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C ass

Oh, so it’s like a grown-up bar , was all Cass could think as he entered the hushed space, all soft lighting and dark wood; small, intimate tables; and leather-backed chairs.

It was nothing like the boisterous sports bars or clubs he’d ventured into since turning twenty-one, the best that his little college town had to offer, all places aimed at university kids who wanted to get wild, loud, laid, or all of the above.

This was the kind of place where people ordered wine, or cocktails, or if beer , definitely the kind that came in, like, some sort of frosted glass.

But that was okay. That was fine, really.

Because yes, Cass may have technically been a college kid, and yes, he was most definitely interested in maybe, possibly (hopefully) getting laid, but he was also an adult, with just as much right to be there as anyone else, okay?

Cass found an empty spot at the bar and hopped onto the stool, silently cursing the fact that it was tall enough for his stupidly short legs to dangle.

The bartender was in front of him in an instant. “Need a menu?”

Cass shook his head, not wanting to get overwhelmed by choices when he’d barely been brave enough to walk through the doors in the first place. “Um, just a manhattan?”

He hated that it came out as a question.

“Right after I see some ID.” The man gave him a kind smile as he said it, but he definitely wasn’t joking.

Cass couldn’t exactly blame him—he’d always looked younger than his age, and his outfit choice of fussy button-up and pressed pants had somehow only enhanced the effect. So he fished his ID out of his wallet and handed it over.

The bartender looked it over thoughtfully. “Barely legal, huh?”

Cass couldn’t help it: he fucking blushed. Not exactly the secret to looking like he belonged, he was pretty sure. It was just, the guy made it sound all dirty or something.

The bartender cocked a brow at his flushed cheeks but was kind enough not to comment. He just shot Cass a wink. “Coming right up, then, cutie.”

Oh. Oh . That was flirting, right? Was Cass allowed to flirt back, or would that be frowned upon? Could he get the bartender to take him home, maybe? That would be pretty cool, right?

But even as he was thinking it, he was glancing at his phone for the fifteenth time that night, seeing if he had a text from Blake. Pathetic.

There was nothing since the last: Going to grab a beer with some new ski buddies. You up for it?

Cass had never responded. Because he knew—he absolutely knew —what it was going to be like.

Some gorgeous, tanned, athletic ski bunnies draped over Blake’s massive shoulders, licking their lips like he was some kind of human candy.

And why shouldn’t they? Blake was gorgeous. Blake was perfect. Blake was…

Blake was everything.

Cass had been stunned when they’d been roomed together for their junior year.

He knew at this point most people chose their own roommates, and he knew why he hadn’t done so: college hadn’t exactly been the social awakening he’d hoped for.

Which was his own fault, choosing a known party school just because he’d had a full scholarship.

But Blake? Cass had sized him up in an instant: handsome, popular, able to make friends like it was as simple as breathing.

The fact that he’d chosen a random assignment had made zero sense in Cass’s eyes.

But Blake had said something about getting his grades up and not needing the distraction of his rowdy friends.

And so Cass—uncool, untalented, loner Cass—had suddenly been paired up with one of the university’s golden gods.

Blake was everything Cass wasn’t. Blake played intramural sports, was built like a linebacker, and collected girls’ numbers like they were spare change.

Not that Cass wanted any girls’ numbers.

He’d take some guys’ numbers, for sure. He’d take Blake’s number, was the stupid, horrible, evil truth of it.

Well, he had Blake’s number. Obviously. They were roommates, after all. But he didn’t have it that way. He had it, like, Hey dude, got any spare quarters for the laundromat? Or, Grabbing food, want me to bring some back?

Because that was the other thing. The other, completely unfair thing that had become clear over time.

Blake was nice. Like, super nice. He’d never made Cass feel inferior or small (except maybe just by existing), despite their many differences.

He treated Cass like he was special, like he was smart and funny and not at all a complete drag to be around.

Which didn’t help Cass’s stupid crush one bit.

What also didn’t help was his suggestion they road-trip home for spring break together.

They were apparently both from Phoenix, despite never having crossed paths before college.

And then had come his suggestion they stop in some place called Hyde Park so Blake could hit the slopes for the weekend, taking advantage of the last few snowy mountain days before warmer weather took over.

