Page 18 of Hot Chicken (Sunday Brothers #6)

CHAPTER EIGHT

THEO

Porter jumped out of bed, his hair still mussed and damp from our lovemaking. “Okay, first of all, I’d like to remind you that you said you’d listen and not judge.”

I bit the inside of my cheek to restrain my laughter—a reaction I wouldn’t have thought possible just a few hours ago.

All evening at Webb’s, I’d been watching Porter get more brittle and distant, like glass cooling too quickly.

I wasn’t entirely oblivious—certainly not where the love of my life was concerned—and I’d seen the signs building for days, but at first, I’d explained them away.

Aiden was a freaking delight, but having a kid in the house was always chaotic.

And God knew the oppressive summer heat could throw anyone off.

When I’d really stopped to think about it during our mostly silent drive home, though, I’d realized it had been going on longer than I’d allowed myself to acknowledge. A couple of weeks at least.

Guilt had hit me like a physical weight in my chest. I’d been so consumed with this Shakespeare project, so buried in research and correspondence, I hadn’t noticed that Porter was struggling. Worse, he clearly hadn’t felt like he could come to me about whatever it was.

My mind had quickly spiraled through some worst-case scenarios. Was Porter having second thoughts about us? Was he tired of my academic obsessions?

The thought that Porter might be unhappy had been absolutely terrifying—the kind of terror that made my blood cold despite the heat—and I’d made love to him with a desperate intensity.

But seeing him now, pacing the floor beside our bed unselfconsciously naked, his hair sticking up at impossible angles, while that absurd rooster cookie jar from Webb’s house watched from the closet like a poultry voyeur… I somehow felt more settled than I had in days.

Whatever Porter was about to confess couldn’t be so terrible, not when we were here together like this. We could handle anything as long as we faced it together.

“I pinky promise,” I said. I grabbed a towel from the nightstand to clean myself and sat back against the pillows to watch Porter pace. Though I was genuinely concerned—and genuinely spent—I couldn’t help appreciating how the lamplight gilded the lean lines of Porter’s muscles.

He ran a hand through his hair, making it even more disheveled. “Okay, so… you heard Hawk’s explanation about the rooster earlier?”

“That Sir Pecksworth called to him from amongst the other crockery on the Dishes and Doo-Dads table like it knew him of old? That it practically begged Hawk—mentally, subliminally, magically —to take it home and then proceeded to make Hawk’s fiancé fuck him all over their house, an activity they’ve never, ever engaged in before? ”

Porter’s cheeks flushed pink, and he stopped pacing long enough to cross his arms defensively over his chest. “It wasn’t just Jack and Hawk! Something similar happened with Gage and Knox, and then Luke and Webb, too, when they were given the rooster, so?—”

“Baby,” I interrupted gently, sitting up straighter.

“Gage and Knox have been thinking about getting married for years, just like we have. Luke and Webb’s surrogate has been pregnant for months.

Having been around your brothers—especially after the time we nearly caught Gage and Knox in the orchard—I don’t think them having a lot of sex can be solely attributed to Pecky the Magic Rooster. ”

“The Cock of Good Fortune,” he corrected sharply, his jaw tightening. “And just to say… I’m pretty sure you’re judging right now.”

“But I’m not judging you,” I pointed out. “I’m judging people who believe the rooster is—” I stopped mid-sentence as the penny dropped. “Porter, why did you bring the sex rooster home? Do you… I mean… If you’re not satisfied with what we…”

“What?” Porter paused in his pacing and wrinkled his nose. “Oh.” He waved a hand in angry dismissal as he resumed. “Fuck, no. Our sex life is so good I sometimes have to remind myself why we both need to work full-time jobs. It wasn’t about that.”

Relief flooded through me. “Right. No. Good. So then what…?”

“The rooster’s lucky,” he blurted, the words tumbling out in a rush.

“Or I hoped he might be. And I needed some luck because… Ugh.” He took a deep breath.

