Great Restorations

Copyright

Published by Dreamspinner Press 4760 Preston Road Suite 244-149 Frisco, TX 75034 http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/ This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author‘s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Great Restorations Copyright © 2010 by Libby Drew Cover Art by Catt Ford All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press, 4760 Preston Road, Suite 244-149, Frisco, TX 75034 http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/ ISBN: 978-1-61581-622-4 Printed in the United States of America First Edition September, 2010 eBook edition available eBook ISBN: 978-1-61581-623-1

Dedication

To the men and women everywhere who are dedicated to marriage equality.

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Chapter 1

ONE more junk collector pushing up daisies. Not the most charitable of thoughts, but it was the best Marc could do while his Aunt May rattled on about where she wanted to start the estate sale hunt that morning. ―It‘s a crying shame. A crying shame. Poor Mr. Steinbrick spent the last years of his life all alone, puttering around that huge house, and do you think anybody came to take care of him when he got sick? No.‖ Marc murmured something noncommittal. He shut the door, then took his time walking around to the driver‘s side of his truck. He hoped that by the time he reached the other side her ranting would have run its course, but when he opened his door, she was still going, like Marc had been listening the whole time. He sighed affectionately, resigning himself to a day of her one-sided conversations. ―He barely stepped foot out the front door for years. Lord knows what he was doing, mind you, alone for all that time. It‘s unnatural, hiding away from the world like that, and I told him so. Yes, I did. We used to be so close, you see.‖ Her voice trailed off, and she frowned out the window. Marc waited, knowing she wasn‘t finished. ―But time changes things,‖ May continued after a brief reprieve. ―Time changes us.‖ ―It doesn‘t change everyone,‖ Marc heard himself say. He pressed his lips together before his brain got another head start on his good sense. ―Maybe not.‖ May sniffed, then shook herself, casting off the melancholy mood like a dog shed water. ―He appreciated a fine piece of furniture when he saw one, as I recall. I‘ll bet the place is full of treasures. Can you imagine?‖ Marc could imagine, and he didn‘t bother adding that the estate sale crowd was probably taking similar bets. Just as they gossiped

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about what his aunt might be collecting in her own home. Rumor had it she kept back the best of her finds for herself, which Marc could‘ve confirmed if anybody had bothered to ask him. He pushed his blond hair out of his eyes, smoothing it over his ears. ―So is that where you want to start?‖ Aunt May nodded. ―And you probably should have worn something you didn‘t mind getting dirty. There‘s no telling the last time these things saw a good cleaning. Though that might be just enough to drive the amateurs away.‖ She cackled and clutched her floral fabric bag to her chest. Marc glanced down at his jeans and red T-shirt, then shrugged, and put the truck in gear. ―This is fine. I don‘t mind getting it dirty.‖ His Saturday mornings had been taken up with Aunt May and her estate sales since he‘d owned a vehicle capable of catering to her compulsive habit. Ten summers of never sleeping in on a day that rightfully should‘ve belonged to him. It might‘ve soured some relationships, but resentment had never quite outweighed Marc‘s sense of obligation. His Aunt May had been both a mother and a father to him, and in all the years of his life, she‘d only ever asked for this one thing. ―All right,‖ he said, flashing a smile at her. ―The Steinbrick estate sale first.‖ He swung out of her driveway and onto the road, heading east toward the lake. May adjusted her seatbelt over her pink pinstripe blouse, then balanced her notepad on her lap. Nibbling on her pen, she scoured the classified section. ―Any other good prospects today?‖ Marc asked. It wouldn‘t hurt to feel her out. Find out just how long he might be running her around the countryside this particular Saturday. Sometimes it was only an hour or so. Other times, the majority of his day went into moving boxes and furniture. ―Steinbrick‘s will be the biggest, and where I‘ll find the good stuff this weekend. I‘m sure of it.‖ Marc snorted. ―You‘re acting like he was hoarding the crown jewels. You have no idea what the old man owned.‖ ―I know some. Paul was hardly a stranger.‖

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―Oh?‖ May ignored the obvious request for clarification. ―This is a small town. Word gets around.‖ Yes, it did, Marc thought with a grimace. Got around like wildfire. Edgewood was small enough that few secrets stayed that way, unless one was careful. Over the years, Marc had learned to be very, very careful. ―Speaking of which,‖ Aunt May continued, ―I heard from Horace over at the butcher that you canceled your date with Rachel last weekend.‖ ―So?‖ Marc fixed his eyes on the road. It twisted around the creek, then back up the hill. He pretended to be preoccupied with navigating his truck around the tight bends. ―Why did you do that?‖ ―Aunt May.‖ Marc rubbed the back of his neck. ―It‘s none of your business, you know.‖ ―That‘s never stopped me before.‖ ―And never will, most likely,‖ Marc grumbled. ―Did you have a fight?‖ Marc clenched his teeth and took the next turn a bit too fast. May bumped against her door with a grunt. ―No,‖ he ground out. ―We didn‘t have a fight.‖ ―Are you sure? This is the second date you‘ve cancelled in as many weeks.‖ ―How the hell—‖ Marc hit the brakes and pulled to the side of the road. ―Never mind,‖ he said, turning to face her. ―I know exactly how you know that. Those gossipmongers in your card club don‘t know when to shut up.‖ He pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to rein in his temper. ―She‘s still dealing with a lot of things from her last boyfriend. Sometimes it‘s hard for her, dealing with the memories. If she wants time alone, she deserves it, okay?‖ May clucked her tongue. ―He was horrible to her, I‘ve heard. Men like that should be thrown in jail for the rest of their miserable lives.‖ Marc agreed, of course. It had taken Rachel months to open up about the abuse she‘d suffered while under that bastard‘s control, and

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even though she no longer hid from what had happened, she hated to dwell on it. ―Stay out of it, okay?‖ Marc clenched the steering wheel. ―It‘s really none of your business what‘s going with Rachel and me.‖ Aunt May clucked her tongue. ―I only want you to be happy. Is that too much for an old lady to ask?‖ Marc swallowed the guilt that surged up his throat. He reached across the seat and took her wrinkled hand in his. ―I am happy, okay? I‘ve got the house, and the business is really starting to take off. I‘m fine. I‘m happy. I don‘t need a—I‘m fine, okay?‖ He squeezed her fingers in his, and after a moment, she did the same. Her expression softened, grew somber, and Marc‘s heart sank. He knew what was coming as sure as he knew he‘d be loading his truck with junk in less than an hour. ―You‘re like a son to me, you know that?‖ May sniffed and wiped at a stray tear. Marc nodded, groaning inwardly. ―Yes.‖ ―The son I never had. Is it wrong for me to hope you‘ll settle down and give me a grandchild or two?‖ ―It‘s not wrong,‖ he whispered. He pulled his hand away, checked his mirrors, and pulled back onto the road. It wasn‘t wrong. It was just never going to happen. He‘d been busy enough with school and starting up the business that the occasional date with Rachel had kept the gossip at bay, but he wondered how much longer he could go before the rumors started about him. A year. Maybe two. Probably a lot sooner. ―Can we drop it? Please?‖ he asked, staring at the road. When the silence stretched, he shot her a sideways glance. ―I suppose,‖ May muttered. She opened her mouth, Marc cringed, and she shut it again without saying another word. They rode in silence for several minutes after that, Marc biting his lip and May clutching her bag. Just before they turned onto Church Road, less than a mile from the Steinbrick farm, she reached over and patted his knee. He turned to look, and she smiled, then winked at him. The tension that had been bunched in Marc‘s shoulders bled away. They turned onto the long, gravel driveway a minute later. Marc pulled past the house and stopped in front of the detached garage. A quick glance at the dash showed him they were almost an hour early,

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common behavior for estate-sale junkies. ―Does the ad say anything about early birds?‖ he asked, peering out the windshield at the house. It looked uninhabited. ―Doesn‘t say ‗no early birds‘, which is just as good as saying they‘re fine,‖ May replied. Marc refrained from contradicting her. He killed the engine and got out, then walked around to open May‘s door. The morning was still and silent, and he caught himself looking around nervously as he helped her climb down from the cab. The Steinbrick house had begun as a three-story Victorian, but at some point one of its owners had added two wings that stretched out from the main house. Marc admired how the additions complemented the structure instead of detracting from its stately grace. A wide porch wrapped around the front and sides. Perhaps the house had seen better days, but the peeling paint and broken shutters couldn‘t hide its solid construction. ―Come on, Marc,‖ May scolded. She tapped her cane against his shin. ―The day‘s wasting.‖ Marc handed over her purse, and as she was slinging it over her shoulder, another car pulled in behind them. Suddenly as spry as a tenyear-old, May took off across the yard as fast as her legs would carry her. ―That‘s Kitty Singer! Quick, Marc! We‘ve got to get to the door first!‖ Marc swallowed a snort and instead of following walked over to Mrs. Singer‘s black Lincoln. He opened the door, laughing under his breath at how the loud squeak made May hobble even faster. He took Mrs. Singer‘s hand and helped her out of the car. ―No Mr. Singer today?‖ he asked. ―Nope. I‘m all by my lonesome this morning.‖ Kitty glared over the top of her sedan at May, who had reached the top of the porch stairs and was knocking on the front door. She shook her head. ―Even getting here an hour early isn‘t enough to beat your aunt to a sale, Marc.‖ ―That‘s the truth.‖ He shut the car door. ―She‘s had her eye on this one since she saw it in the paper on Tuesday.‖ ―Haven‘t we all.‖ Mrs. Singer leaned close, and after casting a wary eye at May, Marc bent down so she could whisper in his ear.

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―We‘re not the only ones who want a look at that grandson of his, either. Expect a crowd to be arriving very soon.‖ ―Grandson? I thought Mr. Steinbrick didn‘t have any family.‖ ―No! The man has four grandchildren, though this is the only one who ever took any interest in him, far as I know. He‘s some famous writer or columnist or something. From Pittsburgh.‖ Which might as well be an alien planet to most of these folks. Marc frowned up at the house. On the porch, his aunt knocked impatiently on the door once more. ―I don‘t remember him having anybody at all,‖ he mused. Mrs. Singer began walking toward the porch, and Marc followed. He tried to ignore how his aunt was glaring at him over her shoulder. Five bucks said he‘d get a lecture later for fraternizing with the enemy. ―Oh, yes,‖ Mrs. Singer went on, glaring back at May. ―Paul had a daughter, but she never lived with him. His young wife took her away when she was just a baby. It was quite the scandal back then.‖ She sniffed and nodded at May. Marc grinned at his aunt‘s own stiff nod. For all of May‘s knocking, the house stayed quiet. In fact, Marc was about to suggest they leave and return a bit later, when he heard the thump-thump of someone running down the stairs. ―About time,‖ May grumbled. ―Not the prompt sort, is he?‖ Mrs. Singer answered. They shared a disapproving look. A shadow appeared behind the frosted glass pane, and a moment later it swung open to reveal a man who Marc assumed was Mr. Steinbrick‘s grandson. Marc took a step back, eager to put himself out of the way of May‘s business, but one look at the man turned his graceful retreat into a clumsy stumble. He caught the railing before he embarrassed himself too badly, hoping the heat spreading up his neck wasn‘t obvious. The man pushed the screen door open and stepped out onto the porch, welcoming May and Mrs. Singer with a wide, friendly smile. He wore a white, wrinkled T-shirt and jeans. His feet were bare, which drew a scowl from his aunt. ―Can‘t afford decent shoes, young man?‖ she asked with her usual forthrightness.