And now they were here, and Cass was as hopeless as ever.

He’d spent the day exploring the town instead of the mountain, because a day spent falling on his butt on the packed snow did not sound like the funnest of fun times to him personally.

And he’d hoped they’d maybe at least get dinner after, and Cass could have tried not to gawk as Blake was his usual charming, sweet self over burgers and beers.

But of course Blake had made friends on the slopes, and of course he was going to hang out with whatever fun, popular, athletic crowd he’d found. Which left Cass—

“So deep in thought.”

Cass startled, accidentally flicking the coaster he’d been toying with up and over the beer.

Oops. He hadn’t even quite realized his drink was in front of him, drops of condensation already forming on the glass.

And apparently the stool next to him was no longer empty but occupied by some handsome, older dude.

Not Blake handsome, of course, but kind of…

compelling? And he was talking to Cass .

Cass tried to pull his brain out of its Blake spiral and respond like an adult, casting a sidelong glance at the stranger. “Oh yeah. You know.”

Jesus. Was that the best he could do?

The man’s lips curled ever so slightly. “I’m afraid I don’t. Pretty thing like you, what need do you have to be scowling so?”

Pretty. Pretty? No, that wasn’t right. Cass was… He was just boring. Dirty-blond hair he could never get to sit flat. Washed-out blue eyes. Skinny and short and often at odds with his own limbs.

But this guy was looking at him like he was—like he was some sort of snack. And Cass was sitting there, stupidly saying nothing. He tried to come out with something passable. “Just roommate stuff.”

“Ah.” The man sipped his cocktail. “An irritant?”

“No!”

Cass’s denial came out more strongly than he intended, but the man just gave him that same subdued smile. “Sloppy, perhaps?”

Cass shook his head. “Nuh-uh.”

“Loud banging headboards till the wee hours?”

Cass coughed as he tried to sip his manhattan.

That one wasn’t exactly inaccurate. “A crush,” he admitted sheepishly, once he got his windpipe back under control.

Because fuck it, they were only in this town for two nights—he was never gonna see this guy again.

Who cared if he knew Cass was head over heels for an unattainable roommate, one he would never meet?

Another, “Ah,” this one full of understanding. “Yes.” The man nodded. “I vaguely recall such things.”

“You can’t be that old,” Cass teased. The guy was probably late thirties at most. But maybe people grew out of their hopeless crushes when they left their twenties. Wouldn’t that be great?

“Older than you might think.” The man’s eyes flashed in amusement, and then he was waving the bartender over for another round. “Well, we’ll just have to distract you from your thoughts, won’t we?”

And distract he did. He was actually pretty good at it, asking Cass question after question without revealing anything about himself.

He also kept buying the drinks, which was generous of him, especially when Cass started turning into an embarrassingly maudlin drunk.

“Just wish I was special, ya know? But ’m boring. Boooooring. And a guy.”

“What’s wrong with your gender?”

“Blake likes girls.”

“Ah. I see.” The man—Cass was pretty sure he’d given a name at some point, maybe Anton?

Or Arthur?—leaned closer. He was honestly pretty close already, having scooted his barstool nearer to Cass at some point during their tipsy discussion.

He had a strange scent about him up close, almost like old pennies.

“What if you could be special, Cass? What if you could be…quite unique.”

Cass smiled dopily, his head feeling heavy from the numerous manhattans. “That’d be cool.”

And then Maybe-Arthur was holding his hand, tugging lightly. “Come with me.”

Cass was just tipsy enough to say yes. This was the whole reason he’d come out: to try to find someone else to hook up with, to try to get over his stupid crush, to try to finally shed his ever-stubborn virginity, even.

So what if this guy wasn’t Blake? So what if Blake was never, ever going to want him?

This guy maybe wanted him. And it would be nice to be kissed, to be touched.

And he’d said he thought Cass was pretty.

He looked at him like he was not just a snack but a whole meal.

They shuffled—or Cass shuffled, his companion seemingly able to walk just fine—and Cass was vaguely surprised when, instead of to a cab, the guy directed him to the alley outside the bar.

Maybe-Arthur leaned in, that old-penny scent lingering again.

Was he going to kiss Cass? His eyes were the wrong color, brown instead of green.

But who cared, right? Blake was probably doing the same with some ski harlot.