“I’ve been jealous, Theo. Weirdly jealous.

Stupidly jealous. And I didn’t want to tell you because I know how silly it is.

That thing Shakespeare said about reason and love ? He wrote it about me.”

I sat up quickly and grabbed Porter’s hand, stopping his frantic pacing. “Hold up. Jealous of what? Of who?”

Porter looked at me like the answer should be obvious. “Of Remy. Obvs.”

“Remy,” I repeated slowly, trying to process this information. “ Remy?” My mind conjured up an image of my research partner—good-looking, if you squinted, but mostly hot air and scarves. Lots of scarves. “God, why?”

“Why not?” Porter began ticking things off on his fingers, his voice getting higher with each point. “You’re both all in on this exciting project, he knows as much about Shakespearean sonnets as you do, he’s got tattoos, he’s got that hot accent. And…”

His hands clenched into fists, and he looked off into the corner of the room.

“Remember when you introduced me to him at that reception when he was visiting? He called me ‘Theo’s Porter’ and asked if I was a Shakespeare scholar.

” Porter rolled his eyes. “And I said, ‘Nah, I just sleep with one.’ And he said, ‘Ah, well, we cannot all be blessed with scholarly minds, can we, Theo?’ And you smiled.” Porter’s voice cracked slightly on the last word, accusation bleeding through the hurt.

“You smiled this… this warm, secret smile.”

“Oh,” I said softly, thinking back to that night but remembering it entirely differently. “I see.”

“Look, I know how I sound. I can hear myself.” Porter’s voice was miserable now, all the fight going out of him, and it made my heart squeeze.

“ Unreasonable , but in a Claudio way. Like the kind of dimwitted child Remy probably thinks I am.” He scrubbed a hand over his face.

“But no matter how I try to talk myself out of feeling this way, I… I can’t.

I know you love me, Theo. I know that. But I just…

I wonder if there’s some part of you that…

wishes I was more like him or something. I don’t know.”

I sucked in a breath through my nose. “Porter, come sit here.” I patted the bed beside me.

“Oh, no, thank you. I just knew you were going to do this. Be all kind and sympathetic.” He glared at me briefly. “Don’t make me feel better, or it’ll make me feel worse.”

I had to fight back another smile. “Please? ”

With a sigh, Porter perched on the edge of the bed, his body still tense with anxiety. I began rubbing slow circles on his back, feeling the tight knots of stress in his shoulders gradually start to loosen under my touch.

“So, a couple things,” I said at length. “First, this isn’t all on you. I’ve been really consumed with this project. I don’t think I realized just how consumed until I started thinking back on it tonight?—”

“And that’s okay!” Porter interrupted. “That’s what I’m trying to say. I’m not a child; I’m a whole-ass adult. And I know Shakespeare’s your first love. I know how much your career means to you?—”

“Hush.” I pressed a finger gently to his lips, feeling their warmth. “Now it’s your turn to listen and not judge, okay?”

I waited for his grudging nod before I took my hand away from his mouth and threaded my fingers with his. “Shakespeare’s not my first love, Porter. You are.”

His eyes went wide, and I could see him trying to process my words. I leaned back against the pillows and pulled him with me, settling him against my chest where I could feel his heartbeat.

“I do love my work. Of course I do,” I went on.

“For a long time, it was the most important thing in my life. Some might say the only thing in my life, after my grandfather died.” I gave him a rueful smile.

“But that’s not true anymore and hasn’t been for a long time.

You’re my future, Porter. You have my heart. To an unreasonable degree.”

“But—”

“I’m not done. Do you want to know a secret about Remy? He doesn’t know as much about Shakespeare as he likes to pretend he does.”

“Reeeeally?” Porter’s voice perked up with interest, and I felt some of the tension leave his body.

“Oh yeah.” I grinned. “He’s ninety-nine percent accent and tattoos.

Always has been. I’m only working with him because the project is fascinating.

And part of the reason I’m spending so much time on it is because I’m doing a lot of the work.