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―Um….‖ The man laughed and ran a hand through his chocolate brown hair. Thick and wavy, it curled at his ears and at the base of his neck. A shadow of a beard covered his cheeks, and his bright eyes, as pale a blue as Marc had ever seen, sparkled with mirth. Marc swallowed once, cursing his dry mouth and galloping heart. As surreptitiously as possible, he tightened his grip on the railing. ―Wow,‖ the man said. ―I thought I made the ad for nine o‘clock.‖ ―Yep. You did,‖ May confirmed. Marc rolled his eyes, then mouthed ―sorry‖ over his aunt‘s shoulder when the man finally looked at him. ―Well,‖ the man said, voice soft and eyes still on Marc, ―your enthusiasm is appreciated, if unexpected. I‘m Sawyer, by the way. Paul Steinbrick was my grandfather.‖ He smiled, and Marc‘s stomach clenched. ―Interesting name,‖ Mrs. Singer remarked as he shook their hands. Marc gave a quiet groan. Sawyer grinned. ―My mother was a very interesting lady,‖ he said. ―She loved Twain.‖ They all shared a polite laugh. Marc hoped his didn‘t sound too forced. ―Don‘t tell me,‖ May said. ―You have a brother named Huckleberry.‖ ―Would you believe Finn?‖ May and Mrs. Singer gawked, and Sawyer chuckled. ―It‘s true. He‘s a couple of years older than me.‖ ―I don‘t recall ever hearing his name,‖ Mrs. Singer said. Sawyer‘s grin faded a bit. ―No. I don‘t suppose you would have. He and my granddad were never really close.‖ Marc couldn‘t let Sawyer‘s statement pass without offering some condolence. ―I‘m sorry about your grandfather. I didn‘t know him very well, but I remember speaking to him a few times about his time in the war. His stories were fascinating.‖ Sawyer swung his gaze back to Marc, pinning him in place with his unusual, arresting eyes. ―Yeah,‖ he said. ―He loved to tell stories, about the war, especially. When I was a boy, I‘d sit at his feet for hours while he talked.‖

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Marc nodded, swallowing when Sawyer didn‘t look away. His palms were damp, and there was a low buzzing in his ears. ―You‘re still a boy,‖ Aunt May said, pointing a bony finger at Sawyer, and he gave a self-conscious laugh. ―If you say so, ma‘am. I won‘t argue. Um….‖ He glanced over his shoulder into the foyer, then shrugged, scratching at his stomach. ―I expect things are as ready as they‘re going to be. You‘re welcome to go on in and take a look around, if you like.‖ Horrified, Marc watched his aunt and Mrs. Singer push past Sawyer, knocking him off-balance. Marc jumped forward to catch his arm. He stopped the swinging screen door with his other hand before it hit the both of them. ―I am so sorry.‖ Wide-eyed, but still smiling, Sawyer straightened, making no effort to step away from Marc. ―They take this pretty seriously, don‘t they?‖ Marc nodded, fascinated with the way the muscles in Sawyer‘s arm rippled under his fingers. A combination of smells assaulted him: soap, coffee, and a hint of furniture polish. Overwhelmed, he tried to keep his expression neutral—with little success if Sawyer‘s slow, sly smile was any judge. ―You want to get in there too?‖ Sawyer jerked his chin in the direction of the foyer. ―No,‖ Marc breathed. Embarrassed, he cleared his throat. ―No. I‘m just the chauffeur.‖ Sawyer laughed and finally, finally, stepped away. Marc‘s hand dropped from his bicep. ―And the furniture mover, among other things, I‘d bet.‖ ―Let‘s just call it cheap laborer and cover all our bases,‖ Marc said. ―Fair enough.‖ From somewhere in the house, Marc could hear his aunt and Mrs. Singer bickering, but Sawyer showed no inclination to investigate. Instead, he leaned back against the siding, crossed one bare foot over the other, and shoved his hands into the pockets of his faded jeans. ―So should I be expecting more people this early, you think?‖

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Marc nodded, welcoming the excuse to look away from those piercing eyes. He glanced at the yard, squinting through the bright morning sun. Already another car was creeping up the drive. He couldn‘t help but smile when he heard Sawyer groan behind him. ―There‘s your answer, I‘m afraid,‖ Marc said. As the third car parked behind Mrs. Singer‘s Lincoln, a fourth turned in from the road, throwing gravel as it raced toward the house. Sawyer looked on curiously, a confused smile on his face. When two older women piled out of the first car and scrambled toward the front porch, his expression turned a bit fearful. ―Hello,‖ he said, stepping out of the way as they reached the door. Their replies were barely audible as they rushed past him into the house, chattering about a matching bedroom suite and mahogany china cabinet. The driver approached more slowly. He climbed the three steps to the porch, head hung low like a condemned man. Marc was shaking with quiet laughter by the time he joined them by the door. ―Marc,‖ the man said. ―Fancy meeting you here.‖ The sarcasm fueled Marc‘s amusement. ―I could say the same, Frank. Betty‘s got you up early this morning.‖ ―Yep.‖ Frank stopped to pull a handkerchief from his back pocket. He dabbed it across his forehead. ―She couldn‘t pass up an opportunity like this one. A chance to get first dibs on Mr. Steinbrick‘s fabled china cabinet. And, of course, to ogle this famous grandson of his.‖ Marc glanced sideways at Sawyer and was relieved to find him trying to hide a smile. ―Well, Frank, today‘s your lucky day. You actually beat your wife to something. This is Sawyer, Mr. Steinbrick‘s famous grandson. Sawyer, this is Frank Jones.‖ ―Not so famous,‖ Sawyer said, reaching to shake Frank‘s hand. Frank returned the firm shake. ―Nice to meet you. I hear you‘ll be sticking around town for a while, so I‘m sure we‘ll get better acquainted. As for now‖—he paused as another argument broke out in the room beyond—―I better go make sure Betty doesn‘t start a catfight. I do believe she might‘ve loaded a couple of bricks into her purse this morning.‖ Mumbling about crazy old ladies, he stepped inside.

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Marc took in Sawyer‘s shell-shocked expression. ―He was kidding.‖ ―Are you sure?‖ ―Well.‖ Marc ran his tongue over his teeth. ―Pretty sure. They make it all out to be a big deal, but I don‘t think any one of them would actually resort to violence. There‘s a bit of a competition around here, you know. The town‘s loaded down with old families, but not old money so much anymore. People come to these parts all the way from the city to get their one-of-a-kind antiques and collectibles. To be honest, you probably would‘ve made a bit more money if you‘d talked to one of the auction houses in town.‖ Sawyer shrugged. ―Marc, is it?‖ Marc nodded. ―Well, Marc, the thing of it is, I don‘t need the money so much that I wanted to deal with a full-blown auction. And I kind of felt like….‖ Marc cocked his head. ―Like what?‖ ―Like what was left of my granddad should go back to the community where he spent his life, you know?‖ He kicked at the plank boards under his feet. ―Silly, I know. But he really loved this place. Edgewood. He talked about it all the time.‖ Warmth spread through Marc. It wasn‘t silly, he wanted to say. There was something special about the town. He‘d stayed on after graduating from the local college because of it. He‘d started his business here, even though he knew his personal life would be put under the microscope sooner or later. Plus he could never abandon Aunt May. ―I understand,‖ he said, nodding. ―You do?‖ Marc nodded. ―Yeah.‖ Something Frank had said came back to him. ―So are you staying in town?‖ Even as he asked, his heart rate accelerated. ―I think so.‖ Sawyer looked pensive for a moment, then nodded. ―Yeah, I am,‖ he said, sounding more certain this time. ―I need a break from the city, and my work doesn‘t hold me down to any one place. I think I‘m going to stick around for a while.‖ ―Work from anywhere, huh? Sounds like a dream job.‖

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―Yeah, in a way.‖ Sawyer crossed his arms over his chest. ―The magazine originally hired me just to write. Fun, but the pay left a lot to be desired. The promotions came fast, but I have to be honest, I‘m not exactly manager material. I‘d much rather get my hands dirty.‖ Marc could certainly relate to that. ―Is that what you are now? A manager?‖ Sawyer gave a sheepish smile. ―I‘ve got some fancy title that implies I manage things, yeah. But I‘ve also got a competent, selfmotivated staff. That‘s the blessing.‖ He rubbed his palms together. ―Leaves me more time for the fun stuff.‖ ―Like estate sales?‖ Sawyer winked. ―Exactly.‖ His mouth curled into a fond smile. ―My granddad left the house and property to me, but I only need a fraction of what he‘s got stuffed into this place. Some of the things have sentimental value, but—‖ He shrugged. ―I think they‘ll be put to better use by someone else.‖ Marc bit back a laugh. ―My aunt thanks you.‖ Before Sawyer could reply, there was the sound of shattering glass and more yelling. He paled before shooting Marc an apologetic look and ducking inside. ―See you later, Marc?‖ ―Sure thing. I‘ll be out here,‖ Marc said, gesturing at the yard. He burst into laughter when Sawyer mouthed ―bastard‖ before letting the screen door shut behind him.

LOADING up Aunt May‘s purchases so they could be transported without getting damaged was like working a jigsaw puzzle. Marc figured he‘d need to make two trips and separated out the pieces that would fit best for the first load. Sawyer appeared as he was lifting a highboy onto the tailgate. ―Here, Marc. Let me help.‖ Sawyer swung onto the bed of the pickup and lifted the end of the dresser onto the moving pad. Together, they slid the heavy piece of furniture to the rear of the bed, where Marc secured it with several bungee cords. When he‘d connected the last one, he glanced up to thank Sawyer, but the words died in his throat.

