Page 18

George and I were inseparable after that—a fact that only caused me immense joy. He nagged me all day, trailing behind me like a lost kitten. We ended up eating during the same early dinner rotation, and Mrs. Milton roped the both of us into prepping for lunch for “lake day” after we’d finished. No one said a word about the disaster of a hike, for which I was genuinely glad.

It was satisfying to witness George slowly, but surely, dropping his guard when I was around. I didn’t think he realized it was happening. But his iciness was decidedly less icy. Which meant I was privy to some rather fascinating sights and observations as the day wore on.

Every breath George took was captivating, and every twitch of his mouth was something to be celebrated. I loved the way he moved, all clipped and focused. Loved how his default expression was guarded annoyance. Loved the way he so clearly adored his mother. He lit up when she walked by. And those dark blue eyes told me he thought she was sunshine , especially as he puttered around the kitchen doing her bidding.

George kept glancing at her dress, this pleased curl to his lips that told me he loved it. Which in itself was a miracle—because while Mrs. Milton had many qualities, fashion sense was not one of them.

Every time I’d attended one of the Milton-Quil—Roderick’s last name—summer barbecues, she’d been in something gaudy and eye-catching. She wore her creativity outwardly, the patterns of her dresses as loud as her voice could often be. Despite her no-nonsense tone, Mrs. Milton was a soft, kind woman. Her heart was overflowing with love for everyone she met, me included. She hugged as a greeting. And every time she squeezed and squeezed me, all my years melted away. Like she was hugging the little boy I’d been, not the jaded man I was now.

She was a mother, through and through.

I hadn’t really had one of those. My mother was really only that in name. She’d be coming to the ceremony, but it was more than likely only for a few minutes before she jetted off on her next adventure, far, far away from us.

I could see why George loved his mother.

And he did .

Even when she was acting ridiculous, or pinching his cheeks, or bossing him around. The affection in his eyes never wavered. When he’d catch me looking, he’d glare at me, though the look was far from intimidating.

“What happened to your hand?” Mrs. Milton fretted when she noticed the bandages. George gave an excuse that didn’t even make sense, and she sighed, then enveloped him in a back-breaking hug. He wheezed, and she chortled, before directing him to the far end of the room, away from the knives—as if the last thing she was going to do was have her injured son handle anything sharp.

“You too.” Mrs. Milton wasted no time whipping my ass with a towel to get me moving. “Many hands make light work.” Yelping, I scurried after George quickly, unable to hide my laughter.

George and I were on sandwich duty. Which meant a whole lot of mayonnaise. Magnanimously, I let George take care of that part while I plopped cheese and meat into the pre-cut rolls.

“Disgusting,” George muttered under his breath when he spilled a glob of the sauce on his wrist. I handed him a napkin and he flashed me a smile in thanks before returning to his task. He worked with quick efficiency. George was good with his hands, despite being a jittery guy, and it was almost hypnotic the way we fell into a rhythm. Open, spread, slide. Plop, close, seal. Rinse and repeat.

“Did George ever tell you he’s a senior designer at his company?” Mrs. M said conversationally. She was like June, always with an agenda.

“He did not, no,” I replied, glancing at him curiously. “I bet he’s good at that.”

“I’m a perfectionist,” George grunted. “Comes with the territory.” He was embarrassed to be talked up like this. He kept shooting his mom looks, like he was begging her to stop.

“He was top of his class in school too,” she added, undeterred.

“This isn’t a job interview.” George glared at her.

“Of course not, honey,” his mom nodded, smiling serenely. “Just making conversation.”

And then five minutes later…

“Did you know George was a cheerleader in high school?”

And.

“Did you know George graduated with high honors and a 4.0 GPA?”

And.

“Did you know that George?—”

By the time Georgie and I had finished prepping lunch for the following day, the bonfire had already begun. Mrs. Milton shooed us out of the kitchen. She promised to handle clean-up so long as we “had fun” and also “behaved ourselves.”

To which I replied, “How can I have fun if I’m behaving myself?”

“ Aleeeex ,” George whined under his breath, but Mrs. Milton just laughed, and laughed, and laughed. Like she knew something we didn’t. And then she’d winked , and that sent us both running before our asses could get whipped by her all-knowing towel again.

