Page 14 of The Boss (Straight Men #2)

The bar hadn’t changed much. The same exposed brick walls, the same dim lighting, the same whiskey-soaked scent hanging in the air. The soft jazz music playing in the background. Even the bartender looked the same, polishing glasses with that same slow, practiced ease.

“This place takes me back,” Chantelle said as we slid into a booth near the back. She draped her coat over the seat beside her, the black satin shirt cascading over her torso, the soft fur brushing against her shoulder. “Remember that night?”

Of course I remembered. It was the night when we first met, and now she brought me here on purpose, so we could relive that moment. She had been standing at the bar in that skin-tight red dress, flipping her hair and laughing with a group of friends. I had been here with some of the people from work, and when she caught me looking, she smirked—just a little—like she already knew I’d be coming over. And I had.

I gave her a slow smile. “You mean when I spent the better part of the evening fending off every other guy who tried to approach you and charming you into giving me your number?”

Chantelle laughed. “You were charming. And very persistent.”

I chuckled. “When I see something I like, I go for it. And it worked, didn’t it?”

She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. “Apparently.”

I leaned back, exhaling. For a moment, the memories felt real again—the thrill of chasing her, the easy flirtation, the way we had sparked against each other like flint and steel. Maybe this was exactly what we needed—to remember how we started, to remind ourselves why we had fallen into bed, into love, into a life together.

A waiter came by, and Chantelle ordered a cocktail while I got a scotch. We kept reminiscing while we drank, teasing each other about who made the first move, who kissed who first, who had fallen harder. The conversation flowed easily enough, like muscle memory. She was beautiful. She was charming. She was mine. So why did it feel like I was going through the motions?

Chantelle pulled a sleek black box from her purse and slid it across the table. “Happy birthday, stud.”

I lifted the lid. Inside, cushioned against black velvet, was a Rolex. Clean, elegant, expensive.

I whistled. “Damn, babe. You didn’t have to.”

She leaned in across the table, a satisfied smile playing on her lips. “Of course I did. You deserve it.”

I turned my wrist, letting the light catch on the polished metal. It was a beautiful watch—classic, refined. But somehow, it felt like I was looking at it through glass, like I wasn’t really there.

Chantelle’s smile turned sly. “And there’s more waiting for you tonight.”

I didn’t have to ask what that meant. A year ago, I would’ve grinned, leaned in, whispered something filthy in her ear just to watch her blush. But now, my first thought was: She only ever does this on special occasions.

She liked sex well enough, but blowjobs? That was different. It was never something she craved, never something she initiated. Usually, I had to talk her into it, ease her into it. She wasn’t bad at it—she knew what she was doing—but it always felt like something she was giving me rather than something she wanted for herself. And now, unbidden, another image slid into my mind—Chris, dropping to his knees without hesitation, his mouth eager, hungry, like he got off on it just as much as I did.

I pushed the thought away. Smiling at Chantelle, I lifted my glass. “To another year.”

She clinked her cocktail against my scotch. “To you, birthday boy.”

The rest of the night played out like a script—drinks, dinner, laughter in all the right places. When we got to my apartment, Chantelle wasted no time. She led me to the bedroom, kissing me as she unbuttoned my shirt. “Lie back,” she murmured, pushing me onto the bed.

I did as I was told, trying to summon the excitement I should be feeling.

She climbed between my legs, her hands sliding over my stomach before reaching my belt. She unbuckled it, her movements slow and deliberate. Without a word, she pulled me out, stroking me a few times before taking me into her mouth. I groaned at the contact. She was good at this. I knew she was good at this.

But it wasn’t the same. Her touch was too cautious, too hesitant. She took me in at her own pace, controlled the rhythm, never let me get too deep. I let my head fall back, trying to lose myself in the sensation, trying to focus on the warmth, the wetness. Yet I couldn’t help thinking how much better it had felt when Chris did it.

Chris, who sucked me like he needed it. Chris, who groaned around my cock, who looked up at me with those mischievous eyes, winking, like he took pleasure in just seeing me fall apart. Chris, who had sucked me off under my desk while I was trying to hold a conversation.

My abs tensed. I clenched my fists against the sheets.

Fuck.

Chantelle pulled off, mistaking my reaction for pleasure. Smiling up at me, she continued to jerk me off at a safe distance, expecting me to shoot at any moment. She never swallowed, never even let me finish in her mouth, because cum grossed her out. “You like that?”

I nodded. “Yeah. Feels good.” It wasn’t a lie. Her hand did feel good. It just wasn’t enough. And maybe that was the most dangerous realization of all. Because for the first time, I wasn’t simply craving more.

I was craving him.

* * *

Chris was sulking.

At first, I didn’t notice. The morning started like any other—meetings, emails, a quick blowjob in my office, a stack of reports to go over. I was running on too little sleep and too much coffee, my mind a mess of tangled thoughts I didn’t have the time or energy to sort through. But then, little by little, it started to register.

The way Chris scarcely looked at me when he handed over my schedule. The short, clipped answers to my questions. The missing smirk when I teased him about wearing that ridiculous green tie again. The distracted, perfunctory way he blew me.

It followed me throughout the day like a shadow. Whenever we crossed paths, I caught the slight stiffness in his posture, the way he kept his tone polite but distant, the way his usual easy, teasing energy was just… gone.

By mid-morning, it was undeniable. Chris was sulking. At me.