” I put on an exaggerated French accent and waved my hand dramatically.

“‘Theo, I am so ov-air-come by ze beauty of zis metaphor zat I cannot write ze analysis as I promised!’”

Porter burst out laughing, the sound bright and genuine, and I felt something tight in my chest finally release.

“You know, I remember introducing you to him at that reception.” My arms tightened around him.

“I remember exactly what you said—and it was perfect, by the way. Quick and charming, completely you. I even remember smiling. But, baby, that smile had nothing to do with him and everything to do with you. With how lucky I felt to have you beside me, how proud I was that you’re mine. ”

I cupped his face in my hands, stroking my thumbs across his cheekbones, needing him to hear me and believe me.

“I know plenty of people who share my passion for Shakespeare. I love that you have your own interests, that your brain works differently than mine, that you think fast and feel deeply, that you have a brilliant, irreverent sense of humor, but you never put people down to make yourself feel good. There is no one on Earth—living or dead, even William Shakespeare himself—I’d rather spend my life with.

You’ve been it for me since that first angry sonnet. ”

Porter buried his face in my neck, his breath warm against my skin as he whispered, “You know it’s the same for me. It’s just you, Theo.”

He leaned over me further, trailing his fingers down my ribs in a touch that was reverent and wondering. The anxiety that had been pouring off him all evening—and longer—was finally gone, replaced by something tender and hungry.

This time, there was no desperation, no urgency in our connection, just desire.

Just love. Just our bodies pressed together, the drag of skin on skin, the press of thighs, the slide of our sweaty chests as we rocked against each other.

Porter’s mouth found mine, and our kiss spun out until we were simply breathing together.

There was nothing better than making love to Porter.

I loved the heat and weight of him on top of me, the feel of his hard cock nudging mine, the way he gasped into my mouth when I rolled my hips just right.

His hands framed my face, and his eyes locked to mine, pupils blown wide with arousal and emotion like nothing outside of this bed existed.

I wrapped my hand around both of our cocks, feeling the slick heat of them together as I worked us both. Porter’s breathing grew ragged, needy little sounds escaping him with each movement, and my own control started to fray at the edges.

“Theo,” Porter groaned as I felt his body tense above me.

We came nearly in unison, shuddering and breathless for the second time that night. He collapsed onto me, and I held him close, my heart thudding so hard I was sure he could feel it against his chest. I hoped he could.

“I really wish I’d explained all this earlier,” Porter murmured against my shoulder after we’d caught our breath. “I was trying not to burden you with my immature shit?—”

“Your emotions aren’t a burden, Porter. I want to know how you’re feeling, always, because you’re mine. All of you. Every bit. Even the unreasonable stuff.” I smiled and pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “You’re my soul’s other half. My heart’s delight. My joy by day, my peace in the night.”

Porter frowned thoughtfully, then shook his head. “I don’t know that one.”

“Because I just came up with it.” I smiled smugly. “You’re not the only sonnet writer in this family, Porter. You need to share the crown.”

Porter grinned, his whole face lighting up with delight. “You make me so happy, Theo Hancock. I love you.”

“But can we be sure ?” I teased, trailing my fingers down his spine. “Maybe you only think you love me. Maybe Pecky’s forcing you to say that.”

Porter rolled his eyes. “Alright, alright. I might deserve that. Stealing the cock was not my finest hour.”

“You stole him?” I demanded, sitting up straighter.

He shrugged. “More like… borrowed. I’ll bring him back tomorrow.”

I mock gasped. “Grand Theft Poultry, Porter?”

“Hey! You were okay with murder a minute ago!”

We both burst out laughing. And as I looked toward the closet where that smug little rooster still sat, watching us with its painted eyes, I felt a kind of joy bubble up inside me that I’d never known before the night Porter Sunday had first shown up at my door.

The rooster might not be magic, but the man in my arms and the love we’d found sure as fuck were.

And I was going to hold on to them forever.