I made a mental note to ask her for pictures of cheerleader George later.

I highly doubted he would be wearing a skirt.

But a man could dream.

I could hear the chatter of the group gathered at the fire pit before we reached it. Behind the main lodge, there was a large, flat dirt area. Maybe a half dozen yards wide, the space was populated by a plethora of large log benches. They sat in a haphazard circle around what had to be the largest fire pit known to man. Inside it, flames roared, the heat casting the yard in an inviting yellow-orange glow.

Even well into my adulthood, the sight of a flickering fire and s’mores could move me.

I was careful with what I ate normally, but June and I’d had multiple talks about me enjoying myself without guilt while we were here. The last thing she wanted was for me to get stuck in my own head or worry about what I looked like when I could be making memories instead. I’d promised to enjoy myself, so I fully intended to.

And if I went home a little heavier than usual, my personal trainer would simply have to deal with it.

The group of adults, and some children—already roasting marshmallows—were enjoying the bluetooth speakers Roderick and June had bought to set the mood. Something peppy and country strung through the air between the notes of laughter.

Not that I liked country.

But I could appreciate the ambiance.

“I hate country music,” Georgie sighed to himself, reminding me that he was there—not that I’d ever forgotten. That was fundamentally impossible, even distracted by the fire and the promise of treats as I was. As stupidly romantic as it sounded, when George was nearby I could feel him, even if I couldn’t see him. And when he wasn’t…I could feel that too. The absence of his presence like an open wound.

“Me too,” I agreed with a snort. “Never been a fan.”

“Blasphemy, I know. Given I’m from the country.” George perked up, looking delighted to once again find common ground. “You and your sister are very different.” It was an observation, nothing more. “I mean…she picked this, didn’t she?” George frowned. “Would you play country music at your wedding?”

“This isn’t her wedding. It’s her bonfire party,” I teased. “And no. Absolutely not.”

George was far too relieved for someone who had zero stakes in what kind of music I decided to play at my hypothetical wedding. As though he was…testing me, in a way. I’d passed, if the way he relaxed was to be believed.

“You know, this could’ve been me?” He shivered, like the idea of marrying Roderick was truly heinous. I got what he meant. I couldn’t picture that. George and Roderick together was fundamentally wrong. Just thinking about it made my skin itch, and a frankly inappropriate amount of jealousy nearly overwhelmed me.

“No,” I said softly. “You and Roderick aren’t good together.”

“Oh, I know.” George shrugged, proving he didn’t care in the slightest. “I just…when I was younger and we were dating I would’ve agreed to this. Even if I hated it. Simply because I liked him.”

“ I would never make you get married in the middle of the woods,” I replied, my jealousy swirling tight like a noose around my heart. “You’d get somewhere fancy. No bugs. A live orchestra. Caterers. Anywhere you wanted, no budget constraints at all. It would be what you wanted. Not me.”

“Hmm.” George’s eyes took on a faraway sheen like he was picturing what marrying me would be like. Which was far preferable to him thinking about marrying Roderick . I grinned, proud of that particular redirection.

Good .

Imagine me in a tux, Georgie.

I would look fantastic .

Way better than Roderick, that was for sure.

And theeeeen I felt bad. Because why the hell was I comparing myself to my future brother-in-law, anyway? He was marrying June. There was no need to be jealous that he and George may have possibly bumped uglies when they were—no, nope. Best not to think about that or I was going to go find him and punch him, man-of-honor title be damned.

That’s what June had dubbed me. Man-of-honor, instead of maid-of-honor. She thought it was funny, and it was her wedding, so I hadn’t argued. Truthfully, when she’d asked me, I’d been honored even if I had been unsurprised. It was only right that I support her on her wedding day. I knew she’d do the same for me one day if I ever decided to trust again.

I offered George my hand. He was so distracted by his thoughts that he simply accepted without complaint. Tugging him toward the fire, I tried to figure out how best to keep his mind off any of his many, many annoying exes.

Fine.

There were two that I knew of.

Two.

But two was two too many.

Christ, what a mouthful.