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Sawyer had stripped off his T-shirt and was mopping the perspiration from his face. ―Okay, Marc,‖ he said with a chuckle. He stuffed the shirt through one of the belt loops on his jeans. ―You do this every weekend?‖ Marc tore his eyes away from Sawyer‘s bare chest. ―In the spring and summer.‖ He stayed crouched in the truck bed, checking and double-checking the cords until Sawyer called to him. ―No wonder you‘re in such great shape.‖ Marc‘s hand slipped off the hook he‘d been holding and the cord bounced back and hit his leg. ―Fuck!‖ He pressed his hand against his thigh to ease the sting. ―You okay?‖ Marc looked over his shoulder to find Sawyer staring at him. Or rather, staring at how his hand was rubbing his leg. He snatched it away. ―Fine.‖ ―Ready for the next one?‖ Marc closed his eyes before answering. Surely that wasn‘t amusement in Sawyer‘s tone. ―Yeah. Be right there.‖ He took a deep breath, beat down the tingling that had spread through him, and stood to help with the next piece. He managed to load the rest of the furniture without incident, though it was nearly impossible to keep his eyes from wandering. It wasn‘t until he jumped down for the last time and found himself face to face with a smirking Sawyer that he realized he‘d been caught out. ―So,‖ Sawyer said, wiping a smudge of dirt from Marc‘s arm. ―Do you have any plans for dinner?‖ ―Plans?‖ Marc stumbled over his word, the skin on his arm still tingling from the touch. ―I—no.‖ Sawyer cleared his throat and hooked his thumbs into his jeans pockets. It was the first time Marc had seen him look anything less than completely self-confident. ―You don‘t sound so sure.‖ Marc risked a glance around the yard. ―I don‘t have any plans. I mean, beyond getting these unloaded for Aunt May. I was thinking about coming back for the last of it later, but I didn‘t know if you were going to be around.‖

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Sawyer stepped back. Immediately, Marc found it easier to breathe. ―Well, that‘s perfect,‖ Sawyer said. ―You can come back, we can load you up, and then you can stay for some steaks. How does that sound?‖ Marc gulped. ―That sounds fantastic.‖ More yelling broke out behind them. Someone honked. Sawyer rolled his eyes, gave Marc a small wave, and started to back away. ―I‘ll see you later then? Five o‘clock?‖ ―Five o‘clock,‖ Marc confirmed. May called to him from the front porch, and he went to help her down the steps. ―I found all sorts of treasures today, Marc. All sorts,‖ she said as she settled into the cab. She hadn‘t been alone. Marc negotiated out of the crowded driveway, hands shaking on the steering wheel.

MARC pulled up in front of Sawyer‘s house at exactly at five o‘clock, then sat in his truck while he pulled his thoughts together. He took deep breaths and rubbed his damp palms over his jeans. Calling to cancel had crossed his mind more than once that afternoon. He didn‘t mind admitting the truth to himself. He was terrified. Woefully unprepared didn‘t even begin to describe his experience in this situation, plus he‘d been at a loss as to what to bring for his host. But then a perfect solution presented itself: a photo album he‘d found in Aunt May‘s attic just a few months ago. He‘d kept it because it contained pictures of his grandparents, people he hadn‘t known, but still longed to learn about. It would be the perfect gift for Sawyer. By some quirk of fate, the album contained more pictures of his grandparents‘ friends than of his grandparents themselves. There were several of Paul Steinbrick. Maybe they would help ease the sting of loss. He ran his hand over the cracked, brown leather of the album. A picture was worth a thousand pieces of scarred furniture. A knock at the window made him jump. He looked up to see Sawyer standing on the other side, grinning. Ducking his head to hide

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his blush, Marc killed the engine, grabbed the old album and got out of the truck. ―Everything okay?‖ Sawyer asked. ―Fine. Just—‖ Marc faltered. ―No problem,‖ Sawyer said, diffusing the awkwardness. ―I was going to suggest we load the rest of these things first, but I‘m wiped out, to be honest. Do you think your aunt could wait until tomorrow? That is, if you have the time then?‖ ―Sure. That‘d be fine. I‘m kind of tired too.‖ Sawyer grinned. He rubbed his palms together. ―Hungry?‖ Now there was a question he had no trouble answering. ―Starving.‖ Sawyer led him around the side of the house, to the large patio Marc knew was there, but had seen only once. He turned in a circle as Sawyer poked at the pile of charcoal heating in the grill. The grass had started to creep over the pavers, and ivy now weighed down the old iron pergola that shaded the patio near the house. Mature, wild-looking, and a bit neglected, it fittingly reminded Marc of Mr. Steinbrick. ―It looks a lot different than the last time I saw it.‖ ―Oh yeah?‖ Sawyer called over his shoulder. ―When was that?‖ ―When I was about ten, I think. Your grandfather threw a big party for a friend of his, and my Aunt May was invited. Some reunion or celebration; I don‘t really remember the specifics. I was one of the only kids there.‖ He glanced over to see Sawyer giving him a funny look. ―What?‖ Sawyer pointed the tongs at him. ―How old are you?‖ ―Twenty-seven.‖ Sawyer shook his head and chuckled as he poked at the charcoal. ―I remember that party. I was here too. I turned thirteen that year, and Granddad decided I‘d reached the age where I needed to learn some things.‖ Marc arched an eyebrow. ―Things?‖ Sawyer laughed. He set the tongs aside and joined Marc by the pergola railing. Marc tried not to stare, but knew he failed miserably. Sawyer‘s hair was damp from his shower, and the clean jeans he‘d

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chosen for the evening hugged his body in ways that made Marc‘s mouth go dry. The T-shirt was black instead of white, a near match of the one he himself was wearing. ―Not those kinds of things,‖ Sawyer said. He leaned against the railing, facing Marc. ―Things like honor and bravery and loyalty. Self-esteem. Confidence.‖ Casually, he laid his hand over Marc‘s. ―I‘d say you‘ve got the confidence thing down pat,‖ Marc managed to say over the pounding of his heart. ―Yeah.‖ Sawyer flashed a cockeyed smile. ―Is that a problem?‖ As far as Marc could tell, the entire situation was a problem. The deep timbre of Sawyer‘s voice and the warm weight of his hand made the muscles in Marc‘s stomach quiver. He‘d entered dangerous, unfamiliar territory. ―That‘s a lot for a thirteen-year-old to take in, don‘t you think?‖ Sawyer shrugged. ―I suppose. But in a lot of ways it shaped how I look at the world. I remember that party, but I don‘t remember you. You were here with your aunt? The same one from this morning?‖ Marc nodded. ―Yeah. She‘s my mother‘s aunt, actually.‖ ―You spend a lot of time with her.‖ ―Well.‖ Marc shifted, pulling his hand back a little, and Sawyer let him go without a fuss. ―She raised me mostly. My parents weren‘t around much, and after a few years, I stopped moving back and forth between houses and just stayed with her.‖ ―Where are they now?‖ Marc rejected the caustic reply that flew to his lips and chose a more neutral answer. ―Not sure. I haven‘t heard from them in awhile. They like to travel.‖ A while, in this case, was five years, but Marc wasn‘t a child anymore, and he‘d let them go a long time ago. ―Sorry.‖ Sawyer‘s eyes filled with sympathy. ―Don‘t be. I have Aunt May, and she was a better parent than lots of kids have these days.‖ Sawyer smiled before ambling back to check the grill. ―Yeah, she‘s a pistol, as my granddad would say. I bet they were fast friends.‖ He spread out the pile of hot coals and set the grate over them. He gestured to a small cooler at Marc‘s feet. ―Grab a beer while I get the steaks. Let‘s get this show on the road.‖

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MARC managed to avoid embarrassing himself during the meal. The relaxed conversation helped. After the dishes were collected and stacked in the sink, Sawyer led Marc back out to the patio. He sank onto a cushioned rattan sofa with a sigh, then tipped his head back and closed his eyes. ―The food made me tired.‖ Marc hovered for a moment, rolling his beer bottle between his palms, before taking a deep breath and sitting down beside him. ―Are you sure it wasn‘t all the excitement from this morning?‖ Sawyer laughed and threw a hand over his eyes. ―It might have been. Glad I don‘t have to do that all the time. You‘re a hero for taking your aunt around every single week.‖ Marc shrugged, uncomfortable with the compliment. He‘d never considered taking care of his aunt a burden, even if his Saturday morning routine grew tiresome every now and again. ―What‘s this?‖ Sawyer scooped the photo album off the table where Marc had set it earlier. ―Oh.‖ Marc took it and flipped it open to the first page. ―I wanted to bring you something. I found this a while back in my aunt‘s attic. When you were talking about your grandfather this morning, I thought of it.‖ It wasn‘t a total lie, and Marc hoped the fading light and deep shadows would hide his blush. Sawyer scooted closer until their thighs were touching. ―What is it?‖ ―Old pictures. I told you there used to be a lot of money around here. My grandfather loved photography, and he had state of the art equipment back then.‖ Sawyer gave a low whistle. ―I bet that cost a pretty penny.‖ ―He could afford it. Anyway, he has a bunch of pictures of your grandfather in here. At least, that‘s what the captions on the pages say. I think they were good friends back then.‖ Sawyer shot him a smile. ―It sounds like you and I are more connected than we thought.‖ ―Yeah,‖ Marc said, staring into his eyes.

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Sawyer‘s smile turned knowing and his free hand slid onto Marc‘s thigh. ―Show me?‖ He held out the album. Marc did. He pointed out all the people he knew, or had known, and described the places in the background. Occasionally, Sawyer‘s eyes would light up with recognition, and he‘d share one of his grandfather‘s stories about the other people in the pictures. There were even some tales about Marc‘s own grandparents. ―Thanks, Marc,‖ Sawyer said after they‘d reached the end and set the album aside. ―You have no idea what that meant to me.‖ He sighed. ―Today was harder than I thought it would be. But now I don‘t feel like he‘s totally gone. I was upset when I realized he hadn‘t told me how sick he was.‖ ―He didn‘t want to burden you.‖ ―It wouldn‘t have been a burden.‖ Marc nodded. It was like the situation with Aunt May. He understood. ―Hey.‖ Marc glanced sideways and found Sawyer staring at him. ―Yeah?‖ ―Are there any good restaurants in this town?‖ Marc blinked at the sudden change of subject. ―Several. Why?‖ ―Do you have a favorite?‖ ―Me?‖ Marc shifted, then caught his breath when he felt Sawyer‘s hand wrap around his. ―Sure. I mean… what kind of food do you like?‖ ―What kind of food do you like?‖ It was impossible to concentrate with Sawyer‘s fingers dancing across his palm. He felt the soft touches all the way to his toes. ―I‘m not sure what you‘re asking,‖ he said, breathless. Experimentally, he swiped his thumb over Sawyer‘s knuckles, then bit his lip when Sawyer‘s fingers clenched around his wrist. ―I‘m asking,‖ Sawyer said in a husky voice, peppered with more than a trace of amusement, ―if you‘d like to go to dinner.‖ Reality crashed over Marc like a bucket of cold water. He shuddered. ―I can‘t.‖ ―Oh?‖ Sawyer‘s eyes narrowed. ―Why not?‖

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The fluttering in Marc‘s stomach turned into a sickening churning. ―I‘m not—I don‘t—‖ It was hardly an explanation, but the meaning had come through clear enough, apparently, because Sawyer‘s eyes grew cold and his expression brittle. ―I see.‖ Sawyer pulled his hand away and stood. His acerbic laugh made Marc‘s stomach roll even harder. Panicked, he shot to his feet and reached to touch Sawyer‘s arm. ―Can‘t we just—?‖ He let the question hang, praying Sawyer would understand. He felt both hot and cold, needy and desperate, and wanting Sawyer so fiercely that he could barely breathe. Sawyer scrubbed his hands over his face, mumbling to himself, though Marc couldn‘t make out the words. He turned and stepped back, putting a few feet between them. ―No. I‘m sorry. We can‘t. I don‘t hide who I am, and I‘m not about to start.‖ Marc‘s heart lurched. Humiliated, he turned to leave. ―Marc, wait.‖ ―You don‘t understand,‖ Marc hissed. ―I think I do.‖ Whether he did or not had little bearing on how things were going to end. ―I‘ll come by tomorrow,‖ Marc said over his shoulder. ―To get the rest of that furniture. If that‘s okay.‖ He heard Sawyer sigh. ―Of course.‖ Night had crept in while they talked, shrouding the yard in shadow. Marc only stumbled once as he navigated around the side of the house. His truck was where he‘d left it, sitting in a faint pool of light from the porch lamp. He curled his fingers around the door handle and cursed under his breath. He wasn‘t angry with Sawyer, but with himself. For the last several years, it had been simpler to ignore the situation than to deal with it. Hiding might be cowardly, but was it so wrong to want something in his life to be free of complications? Just this once? Sawyer had judged him, and he‘d be damned if he didn‘t deserve it. The rejection might even be a test, though that was less likely. Why would Sawyer go to the trouble? He didn‘t seem the sort who invited aggravation into his life, and that was certainly what Marc would bring.

