if I’m going to marry you, I should probably know about your boyfriend.”

“Please,” Lincoln scoffed. The disdain in his voice was thick. “I don’t date.”

“Friend situation?”

“Not a chance.”

“Fuck buddy?” Why in the world was I pushing the question? Hadn’t I learned last time not to do that? Also, why did I care if he had someone else?

“Persistent fuck, aren’t you?” He sighed as he got comfortable in the chair, putting his feet up on the coffee table and crossing his arms. “To answer your question: no, I don’t have a fuck buddy. I have two individuals I meet with for a… mutually beneficial arrangement.”

“A mutually beneficial arrangement?” I repeated, sure I hadn’t heard him right, but he just nodded. “Jesus fucking Christ, Linc, just say you hire a hooker—”

“They’re not hookers,” he interrupted. “That’s rude.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I lamented dramatically. “I won’t speak about your employees that way.”

“Fuck calling them my employees,” Lincoln retorted. “Then I’d have to pay taxes to get off. I’m not paying the government to come.”

“Jesus fuck.” I chuckled. “Do mutually beneficial arrangements require that individuals pay taxes?”

“Considering most forms of sex work are illegal, I’m fairly certain most of them don’t mind tax evasion,” he said. “You do realize we’re wildly off topic, right?”

“I didn’t know we had a topic.” At this point, we were just talking about whatever random shit popped into one of our heads.

“We were trying to get to know each other, so that we’re convincing,” he reminded me. Oh, yeah. That.

Yes, the thing his entire well-being relies on, the voice commented.

“Fine. Let’s see…” I strummed and plucked at the strings to fill the silence. “All right. What’s your name?”

“Lincoln Cassidy, you know this.”

“No middle name?”

“I have a middle name.”

“Oh, yeah?” I arched a brow, his evasiveness piquing my interest. Whatever it was, it had to be ridiculous. “What is it?”

“You don’t need to know that,” Lincoln responded quickly with a shake of his head.

“Your husband would know that,” I pointed out. I strummed through a comical tune to add to my montage. “What if I’m out meeting your stuffy friends one day, and you get hit by a car, and we have to go to the hospital, and they ask for your name—”

“No one is asking for my middle name in that situation,” he interjected.

“You never know.” I shrugged, making him exhale heavily.

“Melvin,” he said under his breath. “My full name is Lincoln Melvin Cassidy.”

For a heartbeat, I stared at him, just waiting for him to break a smile. To give me a sign that he was fucking with me. When it became clear that he wasn’t, I broke down laughing. I couldn’t help it. It was so goddamn stupid.

“Your middle name is Melvin?” I demanded.

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbled. “And what’s your middle name?”

Shit. That sobered me real fast.

“Not so funny when you’re put on the spot, is it?” Lincoln demanded. “What’s your middle name, Nash?”

“Melvin,” I answered a little too sarcastically.

“Fucker. Your middle name isn’t Melvin,” he said. “What happens if you get hit by a car, and we go to the hospital, and they ask for your middle name?”

“You think you’re funny, don’t you?”

“I’m hilarious when I want to be,” he replied. “I’m also right.”

“Fine. It’s Nash,” I told him.

“Your name is Nash Nash Calhoun?” His eyes narrowed. Yup. It sounded just as dumb coming out of his mouth as it did in my head.

“My first name is Patrick,” I told him. “But a guy can only be called Patty so many times before he’s fucking over it.”

“A guy can only be called Annie so many times before he joins the dark side,” Lincoln muttered under his breath.

“What the fuck are you going on about?” I asked, not understanding a word that came out of his mouth.

“Nothing.” The faintest blush crept over his cheeks in the most adorable way. “So Patrick Nash Calhoun.”

“Hm… close.” God, this was stupid to admit. “My middle name is Nashville.”

“Like the city.”

“Exactly like the fucking city.”

“Why the fuck is your middle name Nashville?”

“Because that’s where they fucked,” I admitted. It took a hot minute for him to get it. When he did, he made a disgusted sound, mirroring exactly how I felt about it. “Yeah, they named me after the city they conceived me in.”

“Jesus Christ, our parents loved us,” Lincoln muttered.

No one has loved you, the voice added, nudging its way to the forefront of my mind.

“Yup, they sure as fuck did,” I agreed as I nodded slowly. “What—”

“Hold on,” he interrupted. “You said you have a half-brother. Does he… does his middle name follow that trend?”

“Peter Reno Calhoun,” I informed him and watched his reaction.

“Peter Reno Calhoun,” he said the words, slow and pointed.

“Yup.”

“Peter Reno Calhoun.” He got to his feet as he said them once more. “Excuse me. I’ll be right back.”

He didn’t wait for me to respond, heading straight to the bathroom. The door slammed shut, but it didn’t do a damn thing to hide his laughter, a sound that made me grin.