“June and I have a lot of varying tastes,” I said. “We’re twins. Which meant that growing up we often got lumped together. People pretty much assumed we were the same person. And that we liked the same things simply because we shared a womb.” George listened intently as I hunted the log benches for a spot close enough to the flame that we could make some marshmallows of our own. “They were right in some ways—we can be frighteningly similar. Especially when we were kids and our dad dressed us in matching outfits. He stopped doing that when we hit…ten, maybe? And that was when our differences became more apparent. ”

“Huh.”

“June always liked country music, and I hated country. I loved football, June hated football. June started playing piano, I refused to learn an instrument. When I picked hockey, June picked figure skating.” There. Perfect. I tugged George to a seat on the free bench I’d found. The scratchy wood clung to my joggers as I sat down, spreading wide so that I could press our legs together. I liked the feel of him. Slightly chilly, his thigh only a fraction of the width of mine, but still comforting when it was pressed close.

He had nice quads. I was tempted to smooth my hands up them from knee to hip to see if they felt as firm as they looked, but I didn’t. With him in the same dark jeans he’d worn yesterday, it was difficult to control myself.

“We’re less contrary now,” I shrugged. “Neither of us care like we did when we were younger. Especially now that we look as different as we do. But still. Some habits are hard to stop when they’re so ingrained into who you are.”

“I understand that,” George admitted. “I still refuse to watch the second Lion King just because Lacey bugged me about it so many times. Siblings make things complicated.” He didn’t move away, in fact, if I didn’t know any better his leg was pushing harder against mine. Like he wanted to feel me as much as I wanted to feel him.

Wishful thinking, maybe.

But maybe not.

Because his eyes were swirling pools of blue-black ink, and the way he was looking at me made me feel like I could climb a mountain. Or maybe the Empire State Building? Put him in a pretty dress, hold him in my hand, and pound my chest like Kong.

“There are exceptions to my blind hate for country,” George added guiltily—as though he expected the genre of country music would be offended by his blind, blatant hatred. “Like…um.” His brow knit as he mulled over his own thoughts, trying to remember the exceptions he’d just claimed existed.

I didn’t mind. I just liked looking at him .

Loved the little dimple on his chin, not grumpy presently—but thoughtful.

For an entire minute, I was mesmerized by the way the crackle pop of the fire illuminated the play of emotion on George’s face. And then the silence broke, and with triumph, George began listing off an entire list of songs he liked that fit within the country genre. Even better was the fact that George actually took the time to explain why he liked them. It was usually for a sentimental reason, like a “good storyline” or because “he thought it was romantic.”

More curiously, George loved sad songs.

A fact that I found incredibly charming.

“I just like to feel something, you know?” George told me. I wasn’t sure how long we’d been roasting our asses by the fire, but my knees felt hot from its proximity, and sweat had built at my temple. I barely noticed. I did, however, notice a damp lock of George’s blond hair when it slipped free and stuck to his pale forehead. He pushed it back with an angry motion. My hands twitched when it simply fell again.

I wanted to fix it for him.

But I was having so much fun talking to him, I didn’t dare move. We were caught in a spell I didn’t want to break. Hell, I hadn’t even gone hunting for the skewers and marshmallows like I’d wanted, as absorbed as I’d been in his rant.

“I know what you mean,” I echoed. “That's why I like anime.” George blinked. I elaborated. “Some of the plots can be super devastating. They make you feel things. Especially the more long-winded series. It feels like you grow with the characters. They become your friends.”

What an embarrassing thing to say, Alex.

George nodded along like he didn’t think it was embarrassing at all.

When I checked my phone nearly an hour had passed. I’d been so captivated by him, chatting back and forth as though we were old friends, I hadn’t realized. It was peaceful and companionable in a way I’d never expected, especially after how we’d met. George poked fun at me whenever he could and I was just as merciless in return. We enjoyed each other. And at some point, I’d slung my arm around his back, and he hadn’t pushed me off.

It was an effortless sort of friendship.

Easy.

The way only conversing with June or my dad had been before George and his dildo came along.

Most of the time, when I interacted with people it left me drained. I was good at talking, but that didn’t mean that social interaction didn’t take a toll. Work was easier than personal relationships. I found gatherings like this more tiring than my job, even if I used a similar skill set during both.