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―Marc?‖ He turned, surprised to see Sawyer behind him. The last of the sunset glittered from behind the tree line, casting a halo around his head and shoulders. Marc‘s heart lurched. ―Yeah?‖ he asked, voice gruff. ―You forgot this.‖ Sawyer held out the old album. Marc thought back to how Sawyer had smiled over the photos. And how they had chased some of the wistfulness from his eyes. ―Keep it. Please,‖ he added when Sawyer looked ready to protest. Sawyer‘s arm sank slowly back to his side. ―Marc—‖ ―Please.‖ He‘d said that a lot today. Hell, he‘d said it a lot for the past ten years or more, apologized for something he couldn‘t change. It wasn‘t a stunning realization, or even a particularly new one, but it still left him desolate. His life had become little more than a balancing act, and suddenly what he‘d told Aunt May about being happy seemed the flimsiest lie on the planet. The hours of carrying and loading and unloading caught up with him in an instant. His arms weighed a thousand pounds each. He just wanted to sleep. ―Okay,‖ Sawyer said, voice low. ―I will. If you‘re sure.‖ ―I‘m sure,‖ Marc said, shamelessly indulging in one last look. His eyes swept Sawyer from head to toe, smiling at the threadbare jeans and lingering over the snug T-shirt. When his eyes reached Sawyer‘s, he was surprised to find a pained look etched across his face. For a moment, Marc forgot how he‘d been rebuffed. He reached out, almost touching Sawyer‘s cheek before good sense stopped him. With a growl, he turned away and yanked the truck door open. ―Marc!‖ He stopped and waited. His body hummed with arousal. Even the humiliation hadn‘t dampened that completely. Cool night air brushed against the perspiration slicking his forehead and neck. He shivered. But it was nothing compared to the shudder that gripped him when Sawyer stepped up behind him. A warm hand landed on Marc‘s shoulder and coaxed him to turn. He resisted. ―Please,‖ he said. That word again, damn it. ―Let go.‖

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―No.‖ Marc spun around, throwing Sawyer‘s hand off. ―Would you please just leave me some… some—‖ ―Some what?‖ Sawyer stood less than a foot away, gaze boring into him. His eyes looked even paler in the near darkness. They hypnotized him, and Marc didn‘t bother fighting it. ―I don‘t know,‖ he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. ―I don‘t even know.‖ Sawyer opened his mouth, started to speak, then clamped it shut again. Breathing heavily, jaw clenched, he balled his hands into fists at his sides. Marc sighed. ―I‘m sorry. I don‘t know what I‘m doing.‖ ―Marc.‖ Sawyer‘s voice sounded strangled. ―Goddamn it.‖ He surged forward and slid one hand around the nape of Marc‘s neck, hauling him close. Marc‘s lethargy broke the second Sawyer pulled them together. His hands flew to Sawyer‘s waist and gripped it tight. ―I‘m not going to be your secret.‖ Sawyer‘s harsh words cut through the air between them. Then, as if he hadn‘t just denied their connection, he leaned in the last few inches and brushed their mouths together. Marc whimpered. Sawyer held him still when he tried to deepen the kiss and spoke against his lips. ―Stop hiding, okay? Stop hiding, and I promise I‘ll give you whatever you want.‖ Marc sagged, defeated. ―I‘ll try.‖ ―I‘ll help you. Just say the word,‖ Sawyer whispered. He stepped back, leaving Marc cold and alone, and since Marc didn‘t trust himself to speak, he climbed into the front seat and shut the door. By the time he‘d started the engine and glanced out the side window, Sawyer was gone. The only light in the house was far up on the third floor, in the corner bedroom Marc knew Sawyer had taken for his own. Shaking, he put the vehicle in gear and drove away, gravel crunching under the tires.

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Chapter 2

A

RAY of sunlight burst through the gray clouds, sliced through the

window of Marc‘s office, and fell across his hand. Startled from his reverie, he watched the beam creep across the desk, glowing bright for a moment and warming his skin before it faded, extinguished by the stubborn clouds. He‘d been daydreaming again, a frivolous habit that had been plaguing him for a couple of weeks. Even Aunt May had noticed, which meant his distraction must‘ve reached epic proportions. She‘d delighted in his embarrassment but admonished him to be careful. He had a business to run, she said, and couldn‘t afford to look witless. Then she‘d tugged on one of his pale locks and cackled, shaking like a fat hen. Marc had forced a confused smile onto his face and laughed along. He swiveled back to his computer and closed down the program he‘d been working on, then stood and stretched, arms high above his head. He was still standing there, fingers wiggling near the ceiling when a car pulled into the parking lot below. A small frown tugged at his face, and he relaxed, arms sinking back to his sides as he watched the blue SUV swing into a parking place. He hadn‘t been expecting any clients this morning. He turned, swiping his hands down the front of his jeans as he did. Not exactly the best outfit for drumming up new business: faded jeans, a thread or two away from ripping out across his left thigh, and a dark flannel shirt he‘d owned for more years than he could count. Still, he was the best there was for hire, at least around these parts, and restoration was hardly white-collar work. If it was a potential customer, they‘d either know that already or come to understand it quickly. Muttering under his breath, Marc made for the steep stairs that led to the main floor of his building, already calculating the spoils of a

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new contract. Luckily, habit had him ducking to avoid the wooden strut that arched out over the small landing, because as soon as he saw who was wandering around on the first floor, he stumbled. ―Shit,‖ he whispered and eased back into the shadow of his office door. His pulse jumped, and Marc chastised himself, not that his heart paid any attention. After the brief shock, it settled into a fast, excited rhythm that had him cursing under his breath again. On the floor below, Sawyer paced, hands buried in the pockets of his jeans, ogling the looming water wheel, the smooth, polished drive shaft, and the gigantic millstone that remained nestled in the center of the mill. Even fifteen feet above, Marc heard his low whistle of appreciation. He closed his eyes for a moment before taking a deep breath and stepping back into the light. ―Amazing, isn‘t it?‖ he asked as he began walking down the steps. Watching Sawyer spin around fast enough to lose his balance might‘ve made him laugh if he hadn‘t been so focused on sounding casual. He ambled down the steps, a polite smile frozen on his face, and damning Sawyer a thousand times for staring back at him so openly. Sawyer rocked back on his heels, eyes dancing. ―Marc.‖ Marc‘s smile slipped for a moment before he recaptured it. There was honest pleasure in Sawyer‘s tone, and a healthy amount of surprise, which meant, as Marc should have known, that Sawyer hadn‘t been seeking him out on purpose. Of course he hadn‘t been. But it still stung. ―It‘s good to see you,‖ Marc said, honesty making the statement easy and difficult all at once. ―Just passing through?‖ ―Well… no.‖ Sawyer lifted a finger to his mouth and tapped it against his lips. ―I was actually looking for the owner of Great Restorations.‖ ―Ah.‖ Now that threw him for a loop. Buying himself some time, Marc stepped off the landing and circled around behind the gear wheel to where Sawyer was standing. ―That would be me, actually.‖ A grin broke across Sawyer‘s face. ―You? No shit?‖ He mumbled something under his breath before thrusting his hand toward Marc. ―It‘s a small world.‖

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―It‘s a big world,‖ Marc rejoined. ―But it‘s a small town.‖ He took Sawyer‘s hand and shook it. ―So how can I help you?‖ ―I‘m in need of your professional services.‖ Sawyer kept his hand firmly in Marc‘s, leaving it to the other man to pull back, which Marc finally did. ―I want to restore my grandfather‘s house.‖ ―Really?‖ Marc tried to keep the excitement from his voice, but Sawyer grinned, catching it anyway. ―Yeah, really.‖ Plans and figures raced through Marc‘s head. Possibilities. Probabilities. The promise of returning something to its former glory. ―It‘s a gorgeous place.‖ He shut his mouth with a click before he starting spouting off why, which would no doubt bore Sawyer to tears. But Sawyer cocked his head, the corner of his mouth twitching. Some of his dark hair spilled over his eyes, and he pushed it back as he answered. ―I thought so too. I mean, I don‘t know much about it, but it just feels… solid. Underneath all those layers of paint and wallpaper, that is.‖ ―And cheap partitioned walls and ancient carpeting and—‖ Marc cut himself off, embarrassed. Sawyer nodded. ―Yes. I knew you‘d understand.‖ He squeezed Marc‘s arm before wandering a short distance away, shuffling his feet over the old oak planks. ―This place is stunning. I remember visiting here when I was a kid. My grandfather took my brother and me here to fish, right above the spillway.‖ Shooting Marc an unreadable glance, he ran a finger along the edge of the millstone. ―Is it just something to wow the customers, or is it all real?‖ Marc raised an eyebrow, then ducked his head to hide a smile. ―Real? Yes. But it hasn‘t been a functioning mill in over a hundred years.‖ He watched Sawyer wander over to the window, where a dozen stained-glass panels were displayed, and the sun, stubborn as ever, chose that moment to break through the cloud cover. It streamed through the tall windows of the mill and made the stained-glass panels come to life in a riot of color and shapes. Sawyer inhaled sharply. He turned in a slow circle. ―I can almost hear the water rushing through here,‖ he said. His eyes darted to the huge water wheel, now sleeping permanently against the far wall, and

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Marc followed his gaze. When he looked back, Sawyer‘s eyes were closed. ―I can smell the water,‖ Sawyer said, voice low. Throat dry, Marc swallowed hard before answering. ―I know.‖ Sawyer walked back along the far wall, disappearing from Marc‘s sight for a moment as he passed behind the massive drive shaft and crank. As soon as he did, Marc reached for the wood railing nearby and tried to make his knees stop shaking. Most people reacted to the mill in one of two ways. Some turned their noses up at the dark, dank, strange atmosphere, then insisted that business—if indeed, any was to occur at all—be conducted in Marc‘s office, which at least was well lit and didn‘t feel like it was two hundred years old. Others became so engrossed in the perfectly preserved trappings of the mill that they missed the several displays arranged throughout. Each had been designed with great care, and although the stained glass was the most dramatic, it was far from the only example of Marc‘s craftsmanship and skill. Strangely, hardly anybody understood how it all tied together. And nobody had ever connected with the place like he had. Until now. ―Marc? Are you all right?‖ Marc jerked upright. Sawyer had circled the entire room and was now standing behind him. ―Fine,‖ Marc said. ―See anything you like?‖ Sawyer stepped up next to him and leaned against the same railing. ―It‘s amazing. The stained glass… wow! But the woodwork against the back wall is beautiful too. Did you restore that?‖ Marc blinked. ―Yes. You noticed that?‖ ―Of course.‖ Sawyer‘s brows knotted together. ―Was I not meant to?‖ ―No, I mean—never mind. Yes, it‘s all restored. That‘s solid cherry, original to an 1840s farmhouse at the north end of town. When I got it, it had, as far as I can tell, at least ten layers of paint caked on it.‖ ―And you made it look like it does now?‖ Sawyer smiled. He scratched his chin, shifting closer in the process. His pale blue eyes sparkled with mischief. ―Yeah.‖ Marc shifted, too, edging an inch closer himself, caught up in Sawyer‘s presence. ―I mean,‖ he said with a cough, ―I have a

