Page 15 of Contingently Yours

Lucas

Usually, I find serenity in bonfires. Try as I might, however, I can’t seem to get lost in the flickering golden flames in the fire pit on the patio. Not even the soft strumming of Mason’s guitar and low humming along with the melody can distract me from the intrusive thoughts.

It’s evening number two at the second resort we’ve shown them, and I think they’ve settled on it.

The terrain is more conducive to building the stage Mason wants, so I think this one’s a done deal.

I should be happy. I should be checking to make sure all the arrangements are in place for the properties we’re going to show them in Massachusetts.

I could text my sisters back about my opinions on a few seating arrangement changes that came up, but I can’t bring myself to do any of those things without a clear head.

There’s a hand on my knee.

Its fingers are softly kneading the meat on the inside of my leg, stirring butterflies in my belly with each brush of skin when they slip past the length of my shorts. It was bad enough that I woke up to another dick hug this morning, but now this?

I made it out of bed unscathed the last two nights. I woke up when I felt a hand on my hip and slipped away as quickly as possible. This morning, however, Andrew’s hand woke up before I did.

‘ If you don’t like it, put a pillow between us ,’ was all he said when I clamped my hand over his.

He should really go see someone about that. Is it like a sleepwalking thing? Sleep jerking?

As I try to sit still and appear relaxed in this patio chair, I know I’m the one who needs the most help. How could I get hard the other day when he was saying all that stuff about my tuft and stroking my nipple? What is going on with me?

I don’t even like him. He doesn’t like me.

It’s getting difficult to believe both facts, though, the more he touches me, and my body reacts to those touches.

And I swear he’s amped up his touching game the last couple of days.

We’re always touching now in one form or another.

If he’s not holding my hand, he has his arm around me.

He’s even stroked my hair a few times. How is having my hair stroked a turn-on? And by Andrew, of all people?

Because that’s what it is…a turn on. I thought maybe I was sick at first, dizzy.

Short of breath. But I took enough First-Aid classes in the military to know my symptoms have nothing to do with heat exposure or food poisoning.

My belly gets warm, and it spreads to my chest every time he pretends to say something nice about or to me.

The most fucked up thing is that it’s even worse when he gets bossy and commanding when we’re alone.

That’s the part I really don’t understand.

When we boarded the seaplane at Moonbeam Cay the other day to fly here, he slapped me on the ass as I was getting in and said, “Get that sexy ass moving, handsome.”

It was like fireworks erupted across my cheek where his hand lit. I felt them all the way to my dick.

If I like guys, I can accept that. It’s always been way easier for me to talk to and relate to men.

I never thought I checked one out, but if I’m being honest with myself, I did admire the men in my unit.

We worked out and would comment on each other’s physiques all the time.

I thought it was just part of our friendly motivation to stay in shape.

Maybe it was…for them . But maybe for me it was more.

When I got out of the service, I felt lost, like I didn’t fit in anywhere.

They say that’s normal, but I’ve always suspected it was more than that.

Something was missing. I’m starting to think it was that comfortable feeling of being around men who were close with each other.

I don’t know, but I can’t like Andrew. He’s…annoying.

His hand leaves my leg, finally. Focusing on the knife in my hands, I continue carving the little piece of driftwood I picked up earlier, grateful to be able to function again.

Just when I think I can let my guard down, though, his hand rests at the base of my neck.

His thumb strokes my hairline, sending a shiver down my spine.

Ugh. Why? I really hate my body right now.

This is ridiculous. The Hepperlys aren’t even looking at us.

Dario and Keenan are murmuring softly on the other side of the fire pit, immersed in conversation.

Mason is bent over his guitar in the zone.

I’m pretty sure they all think we’re a couple by now.

None of them has said a thing to make me believe otherwise.

I doubt they expect us to be on each other 24/7, anyway.

We’re supposed to be professionals. I’ve never seen Dario be intimate with anyone on his show, and I doubt Keenan makes out with either of his husbands when he’s in his work office.

“Cold?” Andrew asks, but there’s a coy hint in his tone like he knows I just shuddered.

“I’m fine,” I mumble, moving his hand away. Just as I do, Keenan’s gaze connects with mine. Shit.

Patting his knee, Andrew outstretches one of his arms and grins. “Come here and I’ll warm you up.”

Has he lost his fucking mind? I know his long, lanky legs look fit and all, but I’ve got like thirty pounds on him. There’s no way he could take my weight for as much as he whines. He just said that to fuck with me. I’m sure of it, but instantly, I glance back at Keenan.

He’s giving us a look that says he thinks we’re sweet. Great. Dario just saw and heard, too, judging by the smile on his face.