When friends had parties and I had no excuse not to attend, I always knew before I went that I’d be wiped out afterward. All day in preparation, I had to ration my energy to ensure I could last. Maybe it was a product of coming into money early in my life—or late, depending on who you talked to—but I had never quite figured out how to survive the social cost of being wealthy.

There was always something you were expected to do. A party you were expected to attend. A new trend you were expected to know. Keeping up was endlessly exhausting.

Talking to George didn’t feel like that.

It was easy.

And not once during our conversation did I ever feel like he was judging me, or growing bored, or lying to keep me on the hook. It was honest and genuine. The kind of conversation I had grown starved of the higher up I climbed in my father’s company and the more money my family accumulated.

At some point, we were swarmed by George’s nieces and nephews, as well as a few of my cousins. We got roped into helping them with their marshmallows, which wasn’t exactly how I’d expected the rest of our night to go—but was also better somehow. Because watching Georgie with children was…Christ. He was gorgeous.

Patient and stern and kind.

He listened intently to everything the children had to say. It didn’t matter how serious, or mumbled, or incoherent. George found a way to validate and reply, all while creating some ridiculously sad, undercooked s’mores.

The kids didn’t seem to mind though, and one by one they scampered off with their treats. The line dwindled. Eventually, there was only one kid left for each of us. I split my attention between Patrick, the toddler, and his surprisingly hefty weight on my lap, and George and his niece, Mavis. As I stuffed a toasted marshmallow between a set of graham crackers, I smiled at Patrick, but kept an ear on George, eager to hear more of his quiet crooning.

He was so much softer with children than he was with adults.

Still his acerbic self, of course. But gentle too. Like it came more naturally and he could drop his guard. He didn’t expect them to hurt him. And why would they? Children, though sometimes accidentally brutal, rarely did things out of malice.

It was why I liked them too.

They were honest and innocent.

And they loved so very fiercely.

“See?” George said softly to Mavis, who could be most accurately described as a tiny blonde menace. “We want it just right, like I made yours. Not burnt.” George’s stick drifted too close to the coal and before he could pull it back, it burst into flame. “Oops.” He frowned, quickly pulling it out of the fire and next to his mouth. His pink lips parted, a gust of air putting out the flame. Obviously, I had a problem, because the gesture was nothing but innocent, and all I could think about was rubbing my dick in marshmallow and making him blow on it too.

“And if we get too close, that’s what happens. It goes boom !” Mavis cheered, like George had just performed a magic trick. Which I suppose he had.

“I want my shmallow to go boom,” Patrick, the three-year-old cousin on my lap, immediately blurted. Cousin maybe wasn’t the right descriptor. Second cousin, maybe? Whatever meant he was my cousin’s kid. Either way he was cute .

“It doesn’t taste as good that way,” George warned him.

“I beg to differ,” I argued, deliberately sticking my stick right next to the coal so it would catch aflame. “The more char the better. Black like my heart.”

“That’s because you’re apparently a pyromaniac,” George retorted. “With bad taste.” To which Mavis gleefully agreed. “See? Even Mavis thinks so.”

“Mavis doesn’t know what that even means,” I teased back.

“I don’t.” Mavis giggled her head off.

“See?” I grinned, and George glowered. His lips were twitching though, betraying his own amusement. Mavis and I had interacted a lot over the last few years. I remembered when she was still round as a baby seal and unable to do more than make noise. I wasn’t friends with her mom or anything, but Roderick’s and George’s families were close—which meant by extension I had spent a lot of time with most of them, children included.

It was probably why they were all on board with the matchmaking subplot.

Maybe they could see how damaged he was too.

Maybe they’d known I wouldn’t hurt him.

“Have you ever even tried a burnt marshmallow? Because if you haven’t you have no leg to stand on,” I teased, steadying my roasting pole and watching George do the same.

“Unca George has legs.” Mavis was already sticky with her own treat, so I knew the one George had—in his words—“ruined” was his own. She frowned at me.

“You’re right, my bad,” I replied. Patrick was eyeing the marshmallow I’d melted for him like he was fully prepared to chomp it right off the stick.

“Why the hell would I do that?” George inquired as though I hadn’t just been cut down by a toddler. “When I already know I’m right?” We reached for graham crackers simultaneously, and George unwrapped an extra piece of chocolate, handed it to me without being asked, and turned back to his own task.