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group of really talented people who help me. I couldn‘t keep up with everything myself.‖ ―No,‖ Sawyer said. ―I don‘t imagine you could.‖ He met Marc‘s inch and raised him two more, his hip sliding along the railing, and Marc‘s breath stuttered as a strong wave of déjà vu washed over him. It felt like that first night a few weeks ago on Sawyer‘s back patio, before reality had caught up with him. ―I suppose your services are in high demand,‖ Sawyer continued, practically purring. ―Well, I—‖ He cut off when Sawyer closed the last of the distance between them and pressed a knee between his. As if it belonged to someone else, Marc‘s hand lifted from his side, then slid up under Sawyer‘s jacket and across his hip. His fingers teased at the hem of Sawyer‘s T-shirt. Sawyer made a humming sound. Two fingers rubbed a path up the center of Marc‘s chest, then traced a trail across his throat to his cheek. Marc‘s mind raced. Confused and angry, he tore his gaze away from Sawyer‘s impish smile. ―I thought you didn‘t want this,‖ he rasped. Five seconds ticked by while his unanswered question hung in the air, then Sawyer sighed and moved away. ―I‘m sorry. You‘re right. I just thought….‖ He shrugged. ―You thought what?‖ Marc didn‘t wait for an answer. He spun away and walked to the nearest window, staring out over the river that rushed past the mill. What did Sawyer think? That after all these years, a few weeks would really make a difference in how he lived his life? ―You thought you‘d come torture me,‖ he said petulantly. A hand landed on his shoulder. ―Is that what I do, Marc? Torture you?‖ Marc sighed, but didn‘t answer. His breath left a fog on the heavy pane. ―I don‘t want that.‖ Sawyer‘s voice barely carried across the short distance between them. ―Don‘t you?‖ Marc turned, shaking off the hand and finding Sawyer right behind him, as he‘d suspected. What he hadn‘t expected was the hurt and anger slashed across his face.

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―Fine. Maybe I do.‖ Sawyer put his hands on his hips. ―Because it‘s been damn hard to get you out of my head, and maybe I wanted to let you know that.‖ He blew out a breath and stared up at the ceiling for a minute before meeting Marc‘s eyes again. ―But what I really wanted to do is remind you that I‘m here, and that I can help you. If you let me.‖ ―I don‘t need your help.‖ Sawyer worked his jaw back and forth. ―Fine.‖ But his voice was strained, and his hands were balled into fists. With one last shake of his head, he thrust them into his pockets and backed up two steps. ―So?‖ It took Marc several seconds to work up the ability to speak, but finally his throat obeyed and opened. ―So?‖ he echoed. ―Can you take it on? The house?‖ ―You still want me to?‖ He winced at the shock and disbelief in his voice. Not exactly professional. ―Of course. You‘re the best. I promise I‘ll stay out of your way. But I‘d still like to hire your company to handle the restoration, unless you have any objections.‖ He had a boatload of objections. None of them would hold water if people started asking him why he turned the project down, though. And he had to admit, the thought of getting his hands on Sawyer‘s grandfather‘s house was a powerful incentive. ―Okay,‖ he said, nodding. ―I‘ll need to, uh, take a thorough look at the property to give you a half-decent quote. And I‘ll need you there when I do.‖ He nearly bit his tongue after the last sentence left his lips, horrible lie that it was. Talk about weak. Despite every ounce of good sense he owned, he was already maneuvering to see Sawyer again as soon as possible. Sawyer‘s answering stare was unnerving. ―All right,‖ he said in a neutral voice. ―Just tell me when.‖ Right now? Marc clamped down on the words before they left his lips. He refused to sound like an eager puppy, concerned with nothing but getting an itch scratched. No, he was an adult. He‘d damn well act like one. ―How about early next week? Monday morning?‖ ―No sooner?‖ Sawyer frowned, and Marc caved like a house of cards. ―I can probably do sooner. Can I call you?‖

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Sawyer‘s easy grin returned to full power. ―Anytime.‖ He pumped Marc‘s hand in his a few times, then turned to go. ―I‘ll wait to hear from you.‖ Marc watched him go, then took the stairs to his office two at a time so he could watch Sawyer climb into his SUV and drive off. He sank into his desk chair, barely hearing the protesting squeak it gave when he did, and opened his scheduling ledger. He bit his lip as he browsed over the appointments for the next couple of days. Booked solid. He stared out the window while he thought, watching the sun wage its battle with the clouds, recalling how warm Sawyer had felt under his hands. Then he snatched his pen off the desk, scratched out the next day‘s early morning appointment, and penciled Sawyer‘s name next to it.

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Chapter 3

―SO

THERE I was, half out of my clothes, when her kid walks in,

whining about a nightmare. He took one look at me draped all over his mommy and started screaming.‖ In typical dramatic fashion, Rick grabbed handfuls of his thick black hair and groaned. ―It was awful. Jennifer made me leave without so much as a good-night kiss.‖ Marc cringed and took a sip of his beer. Wednesday nights out with his team never failed to entertain. If Rick‘s romantic escapades could be classified as entertainment. Reba frowned at Rick. ―So the point of this whole story is that you didn‘t get laid?‖ She sagged back in her seat. Rick pointed a beefy finger at her, beer bottle clutched in his fist. ―It‘s an important point, don‘t you think?‖ ―Not to me. I couldn‘t care less. And frankly I don‘t blame the kid. If I saw you in my bedroom, I‘d scream too.‖ Rick snorted. He tapped his cigarette against the ashtray. ―Don‘t hold your breath. I‘ve got standards, you know.‖ Reba gave him the finger, then tugged at a lock of her hair. The curl—dishwater blonde streaked with gray—bounced back against her temple like a corkscrew. ―Children,‖ Marc chided. ―Play nice.‖ ―Watch your mouth,‖ Reba said. ―You‘ve only got a few years on my boys, and I‘m old enough to be your mother.‖ ―Yes, ma‘am.‖ Marc rolled his bottle between his hands and glanced around the pizzeria. High booths framed the perimeter of the restaurant—Reba, Rick, and Marc had claimed their usual one in the far back corner—while a dozen square tables filled the space in the center. Every item from aprons to paper napkins boasted a red and white checkered pattern. A line of people began at the hostess stand and

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twisted toward the door. ―Crowded for a Wednesday night,‖ Marc mused. ―Yeah, what‘s up with that?‖ Rick complained. ―And even so, we‘re regulars. Our food should come first. I‘m starved. I gotta eat.‖ Reba flicked her straw in Rick‘s direction, spraying him with Coke. ―It‘d take you a month to waste away.‖ ―No way, baby.‖ Rick leered and patted his stomach. ―Nothing but muscle over here, head to toe.‖ ―Which explains why you keep your brain in your pants.‖ Rick took the opportunity to return Reba‘s earlier gesture. ―Okay,‖ Marc said. ―Can we talk business?‖ He intercepted a flying breadstick before it smacked Rick on the head. ―About tomorrow—‖ ―Finally!‖ Rick shot up in his seat and pushed the sleeves of his shirt up over his thick forearms. He waggled his eyebrows at the waitress as she set the two pans on the table between them. ―Haven‘t seen you around here before, darling. And I‘m in here every Wednesday night.‖ ―Oh!‖ The girl blushed and wiped her hands on her checkered apron. Marc rolled his eyes and helped Reba dole out the pizza while Rick flirted. ―Well, I‘m new,‖ she said. ―It‘s my first night. Sorry about the wait.‖ ―Sweetheart, don‘t give it a second thought.‖ Rick winked. Reba kicked him under the table, catching Marc‘s shin in the process. He glared at her. ―Ow! What‘d I do?‖ ―Sorry, Marc, honey.‖ Jailbait, she mouthed to Rick. Rick ignored her, except to kick her back. Marc made sure to move his legs this time. ―She looks eighteen to me,‖ Rick announced to Reba when the girl moved to the next table. ―In your dreams, pervert. You‘re disgusting.‖ Rick piled three slices on his plate and dug in. ―Thanks for your concern, Ma Walton, but it‘s cool. I‘ve got an in with the sheriff.‖ ―I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but having four outstanding speeding tickets is not an ‗in‘.‖ Reba slurped her Coke.

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―Unless you mean in jail,‖ Marc said. He drained his beer and grabbed the last one out of the bucket. Rick scowled at him. Reba meticulously cut her pizza into tiny squares. ―And I can‘t think of anybody fond enough of your sorry ass to make conjugal visits.‖ Rick leaned across the table. ―What about you, Reba, baby? Are you saying you wouldn‘t come to my rescue?‖ Reba made a face. ―Ew. Now I can‘t eat.‖ She pushed her food away. Marc laughed around a mouthful of cheese and pepperoni as Rick snatched her plate. ―It won‘t go to waste. Aw, you really didn‘t need to cut it for me.‖ ―Bite me.‖ ―So listen,‖ Marc said, trying again to bring the discussion around to work. ―Change of plans for tomorrow morning. I‘ll be late, so either finish up some smaller projects early on or just sleep in. I won‘t be over at Kennerdale‘s place until after eleven.‖ He kept his head down as he spoke, pushing a stray bit of sausage around his plate with his pizza crust. He waited a moment, expecting questions. When there were none, he cleared his throat and looked up. Both Rick and Reba stared at him. Granted, Rick was chewing like a cow, and one side of his mouth was covered in sauce, but his eyes were sharp. ―Oh yeah?‖ He swallowed. ―Why?‖ ―I got a lead on another job today. Whole house remodel.‖ Reba whistled. She tucked a napkin into the collar of her Grateful Dead T-shirt and snatched her plate back from Rick. ―That‘d be cool. Some extra cash before the holidays. The boys have been asking for one of those expensive game systems. What‘s the job?‖ Marc cleared his throat again, not missing how Reba tilted her head curiously. ―Did you guys know old Mr. Steinbrick died?‖ ―No shit! That house?‖ Rick pushed his plate away. ―That one‘s a beauty!‖ Marc forgot his nervousness. ―Isn‘t it?‖ He grinned. ―I can‘t wait to put it back together.‖