I caught him near the break room, cornering him by the copier. “All right,” I said, folding my arms. “What’s going on with you today?”

Chris barely glanced my way, shrugging as he grabbed a stack of printed documents. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Bullshit. You’ve been weird all day. What’s wrong?”

He let out a short, humorless laugh. “I’m surprised you noticed. I thought the world revolves around you and your needs.”

I blinked. “What?”

“You didn’t even mention it was your birthday yesterday.” His eyes flicked up, and there was something raw in them—hurt, frustration, something deeper than just petty annoyance. “I had to find out from your fiancée, ” he added, voice quieter now.

A flare of guilt stirred in my gut, but I shoved it down, crossing my arms tighter. “And?”

“ And ? Jesus, Zac.” He shook his head. “Do I really matter that little to you?”

That hit somewhere it shouldn’t have. I felt my patience snap, heat surging in my chest, and before I could stop myself, the words came out too sharp, too harsh. “What exactly do you think we are that I’m obliged to tell you about my private life? Do you think because—” I looked around to make sure no one could overhear, lowering my voice— “do you think because you suck my cock you have some claim over me? That this is a relationship ?”

Chris’s expression didn’t change—no flinch, no anger, just a quiet disappointment that was somehow worse. So much worse. “I thought we were friends,” he said, voice flat. Then he turned and walked away.

I stood there, heart pounding, staring at the empty space he left behind.

* * *

The guilt gnawed at me for the rest of the afternoon. I’d been an asshole. I knew it. I’d snapped because I was frustrated, because I was confused, because the last thing I wanted to think about was how much of my time and energy was already orbiting around Chris fucking Landry like he was the goddamn sun. I cared about his feelings and I hated that I’d hurt him. But admitting that didn’t make me feel any less like a dick.

By lunchtime, I couldn’t take it anymore. I grabbed my coat and stormed out of my office. I found him at his desk, shoulders hunched as he focused on his computer.

“Chris.”

He didn’t look up. “Boss.”

I sighed. “Look, I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean it.”

He kept typing. “Yeah, you did.”

I rubbed my beard, my breath escaping in a quiet rush. “We are friends, Chris. I…” I swallowed, the words catching in my throat. “I don’t have many, so I’m not used to opening up to people. And I don’t like making a big deal out of my birthdays. Perhaps I should’ve mentioned it.” You do matter to me , I wanted to say. But I stopped myself before those words could take shape, leaving them to hang at the edge of my tongue. When he didn’t say anything, I spoke again. “Let me make it up to you. Come grab lunch with me. Please.”

Chris finally glanced up, expression unreadable. “You asking me on a date, Zac?”

I snorted. “It’s an apology, not a marriage proposal. Now get your ass up and let’s go eat.”

A beat. Then, finally, a slow, pondering nod. “Typical Scorpio. I should’ve known.”

“Is that a yes?”

“All right. But you’re paying.”

“Obviously.”

We ended up at a small restaurant, one of those tucked-away gems you could walk past a hundred times without noticing—an old converted rowhouse on a quiet street off Benefit. The kind of place that had probably been standing since the 1800s, its brick facade weathered by time, its wooden sign swinging gently in the breeze. Inside, the floors were dark-stained hardwood, creaking softly underfoot, and the walls were lined with shelves of wine bottles and framed black-and-white photos of old Providence— cobblestone streets, gas-lit lanterns, men in suits and hats from another era.

The air smelled rich—garlic and butter, simmering stock, the faintest hint of fresh bread baking somewhere in the back. Low jazz played from an old speaker, blending with the quiet hum of conversation and the occasional clink of silverware against ceramic plates. It was cozy, intimate, the kind of place that felt effortlessly warm even on a gray, drizzly Rhode Island afternoon.

Chris went for fried cod, swiping a fry through a pool of aioli before popping it into his mouth. I cut into my steak, the juices pooling on the plate, and for the first time all day, things felt easy again.

“You know, I basically lived on instant ramen in college.”

I smirked. “That tracks.”

“Hey, it’s a classic. Cost, like, twenty cents a pack. Kept me alive.” He pointed a fry at me. “Bet you never had to survive on that kind of struggle meal, huh?”

I raised an eyebrow. “I went to MIT, Chris. You think I didn’t spend at least one all-nighter living off shitty dorm food?”

Chris chuckled. “Okay, fair. And what about now? Do you cook? Or do you have one of those sleek, spotless kitchens that exist purely for aesthetic purposes?”

I leaned back, sipping my Sauvignon Blanc. “I cook.”

Chris raised a skeptical brow. “Really?”

“Really. I actually enjoy it. And I’m not half-bad at it, if I do say so myself.”

“Huh.” He considered me for a moment, then smirked. “What’s your signature dish, then?”

I shrugged. “I make a mean chicken piccata.”

Chris hummed, tapping a finger against the table. “Sounds fancy. Gonna have to judge that for myself someday.”

I grinned. “That a request?”

Chris flashed that cheeky smile of his at me. “More like a challenge.”

I shook my head, chuckling. Chris plucked a fry off my plate, completely unbothered, like my lunch was just an extension of his own. I should have been annoyed, but instead, I only laughed under my breath. And that was the thing. With Chantelle, last night had felt like a performance—hitting the right beats, saying the right things, playing the role I was supposed to play. But here, now, with Chris? It felt easy, natural. I wasn’t trying. I wasn’t acting. I was just… me.

I wasn’t sure what to do with that.