Hunkering forward further over my carving, I want to disappear.

Specifically, I want the tingling in my extremities at the thought of sitting on Andrew’s lap to disappear.

The only lap I’ve ever been excited to sit on was a mall Santa’s when I was a kid, and it should stay that way. “Nah, I’m good.”

“What’s wrong? Are you mad at me?” I wonder if I’m the only one who can tell there is nothing genuine about the concern in his voice.

“No.” I shake my head, trying to sound like a compassionate partner that doesn’t want to kick their loved one in the balls and focus my gaze on my whittling.

“He’s just shy, Andrew,” Keenan laments. “It’s okay, Lucas. We get it. We weren’t big on PDA either when we all got together, but you don’t have to worry about that around us.”

Fuck. I’m fucking this up. It’s only day four, and I’ve already brought notice to my display in this fake relationship. Why did Andrew have to say I was his partner ? He could have just said co-worker. The idiot.

“No, I’m just…just tired is all,” I babble, swiping up my empty beer bottle from the paver stones and rising.

The look in Andrew’s eyes couldn’t more clearly say, ‘ Have you lost your mind?’

I know I have. I agreed to come on a trip with him.

“I think I’m going to turn in,” I tell the guys. “I’ll help you haul the bags down in the morning before we head to the airport.”

“All right.” Keenan nods, looking curious now, like even he and Dario wonder if something is up between Andrew and me.

Shit. I am fucking this up.

Turning toward Andrew, I hold my breath and pray to a higher power that my actions look natural. Leaning down, I brace a hand on the armrest of his chair, trying to avoid the questions in his eyes.

“I’ll see you upstairs,” I murmur, hoping I’m loud enough that the Hepperlys can hear and think it’s some kind of affectionate goodnight.

It doesn’t feel like enough, though. A couple…a real couple would probably kiss goodnight. A real boyfriend would probably press his lips to that bow-shaped mouth that’s infuriatingly perfect for the cut of his jaw.

I aimed for his cheek.

I know I did.

When my lips land on the corner of his, I can’t honestly say if I decided it at the last minute or if he moved, but I find mine covering his.

For a mouth that can say the most foul of insults and lie with such ease, his lips are incredibly soft.

They’re not pinched shut tight like last time, but rather parted in surprise.

Did he think I didn’t have the balls to fake it like he did? I only know one way to kiss, though, so the joke is on me. How do you fake something that’s so simplistic?

Brushing my bottom lip over his, I end up capturing the top one momentarily. I can feel his breath on my lips. Smell the beer on it, mingled with his clean, soapy Andrew scent that always makes me scoff, imagining how hygienic and fussy he is.

Right now, he just smells good. Right now, it just feels like a kiss. A very not fake kiss, especially when I feel his hand on my cheek. God, it’s been a long time since I’ve kissed anyone. A very long time.

When I pull back and find him staring at me, looking just as confused as I feel right now, I know I’ve fucked up yet again. “Goodnight,” I blurt, straightening up and hurrying up the path to the resort.

I don’t know if the Hepperlys believed that or not, but that’s not the problem.

I believed it. That was a kiss, a real kiss.

I only meant to play my part so Andrew wouldn’t say I’m slacking, but all I accomplished was the realization that I don’t know how to fake anything.

And that is incredibly terrifying considering how many days I have left until we’re contingent.

A half an hour later, I hear the door to our newest shared room shut. The soft tread of footsteps stops at the end of the bed, and it’s silent for a moment. Why is the thought of him watching me making me feel lightheaded?

My heart is in overdrive. I don’t dare even exhale. Eyes pinched shut, I am more still than a sniper who has an eye on his mark.

There’s a rustle of clothing dropping to the floor that ratchets my pulse up a notch.

It’s bizarre that I’m becoming accustomed to sleeping in the same bed as Andrew.

I already know what it will feel like when the bed dips on his side, when his warmth permeates under the covers.

I even know how his breathing sounds when he falls asleep.

My memories serve me well as each of those things happens in the next few minutes, except for his breathing going shallow. He rolls to his side, facing my back, and then it’s quiet again. I can feel his eyes on me. Does he know I’m playing possum?

“What? No kiss goodnight?” he asks softly, teasing.

I blow my cover and tense, letting out the breath I was holding. Soft laughter floods the room as he flops onto his back and yanks the covers tighter against him.

“Goodnight, Lucas,” he purrs.

I hate him. Truly, I do. I don’t know what’s going on with me, but my mind and body are clearly not on the same page. If they were, I wouldn’t feel so disappointed as I whisper back, “Asshole.”