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Reba‘s eyes were lit as well. ―The woodwork must be phenomenal,‖ she mused. ―Oak?‖ Marc shook his head. ―Solid cherry, from the quick glimpse I got of it.‖ Now both Rick and Reba whistled, and Marc grinned, feeling like a kid at Christmas. He never took his team for granted. They were the best, and he was lucky to have them. That they shared his obsession for restoration was gift enough, but that they managed to work together, even share a genuine affection despite their differences, was icing on the cake. ―Can you guys let Karen and Tim know?‖ Marc asked. ―I wasn‘t able to get ahold of them.‖ ―Sure. And where are they, anyway?‖ Rick glanced around the crowded restaurant. ―It‘s not like Tim to turn down free pizza.‖ The youngest member of Marc‘s team was always strapped for cash, and the others took turns paying his share on Wednesday nights. ―Tim‘s got a date,‖ Reba said. Rick blinked. ―A date?‖ ―What?‖ Reba‘s eyes twinkled. ―It‘s not possible for anybody else in this dysfunctional little group to have a love life? I‘m not surprised he‘s got a date. He‘s way cuter than you. And not decrepit, either.‖ ―He‘s just a kid, like Marc here, and I am in my prime.‖ ―Hey.‖ Marc tossed a piece of ice at him. ―This kid is your boss.‖ ―So why aren‘t we discussing your love life?‖ Rick shot back. ―Did you get sweet little Rachel between the sheets yet?‖ ―I—‖ Marc blushed, and Reba slapped Rick on the arm. ―Leave him alone.‖ Surprisingly, Rick did, and the pressure that had been bunching in Marc‘s shoulders all day eased. Until he heard a voice behind him. ―Marc?‖ Rick looked up, arched an eyebrow, and Reba smiled. ―Who‘s this?‖ she asked. Marc‘s hands clenched in his lap. He needed two deep breaths before he could school his expression into something resembling indifference and smile up into Sawyer‘s face. ―This,‖ he said, looking

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at Sawyer but addressing Rick and Reba, ―is Sawyer Calhoun, Mr. Steinbrick‘s grandson, and the one who‘s hired us to restore his house.‖ Reba wiped her fingers on her napkin and held out her hand. ―My sons thank you.‖ ―Oh?‖ Sawyer shook her hand, then Rick‘s. ―And why is that?‖ ―You just bought them a Playstation 3 for Christmas.‖ ―That was very kind of me,‖ Sawyer said with a laugh. ―I‘m Reba and this ugly Neanderthal is Rick. You here for dinner?‖ Sawyer nodded. ―Join us?‖ Reba asked. ―I don‘t want to intrude.‖ ―I insist. Shove over, boss.‖ She kicked Marc under the table, and he winced, cursing her reflexes. A surge of foreboding made his heart skip a beat, but he shuffled across the bench. Sawyer slid in beside him. ―Here,‖ Reba said. ―Pizza.‖ She shoved a clean plate in front of Sawyer. Sawyer chuckled, but accepted the plate and the pizza Reba piled on top of it. ―You don‘t have to, really.‖ ―Nonsense. I love to pamper the clients.‖ Sawyer grinned before turning the same happy smile on Marc. ―Thanks.‖ Breathless, Marc nodded. They were touching, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, thigh to thigh. Marc could smell him—a mix of sweat and aftershave. Fate hated him. That was the only explanation. He picked up his beer, then set it back down. Better to keep a clear head. When the waitress next came around, he asked for a glass of water. It arrived just as the third member of his team did. Dressed in a tan, calf-length suede skirt and matching cashmere sweater, Karen hurried up to them, dropped her briefcase on the floor with a clunk, and gave a dramatic sigh. ―Sorry I‘m late. Traffic leaving the city was horrendous. The damn show ended at two, but I still managed no more than five miles per hour from State Avenue to the 9th Street Bridge. It‘s

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like everyone and their mother decided to take off early today. It‘s Wednesday, for God‘s sake! Whatever happened to the great American work ethic? My three-hour trip took closer to five.‖ She slid into the booth next to Rick, giving him a good-natured shove. ―And then—‖ She saw Sawyer, and in a heartbeat, her demeanor changed. She smoothed her auburn hair, still coiffed into a tight bun despite the chaos of a fifteen-hour day, and flashed an impish smile. ―Well, hello. I‘m sorry, I didn‘t see you there.‖ She shot a glare at Marc. Marc ignored it. ―If you‘d have let me get a word in edgewise, then I would‘ve introduced you.‖ He hadn‘t missed the predatory gleam in her eye when she looked at Sawyer, not that it would get her anywhere. The knowledge filled him with perverse glee, but it vanished in a flash, leaving a vague sense of guilt behind. His odds were no better, given the circumstances, and it wasn‘t Karen‘s fault she was a born flirt. She had that in common with Rick, though her methods tended to be more sophisticated. Marc cleared his throat, wondering how his arm had managed to drape itself over the back of the booth behind Sawyer‘s shoulders. ―Sawyer, this is Karen Schuster. Karen, this is Sawyer Calhoun, Mr. Steinbrick‘s grandson.‖ Karen gave a little cry and reached across the table, clasping Sawyer‘s folded hands in hers. Marc bit back a growl. ―I‘m so sorry about your grandfather.‖ Karen patted Sawyer‘s arm. ―He was a private man, but I‘d met him a few times. He had so much dignity. I know some called him unfriendly, but I never believed it myself.‖ From the corner of his eyes, Marc saw Sawyer swallow. ―Thank you. That means a lot to me.‖ Marc washed his water down with more beer. It turned bitter in his mouth, and he looked away, out the window into the parking lot. The tide of people had reversed direction, and the restaurant was emptying at a steady pace. He envied those escaping. Rick and Reba hadn‘t yet been too nosy about Sawyer. Karen, however, wouldn‘t have the slightest compunction. Plus, she wasn‘t letting go of Sawyer‘s hands. The arm he‘d slung across the booth twitched, and he beat back the urge to curl it around Sawyer‘s shoulders and jerk him back out of her hold. ―Anyway,‖ he

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said, eyes still on the parking lot, ―Sawyer‘s hired us to renovate his grandfather‘s house.‖ The gleam in Karen‘s eye turned a whole different kind of predatory. ―Oh really?‖ Rick grunted and shook his head. He pointed a sauce-stained finger at Sawyer. ―I can‘t believe I‘m saying this, but your first order of business should be to work out a budget with our Karen, here. For your own peace of mind.‖ ―Karen does most of our interior design and decorating,‖ Marc clarified. Then, feeling the need to atone for his less charitable thoughts, added, ―I promise she‘s worth every penny. She‘s the best, hands down. We lured her away from the biggest firm in the city.‖ ―Did you now?‖ Sawyer asked. He looked to Karen. ―And how did they do that?‖ Because I’m sure the pay doesn’t compare, was left unsaid. ―When you‘re the best‖—Karen bestowed Marc with a warm smile—―it pays to work with the best.‖ She nodded around the table. ―You won‘t be disappointed.‖ Rick and Reba mumbled agreement while Marc smiled back at Karen. She held his eyes as she spoke to Sawyer. ―Of course, getting the best isn‘t cheap.‖ She winked so fast, Marc nearly missed it. ―So! Sawyer. Let‘s talk design. You don‘t strike me as the rooster and gingham type.‖ ―Uh.‖ Sawyer went a bit pale. ―No.‖ ―Excellent!‖ Karen clapped her hands and rubbed them together. ―We‘ll get along famously.‖ As it so happened, she was right. They all chatted for the next hour, each pumping Sawyer for information about the house and each failing miserably to be circumspect. Sawyer answered the questions easily—eagerly, in fact—and Marc began to relax. And that was when Karen decided to shake things up. ―Is there a Mrs. Sawyer?‖ She gestured at Sawyer‘s left hand. ―I don‘t see a ring, not that that means much in this day and age. What?‖ she asked when both Marc and Reba glared at her. ―It‘s important information for a designer! If there is a significant other, her tastes will obviously come into play. And probably sooner rather than later.‖

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―I think you might be getting ahead of yourself,‖ Marc ground out. ―We‘ve at least two months of work ahead of us, maybe three, before you can move in with your paint and fabric swatches.‖ He hadn‘t meant for his voice to be so sharp. The table fell silent, and Karen blinked at him, hurt flashing in her eyes. ―Marc,‖ Reba scolded. ―Sorry. Sorry, Karen. I‘m just tired.‖ A moment of tense silence followed his apology, then Reba picked up the conversation, wisely changing the subject. Marc grabbed his water glass and took a large gulp, then choked when a hand slipped onto his knee. Glass at his lips, he glanced sideways at Sawyer, only to find him engrossed in Reba‘s story. Too distracted to hear a word of it himself, he jumped when everyone laughed. He emptied his water glass and set it down with a clatter, trying to ignore the light sweat that had broken out across his upper lip. Sawyer‘s hand was warm and heavy and maddening on his leg. The tension that had eased earlier roared back with a vengeance. Then Sawyer‘s fingers tightened, a brief squeeze, and Marc‘s arm jerked, tipping over his beer bottle. ―Hey!‖ Rick yelled as the liquid ran in several rivers across the table toward him. He grabbed a handful of napkins and worked to divert the worst of the spill away from his lap. ―That‘s it, boss! I‘m cutting you off.‖ ―Sorry,‖ Marc said. Again. He pulled his arms down into his own lap and swept Sawyer‘s hand off his knee. ―Excuse me,‖ he said, nudging Sawyer‘s shoulder. ―Sure.‖ Sawyer slipped out of the booth, and Marc followed, making his escape. He got as far as the men‘s room before Sawyer caught up with him. Sawyer didn‘t say a word, just gripped Marc‘s arm and steered him through the swinging door. Luckily, the room was empty. ―What‘s wrong with you?‖ Sawyer demanded. ―What‘s wrong with me?‖ Marc snorted, then stalked to the sinks and turned the closest set of taps on full blast. Cool water rushed over his heated wrists. Beneath the gush of water, his pulse pounded. ―Listen, in case I didn‘t make myself clear before—the first two

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times—I‘m not….‖ He paused and stared at the water pooling in the sink. ―I get that.‖ Sawyer stepped up behind him. ―I was just—you seemed upset. I was trying to put you at ease.‖ Marc shook his head. ―You can‘t be serious?‖ He caught Sawyer‘s eyes in the mirror. ―You thought fondling me in front of my employees would put me at ease?‖ Sawyer‘s jaw tightened. ―Is this your grand plan?‖ Marc asked, voice rising. He lowered it with effort. ―Do you think if everyone finds out, if everyone knows, I‘ll jump into bed with you?‖ Sawyer sucked in a sharp breath. ―That was low, Marc.‖ ―So that‘s not what you were thinking?‖ Marc jerked the taps closed. ―Then explain it. Please.‖ ―I already did.‖ Sawyer‘s composure only made Marc angrier. How could he be so nonchalant and so damn comfortable with himself? What little control Marc had been holding onto evaporated. ―Why are you so determined to ruin this for me?‖ ―Ruin what, exactly?‖ ―My life! God!‖ Marc ran his hands through his hair and stalked to the towel dispenser. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he recognized that he was out of line, but still he pushed. ―Did you follow me here tonight?‖ ―What?‖ Marc said nothing, just dried his hands with sharp, jerky movements. Sawyer barked a humorless laugh and spun away, rubbing a hand over his face. When he turned back, his expression was stony and his eyes cold. ―Don‘t flatter yourself. I stopped for dinner, not for games. I‘ve got better uses for my time than chasing some backwater closet case.‖ He jerked the door open, then shot over his shoulder, ―Much better.‖ The door slammed shut behind him. Marc‘s stomach twisted and curled in on itself, and for one horrible moment, he was sure he was going to be sick. He sagged against the row of sinks, tipped his head to the cool tile wall and waited

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for the nausea to pass. It took a long time. By the time he found his way back to the table, Sawyer, Rick, and Karen were gone. Only Reba was left, packing up the last of the leftover pizza.