“If you’re as right as you say you are, then you have nothing to lose,” I nodded toward the charred lump of sugar at the end of his stick. “Put your money where your mouth is, Blondie. Try it. Then tell me I’m wrong. Hell, we can even make it a wager.”

“You don’t have anything I want,” George muttered. I arched a brow at him, and his cheeks went bright red. Apparently I did, in fact, have something he wanted. I got the feeling it wasn’t something that was appropriate conversation for the present toddling company.

I licked my lips, and our eyes locked, before George’s gaze darted away.

Something had changed between us today.

He felt it.

I felt it.

We allll felt it.

Like a switch had flipped.

“Try it,” I urged, pinching the marshmallow on the stick between the cracker and chocolate I’d set up. I pulled it free, the white sugary substance sticking to my fingers. The graham cracker slid a bit as I passed it to Patrick, but he didn’t mind. One-track mind, that one. His dark skin gleamed in the firelight as he munched on his treat, lapping sugar off his fingers like it was his mission to devour every bite. “Here.” I offered him a napkin and he took it, clutching it tight in his chubby fist.

“I don’t know…” George dutifully mirrored my movements and made his own s’more, despite his protests.

“Wanna share?” It was a pretty delicious-looking snack, if I did say so myself. The marshmallow oozed out the sides, and without overthinking, I angled my head toward it, mouth open expectantly. Without protest, other than a pinched expression, George brought his own dessert to my lips.

I hadn’t actually expected George to let me take a bite. I was pushing him, like was normal and natural between us. But he had surprised me. He was constantly surprising me. A fact, in itself, that should’ve meant I should not be surprised.

Parting my lips, I clamped my teeth down, my heart skittering. I was so close to his fingers, if I wanted, I could’ve licked them. But even I knew that wasn’t appropriate. So instead, I focused on the food. Crunching through the graham cracker, I sighed happily, eyes drifting shut. Okay, fine. I was going to tease a little.

But just a little.

Licking the sticky, melted marshmallow from my lips, I groaned. “So fucking good.” When I pulled back, opening my eyes, George was staring. And fuck, was that gratifying. “Okay, now it’s your turn. C’mon. Prove me wrong.”

“But you just bit it,” George protested, squinting at his contaminated food with a frown. “Alex cooties.” He was making fun of what I’d said earlier. I snorted. Oh, well. Who was I to judge if he wanted to hand me the rest and make himself a new one?

Of course he wouldn’t want to put his on there t?—

Oh.

George tentatively brought the s’more to his lips, expression tentative. He hesitated, blond brow furrowed, his eyes trained on the flickering fire. His free arm was wrapped firmly around Mavis, keeping her steady as he became lost in his own thoughts. And then, because he was nothing if not unpredictable, George took a bite.

He chewed.

He swallowed.

George’s eyes went wide, sticky white smeared across his lips as he turned from the fire to look at me. Christ, what a mouth it was. So pretty. Especially when sticky.

“Seeeee?” I urged. “So much better.”

George chewed deliberately, reaching up to brush the crumbs off his lips. “I never thought I’d say this—but I think you’re right. The…um. The texture is better.”

“See?”

“It’s not…even burnt tasting?” George was shocked, obviously. “And it’s softer. ”

“Right?” I beamed at him. “Now you know why I like my men like I like my s’mores.”

“Oh Jesus, not in front of the kids.”

“They don’t even understand what I’m saying,” I muttered with a laugh. “And they’re not paying attention, even if they did.” It was true. Both kids were too absorbed in their own food to care what we were doing.

“Fine.”

I waited.

George sighed, his s’more still clutched tight in his grip. “How do you like your men, Alex?”

“Melted and sticky.”

“That wasn’t even good,” George snorted. “Was definitely not worth the build-up you gave it.”

I shrugged, leaned in close, and opened my mouth expectantly again. I was pushing my luck. Especially after my terrible joke, and I knew it. Chances were, George would shove me off, or smash his s’more against my face. I was…strangely okay with that.

I liked my odds.

In response to my wagging eyebrows, George sighed. With deliberate extra grumpiness, he gently pressed the treat to my lips so I could take another bite. “Why don’t you make your own?” George grouched. “Rather than mooching off mine.”