HE‘D just cracked open his third beer when someone knocked on the front door. Marc sighed and pressed the cold bottle to his head, then glanced at the time on the stove. Ten-thirty was hardly late in some parts of the world, but in Edgewood it might as well be three in the morning. And he still felt shaky, a bit like he‘d felt after that car accident the year before: agitated and scared, yet relieved to be walking away with a minimum of damage. Tomorrow morning‘s appointment was going to be hell. The knock came again as he entered the long hall that led to the foyer. Through the frosted glass, he could make out the visitor‘s silhouette; it was a man, one hand propped on the doorframe, the other on his hip, his head bent low. Marc was already turning the doorknob before the awful truth hit him, too late to pretend he wasn‘t home, but he still hesitated, scrambling for a solution that didn‘t involve opening the door. Sawyer must have sensed his qualms. ―I can see you,‖ his muffled voice said, sounding as tired as Marc felt. ―And your truck‘s in the damn driveway.‖ True enough. Marc pulled the door open. At first glance Sawyer looked as he always did—boyish, carefree, at ease—but when he stepped into the light of the foyer, Marc saw that his jaw was set and lines etched the corners of his mouth. Before Marc could express his concern, Sawyer spoke. ―I‘m sorry.‖ He raised a hand, as if to touch Marc‘s arm. ―I‘m really, really sorry.‖ ―It‘s okay.‖ ―It‘s not,‖ Sawyer said. After a slight hesitation, Marc motioned for Sawyer to follow him back to the kitchen. He handed him a beer from the fridge. ―It‘s not like I didn‘t deserve it. I‘m the one who should apologize.‖ He took a swig from his own bottle.

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The beer languished in Sawyer‘s grip. ―I—‖ ―Please, let‘s just forget it.‖ Sawyer gave a slow nod. ―Okay.‖ He relaxed a bit, leaning one hip against the counter. ―This is a beautiful place.‖ ―Thanks,‖ Marc answered. ―How did you know where I lived?‖ ―Reba told me.‖ The thought worried him for a split second before he dismissed it. The last thing he needed was a rampant case of paranoia. He watched Sawyer meander around the large kitchen and smiled when he ran a finger over the hand-carved mantel. ―Amazing,‖ said Sawyer, voice low. ―Is the rest of the house as magnificent?‖ Marc grinned. It was an obvious bit of manipulation, but he found he didn‘t care. He was proud of his home. ―Most of it. I‘ve been taking it one project at a time, as I can afford it. It was my parents‘ house.‖ Sawyer glanced over his shoulder, then went back to studying the brickwork around the kitchen‘s large hearth. ―Was?‖ ―I took it from them.‖ That earned him a funny look. Marc shrugged. He wasn‘t up to explaining about his parents at the moment. Astute as Sawyer was, Marc suspected he would understand. When the subject was dropped without another word, he knew he had. He could have watched Sawyer commune with his house all night, but as bad ideas went, that topped the list. ―I appreciate you coming by,‖ Marc said. ―It wasn‘t necessary, but I appreciate it.‖ ―So have a nice night, the door‘s that way,‖ Sawyer replied with a sad smile. Marc blushed. ―It‘s just….‖ He held up a hand when Sawyer started walking toward him. ―No, stay over there.‖ Sawyer‘s laugh filled the room, but he stopped halfway across the kitchen, his hands slung into the front pockets of his jeans. ―I don‘t bite.‖ The visual did little for Marc‘s resolve, which his expression must have shown, because Sawyer tilted his head and added in a playful voice, ―Unless you‘d like me to.‖ That and much more. Marc scowled. ―Be good.‖

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―Sorry again,‖ Sawyer said, sounding anything but. ―Can we just forget I acted like an ass and put tonight behind us?‖ ―We can, but….‖ Sawyer bit his lip, looking torn, then spoke up anyway. ―Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it?‖ ―We‘ve apologized, what more is there?‖ He didn‘t appreciate the patronizing look he received in return. Sawyer sighed, then shrugged. ―Your call.‖ That‘s right, it was. His call, his life. But damn it, he didn‘t appreciate being made the martyr. ―I‘ll let myself out.‖ Sawyer had crept forward while Marc was being privately indignant. He tried to brush by without a word, but that just wasn‘t going to be acceptable, either. Marc reached out and snagged Sawyer‘s jacket. Neither of them spoke. Marc ground his teeth, seething for reasons he couldn‘t name. Maybe because he knew that what he was holding on to—not in the immediate, physical sense, but in the metaphorical—was making him wretchedly unhappy. And he hadn‘t a fucking clue how to go about changing it. Sawyer watched and waited. ―Your call,‖ he repeated, voice soft. ―Don‘t go yet.‖ ―Okay.‖ The corner of Sawyer‘s mouth curved upward. Marc stared at it, mesmerized, until Sawyer whispered his name, adding, ―Maybe you should let go.‖ Marc shook his head. No way. Sawyer‘s eyes sparked. ―I really think you should.‖ ―Probably.‖ But he didn‘t. Instead, he squeezed his hand into a fist, listening to the leather of Sawyer‘s jacket crackle under his fingers. ―Last warning,‖ Sawyer whispered. He hadn‘t moved at all but to lift his own hand; it hovered over the small of Marc‘s back. His tone, rough and possessive, was doing strange things to Marc‘s equilibrium. Goose bumps erupted over his arms and the back of his neck, but he still managed to arch an eyebrow in challenge. He heard a clipped laugh, a ―Fine, we‘ll do it your way,‖ and then Sawyer‘s arm was across his chest and pressing him back against the granite counter. Marc knew what he was expecting, but what he got

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was something else entirely. Sawyer hemmed him in with both legs and wrapped him in a tight embrace. The sudden press of their bodies made Marc dizzy. He tried to lift his own arms, but the best he could manage was to grab for Sawyer‘s hips. His fingers tangled in the belt loops, and, encouraged, he pulled, not that there was any space between them to erase. The pressure against his chest and groin increased. ―Sawyer,‖ he might have said, but the roar in his ears made it impossible to know for sure. Sawyer huffed a laugh against his cheek, then pressed a kiss to his temple. ―Right here.‖ Each movement was tiny, careful. A thumb pressing against his spine. Lips against his cheek. Maddening, like the hand on his knee earlier. Marc shifted, restless and needy, but Sawyer held him still. ―Shhh. Don‘t move.‖ Then, disregarding his own words, he rocked his hips forward once, hard, nearly carrying Marc up onto the counter. They both groaned. ―Christ,‖ Sawyer breathed in his ear. ―I need to leave now. Right now.‖ It took a moment for the words to register. ―What? No.‖ ―Yes,‖ Sawyer said, then again, ―yes,‖ as if trying to convince the both of them. He unwound himself and took three large steps backward. He held a hand up, palm out, just as Marc had earlier. ―Marc.‖ Marc waited for the rest, grateful for the slab of granite against his back. The room was still spinning. ―What?‖ Sawyer retreated even further, across the kitchen and into the arched doorway that led to the main hall. His parting smile was strained, but genuine. ―You have a good night.‖ Then he was gone, and a few seconds later the front door closed behind him. It took Marc close to five minutes before he dared push off from the counter, and he wobbled even then. He‘d been wrong earlier. Tomorrow‘s meeting was going to be difficult. But the next few months, they would be torture.

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Chapter 4

MARC was still shaking off the lethargy of a restless sleep when the coffeepot made a burping sound, then began to hiss. Perched on a stool at the kitchen island, curled over the newspaper, pretending to read, Marc glared at the insanely expensive and less-than-a-month-old machine. ―Don‘t do it,‖ he rasped. ―I‘m begging you.‖ The hissing trailed off, and the red light on the machine went dark. Water began to leak out across the countertop, first in a trickle, then in a gush. With a groan, Marc slid off his stool and stumbled across the room to investigate. As he drew near, the coffeepot burped again, and the aroma of freshly brewed Columbian was frighteningly absent. Marc struck the wet granite with his fist. ―Goddamn it!‖ It hardly seemed prudent to risk electrocution by unplugging the thing, but lack of caffeine—and now the promise that there would be none in the immediate future—made him surly. He yanked the cord from the wall and got a nasty shock for his trouble. At least it cleared his head a bit. He hadn‘t stayed up long after Sawyer had left. It hadn‘t even been midnight when he swallowed the last of his beer, but he‘d made directly for bed right after, forgoing his usual rounds. His home was sprawling, too huge a space for one person, and he could go days without seeing parts of it. Last winter he‘d missed a leaking radiator in an upstairs bedroom, and it had dripped rusty water for nearly a week— long enough to buckle the cherry floor he‘d laid just the month before. It was the kind of expensive mistake he didn‘t intend to make twice. Now each evening ended with a brief, but thorough, walkthrough of the house. Some nights he enjoyed the routine. Others, he hated being reminded of how alone he was. Last night, he‘d avoided it altogether.

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And now he‘d have to face Sawyer without coffee. He stared at his useless state-of-the-art-does-everything-but-the-windows coffeepot Karen had insisted he buy and ground his teeth. He bet Sawyer had a coffeepot that worked. He could show up over there early. Maybe rouse the man out of bed. The thought made his pulse jump and put an instant smile on his face, but it faded as fast as it had formed. Marc could envision what a morning meeting between his caffeine-deprived self and a sleepy, rumpled Sawyer might bring. Not a good idea if he wanted to keep things professional between them. Which he did. ―Totally professional,‖ he said to the coffeepot. ―Totally professional.‖ The lie hung in the air until Marc rolled his eyes and yanked the dead machine off the countertop. He was docking Karen‘s pay for every penny he‘d spent on the piece of garbage. And as for getting all domestic with Sawyer, it might possibly be the worst idea he‘d ever had. He‘d swing through town and pick up coffee at the diner.