“That’s not the only thing I wish I was mooching off of,” I muffled around my bite. George’s whole face scrunched up with disgust, so I didn’t speak again until after I’d finished chewing.

“What?” he said, confused.

“Sorry, I meant smooching. My bad.”

“Oh my god.” George grabbed a napkin, smearing it across my lips more roughly than was necessary to clear them of crumbs and chocolate. It was oddly domestic, and seriously fucking cute. Patrick ruined the moment by belching .

I chuckled, flicked my tongue along my teeth to make sure they were clean, then opened my mouth expectantly again.

“Make your own,” George grumbled, already feeding me another bite despite his protests.

I swallowed, then grinned. “Why would I? When the way yours tastes is better.”

“We’re using the same ingredients. They’ll taste the same,” George glared at me, clutching the rest of his s’more close to his chest like he worried I was going to snatch it right out of his hands.

God, he was so cute.

And stingy.

And generous, all at once.

“But you made this one,” I argued. “Therefore, it’s better.”

“Do you want me to make one for you, too?” George asked. I had no doubt he would do it. But I shook my head. The real joy had come from sharing with him and the fact that he was willing to indirectly touch mouths with me.

Gave me hope that the spark between us could lead to him accepting my offer.

Though, I forced that hope aside as quickly as it came.

I didn’t want to be disappointed.

“I’m good,” I said. “I had enough. But thank you.” I licked my lips deliberately. George stared . “You’re very generous.” He blinked, then shook his head quickly, like he was dazed.

“I’m not—I mean,” George’s face went bright red. He stuffed his s’more into his mouth to shut himself up. I adjusted Patrick on my leg, and tried not to ogle. But that was impossible. Because George was fucking adorable with his cheeks puffed up. Pretty little chipmunk.

“C’mon, Mavis. Let’s go find your mom,” George urged when he’d finished eating. He cleaned himself off meticulously, then rose to his feet, effortlessly slinging Mavis into his arms. She clung to his side, sticky chocolate fingers leaving a smear on George’s shoulder. He didn’t say anything, even though I knew for a fact the shirt was expensive.

I had one just like it back home.

Before I could ask if he was planning on coming back, George saved me the trouble. “If you want…” he trailed off, cheeks ruddy. In the flickering orange firelight it was impossible to tell just how flushed he was, but I knew his face almost as well as I knew my own by this point. I’d certainly spent long enough committing it to memory. So I noticed. “I can come back? After I find Lacey.”

He didn’t need to explain.

But I recognized this for what it was. Nervous rambling. To cover up his second olive branch of the day. It seemed George-Arthur Milton wanted to be away from me about as much as I wanted to be away from him. And wasn’t that a heady thought?

“I’ll find Patrick’s dads.” I agreed. “Meet you here in like twenty?”

“Hopefully.” George bit his lip.

I was pretty sure my smile was bright enough to blind, but George didn’t complain when he finally looked at me. “I’ll be back then,” he said, side-stepping away. “Soon. And we can…”

“We can chat some more,” I replied, still grinning.

“Or…whatever.” George rolled his eyes at himself, but his lips twitched into a small secret smile.

“Or whatever,” I repeated.

He stood there awkwardly for another minute, studying me.

I kept smiling, curious to see what he was waiting for.

“Okay, bye,” George waved one of Mavis’s tiny hands. I waved back.

“Bye,” I teased.

“Bye!” Mavis beamed at me, then turned her attention back to George. He took a few steps away. Before Patrick and I were fully out of earshot I saw Mavis’s little head tip up and heard her innocent question. “Do you like that boy, Unca George?” George made a choked sound. “Mama says that sometimes boys are mean when they like you.”

“That’s horrible advice,” George scoffed. “No one should be mean to you ever . Especially if they like you.”

Mavis sounded confused but agreed.

I snorted out a laugh, then called out, “Hypocrite!”

“ Alex !” George admonished over his shoulder. His cheeks were still bright red when he stalked off. Pleased, I turned my attention back to Patrick, who had started to doze. Sugar crash without the high. Brutal. His head was drifting forward, ebony curls catching the firelight.

“C’mon, little dude,” I said. “Let’s find your dads so they can get you to bed.”

I tucked him close, making sure my hands were free of marshmallow so I wouldn’t leave sticky bits in his hair. Patrick curled against my body, letting his weight settle as I picked up our mess and shoved the napkins into my pockets to discard them. When I’d finished, the last thing I expected was to see George again, Mavis still in his arms, waiting right at the edge of our log.

I jumped.

“You okay?” I asked, immediately concerned.

“Yes.” George’s throat bobbed. He looked indecisive. Nervous. Staring at a whorl on the wood, he refused to meet my eyes again.

“Are you su?—”

“I was just…I mean. I could go by myself—to find Lacey,” George said quickly. “But I was just thinking. Maybe…if you wanted to…we could go together?”

Oh Jesus.

Sweet, anxious, adorable baby .

I wanted to kiss that cute-as-pie worried face.

Worried I wouldn’t want to go with him? Christ. Impossible. Since the day we’d met, all I’d done was worry about what he was doing. I’d accept any and all clinginess he exhibited with the utmost gratitude. It saved me the work of hunting him down. The reality was, I was simply desperate to exist in the same vicinity as him.

“Of course we can do that,” I said immediately, butterflies flitting in my stomach. Apparently, George was as reluctant to be away from me as I was to be away from him. “Tag team it?”

“Yes.” George nodded, a short, jerky thing.

So fucking cute.

“Mission: Find The Adults, commence!” I teased, moving toward him slowly so as not to startle him. This…was a vulnerable thing he’d just done. I knew that. He’d gone out of his way to spend more time with me. Again. I wasn’t sure if it was because I’d promised to protect him from the snakes, or if it was because he simply liked my presence. Either way, I was happy.

“Idiot,” George’s lips tugged into a smile—which was exactly the reaction I’d been hoping for. I was only a foot away now, and I marveled at the difference in our sizes. Standing, I was the perfect height to admire the pale curl of his lashes. Tipping his chin up, George’s eyes finally, blissfully met mine.

I’d related them to poetry once.

That complicated, fathomless blue.

Years of chaos, of hurt, of love tangled inside their depths. Georgie came across as the kind of man who took what he wanted, when he wanted it. The kind of man who had the confidence to succeed. He knew exactly who he was.

At least…that’s what I’d thought when I’d first met him.

This man before me was someone else entirely. Not the suit-wearing, pen-wielding, dildo-carrying maniac from the line at security, but a person who had been beaten badly—so badly that when he’d finally gotten back up again, his feet didn’t understand whether or not they were on solid ground.

How could one stand steady after their face had been shoved in the dirt? When up wasn’t up anymore. When bruises on the ego, on the skin, on the heart were more familiar than affection.

George’s eyes were honest now in a way they’d never been before .

He was vulnerable.

And I knew, had I been a worse man, I could’ve taken advantage. I could’ve seen his affection for what it was—his olive branches, his tremulous smiles—and I could’ve wrapped him around my finger, wound so tightly he never even realized he was being strangled.

Had that been what Brendon had done?

Is that why he’d said he’d sworn off men? Because deep down, he couldn’t help but worry that all men were vipers. That they would bite and strangle and hurt the second they were given an opportunity.

I didn’t want to be another person that hurt George-Arthur Milton.

And as I fell inside his eyes, aching to reach out, to close the distance between us and feel the puff of his breath, the warmth of his skin, the thrum of his heart, I saw the secret messages he often hid climb through the darkness to the surface.

George’s need to be loved was obvious.

His eyes said, I’m scared to let my guard down.

They said, I want so badly to trust you.

They pleaded, don’t hurt me.

I hoped the answer in my own gaze settled him.

I hoped he understood it, because I certainly didn’t.

This unfamiliar surge of protective energy was unreal. Foreign in a way. But…it wasn’t bad . Only new. I was learning to skate for the first time, my feet skidding on ice. It was hard to find my balance.

“Alex?” George’s voice was hushed as we made our way to the cabins where Lacey was waiting. I hummed noncommittally, still lost in my thoughts.

His eyes, dark as the sky above, sucked me inside their orbit.

“Yeah?” My heart skipped a beat.

“Is the…offer of being your…um…practice boyfriend—” George stumbled over the words, rushed and bashful. “Still on the…table?”

It seemed George had another surprise up his sleeve, after all.