COMPLETING his morning routine, especially the shaving part, without the life-giving benefits of coffee was an experience Marc never planned to repeat. It took him twice as long as usual to make it out of the house, and by the time he‘d wound down the hill and hit Main Street, it was a solid mass of traffic. Lined with charming low-rise brick buildings, mature maple trees, and gas lanterns, downtown Edgewood had the kind of character that city folk gobbled up and raved about to their friends. No less than ten antique and craft shops lined the thoroughfare. Marc pulled into the first parking place he found and walked two blocks to the Trade-It Horn. He stomped up to the service counter and jabbed the bell. Based on how his day had begun, he shouldn‘t have been surprised when it was Sasha who appeared. As usual, her skirt barely covered her ass and her T-shirt clung to her chest with enough gusto that the people in the next county could see she wasn‘t wearing a bra. Pretty to look at, if you went for that sort of thing. She was sweet, actually, and not stupid. It

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was a shame nobody had ever helped her see that there was life after being crowned Homecoming Queen. ―Marc!‖ She leaned over the counter and grinned, flashing her perfect white teeth. ―I saw you in here yesterday.‖ ―So?‖ His curtness went over her head. ―So,‖ she drawled, ―nobody should come in here every single day like you do. I might have to schedule an intervention.‖ She winked. ―I‘m not in here every day,‖ Marc said, then he frowned, realizing it for a lie. Sasha didn‘t call him on it. Just giggled and blew a big, pink bubble in his face. When it popped, doing nothing for Marc‘s nerves, she said, ―Well you‘re not the only regular. We do have everything from milk to mortar. So what can I help you with?‖ With Sasha, simple was better. ―Coffeepot.‖ ―You‘re in here every day and you don‘t know where we keep the coffeepots?‖ ―Indulge me.‖ ―What kind do you want?‖ ―Sasha.‖ Marc leaned forward, praying he didn‘t look as desperate as he felt. ―The kind that makes coffee.‖ ―You are just too adorable, Marc Wynn.‖ She pointed over his shoulder. ―Aisle three.‖ Nodding his thanks, he turned and began navigating the peeling linoleum floors and makeshift display shelves. ―Hey!‖ Sasha called. ―Who was that cutie with you at The Pizza Pan last night?‖ Marc stopped so fast he almost tripped over a card table loaded with videos. ―I‘m sorry?‖ he stuttered. Sasha pushed her chest forward and bent even further over the counter. ―The hottie at the pizza place,‖ she repeated slowly, before popping her gum. ―I saw him sitting with you.‖ The old fear reared its ugly head before he could push it back. ―Just a client.‖ ―Single?‖

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―I really couldn‘t say.‖ Marc spun around, and this time he did bump his thigh against the table, upending some of the merchandise. Cursing under his breath, he made his way to aisle three, agitation now warring with the fear. Was Sawyer single? Marc had assumed so, but what did he know about how these things worked? Further rumination clouded the issue even more; Sawyer was successful, respected, and, apparently, financially well-off. And while Marc was at it, why not add gorgeous, funny, sensitive, and honorable. The bastard. Odds were he wasn‘t even remotely single. The thought took Marc to an even darker place, and by the time he‘d picked his new coffeepot, the cheapest one in the store, just like he used to have, and paid for it, even perky Sasha risked little more than, ―Thanks, come again,‖ before skirting away. Mission accomplished, Marc jaywalked back across the street, ignoring the angry honking. The tiny rebellion brightened his mood slightly, and the smell of fresh brewed coffee drifting from Rachel‘s Diner helped it along. By the time he pushed through the swinging door and into the diner, he felt almost human. The ten o‘clock coffee crowd was in—another quirk of living in a close-knit community. Since the press and noise of so many people was something Marc hated, and since showing his face usually led to some sort of gossip or another, he made sure to beat the rush most mornings. He was craning his neck, looking for an empty seat, when someone tugged on his elbow. ―This way, babe. There‘s a stool open near the back.‖ Rachel Harper owned Rachel‘s, and, if one believed the rumors, Marc‘s heart. The rumor was actually true, just not in the manner most people thought. Rachel was a talker, he was a listener. They both liked campy sci-fi movies and old houses. She didn‘t want marriage, so she said, or anything too serious, and since Marc couldn‘t have agreed more, their casual arrangement had produced a status quo that neither had any desire to upset. Marc leaned down and kissed her cheek. ―You‘re a lifesaver.‖ ―So they tell me. You‘re late,‖ Rachel said over her shoulder as they edged toward the back of the restaurant. She pointed to a vacant

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stool right outside the kitchen doors, and Marc sank onto it. ―What can I get you?‖ she asked. ―About a gallon of coffee.‖ ―That sounds like a cry for help.‖ Rachel flashed him an affectionate smile as she filled a mug from her carafe. ―You have no idea.‖ He kicked the box at his feet, and Rachel leaned over the counter to get a better look. ―What happened to that fancy one Karen made you get?‖ ―Self-destructed this morning.‖ ―Ah, that explains why you look so murderous.‖ The coffee was a perfect temperature, and Marc downed the entire cup before pushing it forward for a refill. ―I don‘t look murderous.‖ To her raised eyebrow he said, ―I don‘t feel murderous.‖ ―Oh really?‖ Marc finished the second cup in two gulps and set it on the counter. The headache he‘d had since he‘d woken up faded as the caffeine began to work its magic. ―Not anymore.‖ He reached across the yellow Formica and squeezed her hand. ―Thanks.‖ A light blush bloomed on her cheeks. ―Anytime. Having breakfast this morning?‖ ―Well….‖ Marc glanced at his watch. Sawyer expected him in twenty minutes. If he left now, he‘d be early. If he had breakfast, he‘d be late. Not much of a quandary, sadly. God, he was pathetic. He shook his head. ―No thanks. Like you said, I‘m already late. I‘m meeting a new client this morning.‖ Rachel nodded, already distracted by another customer. She brushed a kiss to his cheek as she passed. ―Good luck. I‘ll call you later.‖ Marc grabbed his box and walked back to his truck.

PULLING up in front of Sawyer‘s house triggered both a powerful case of déjà vu and a small panic attack. As he‘d predicted, he was early. Taking advantage of the fact, he slouched low in his seat and willed his

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hands to ease their iron grip on the steering wheel. Rachel‘s coffee churned in his stomach. Last night had ended well, but the disappointment and contempt he‘d seen in Sawyer‘s eyes at the restaurant were hard to forget. Marc had been indignant then, but not now. This morning he just felt tired. The clock on the dash read five minutes to ten. Five minutes early was acceptable. Marc climbed out of his truck, grabbed his duffel, and trudged up the steps onto the wide covered porch. Before he could knock, Sawyer pulled the door open and smiled sleepily at him from behind the screen. ―Saw you from upstairs.‖ Saw him pull in and cower in the cab of his truck for five minutes, was what he meant. Marc smiled to cover his embarrassment. ―I was just making some notes. We‘ve got a lot of ground to cover this morning.‖ Sawyer pushed the screen door open and motioned Marc in. ―Then we‘ll need a lot of coffee. I‘m going to go put some on, okay?‖ ―Sure.‖ And some clothes while you‘re at it, Marc thought as Sawyer turned and weaved down the long hall toward the kitchen, wrinkled khaki shorts just clinging to his hips. Marc scowled and tore his eyes away. Hadn‘t the man ever heard of a belt? He blew out a steadying breath. ―Mind if I take a look around?‖ he called. ―Not at all.‖ Sawyer‘s faint voice was cut off by the whir of a coffee grinder. Marc slipped the duffel off his shoulder and toed it into an out-ofthe-way corner of the foyer. Then he began to wander. This was one of his favorite parts of a renovation. The finished product took the prize, of course, but the first real look at what he‘d have to work with came in a close second. Many of the rooms on the lower floor were sparsely furnished thanks to the estate sale, though Sawyer had held back the most valuable pieces. Meaning he either had experience or luck when it came to antiquing. Marc voted for experience and—he ran his hand over a carved cherry sideboard— excellent taste. The house had once been a classic Victorian before a series of thankfully quality additions had created wings that stretched to both sides. As those areas would be newer and not part of the original

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structure, Marc began with the core rooms on either side of the winding staircase. He‘d only made one circuit before his eye caught an anomaly. ―What the hell?‖ He backtracked a few steps through an archway into the front parlor, then walked forward again, down a short hallway into the dining room. Something was off. He was about to fetch his tape to measure it out when Sawyer appeared, wearing a shirt this time, and holding two mugs of black coffee. ―I didn‘t know if you took anything in yours.‖ Marc blinked at him. ―Huh?‖ ―In your coffee.‖ Sawyer arched an eyebrow. ―Everything okay?‖ ―Um.‖ Marc gestured at the wall, but a thought suddenly occurred to him, and Sawyer‘s coffee was forgotten. He swung back around the corner and started up the stairs. ―Marc?‖ ―Just a minute,‖ Marc mumbled. He went from room to room on the second floor, checking square footage, closets, clearances, noting the positions of the fireplaces, then, excitement growing, rushed back to the stairs, nearly bowling Sawyer over in the process. Sawyer caught him by the arms before they crashed down the steps. ―Marc?‖ ―Sawyer,‖ Marc said, a bit breathless. ―I think you‘re going to love this.‖ ―What is it?‖ ―I‘m not going to say yet. Hang on.‖ He slipped out of Sawyer‘s hold and took the stairs to the third floor two at a time. This part of the house was grimy and mostly unused, but that wasn‘t what interested Marc. He paced out each room and compared it with what he‘d seen below. The whole time, he was aware of Sawyer following him, watching, but not interfering. Finally, Marc stopped at the top of the winding staircase. ―Okay, I think I‘m ready for that coffee now.‖ He couldn‘t stop smiling. Sawyer opened his mouth, then closed it without commenting. His lips quirked. ―I‘ll go pour some fresh.‖ They walked side by side down the two flights of stairs.

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―Going to tell me what that was all about?‖ Sawyer asked when they‘d reached the kitchen. He dumped the cold coffee and refilled the mugs. Marc dropped onto a stool. ―I can‘t believe it. I almost don‘t want to say in case I‘m wrong.‖ He blew over the rim of his cup but didn‘t take a sip. ―You visited here a lot when you were younger. Did your grandfather ever tell you about a secret passageway or a hidden room in the house?‖ ―Are you kidding?‖ Sawyer burst out laughing. ―No.‖ Marc grinned back. ―I think there‘s one here.‖ He‘d heard rumors growing up. Mr. Steinbrick‘s house wasn‘t the only one the local kids claimed was haunted or had buried treasure hidden inside. Rubbish, most of it, but behind every rumor, Marc had learned, existed a kernel of truth. Especially when it came to old houses. Sawyer was eyeing him over the counter. ―A secret room.‖ Marc shrugged. ―Or passageway. They‘re really not all that uncommon for houses built around the time this one was.‖ ―And you figured this out how?‖ ―The walls don‘t meet where they should.‖ Marc rolled the mug back and forth in his palms. ―Trust me. I know what I‘m talking about.‖ ―I trust you.‖ Marc watched Sawyer struggle to remain nonchalant. He emptied the coffee filter, rinsed the pot, and ground new beans, as if discovering his house had hidden rooms was the type of news he got every day. But finally he gave up and stared wide-eyed at Marc. ―What do you think is inside? How big is it? Can we find it now?‖ Marc laughed. He‘d figured the ten-year-old boy inside would eventually beat the adult into submission. ―All good questions. I have no idea, hard to say, and I doubt it. Finding a way in might be tricky. Once we start the renovation, depending on what level of restoration you opt for, we stand a good chance of stumbling across it, though.‖ He faltered when Sawyer dropped his eyes. ―What?‖ Sawyer shrugged and took a sudden intense interest in his coffee. ―Sawyer?‖

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―It‘s nothing. I just thought it would be cool to find it together.‖ Oh, sure. Marc could see it now. A dark and dusty passageway— emphasis on the dark. Crammed so close together they could barely move. Emphasis on that whole damn thought. He could taste the dust in the air. Feel the heat from Sawyer‘s body leeching into his. Imagine his hands on the waistband of those khaki shorts, testing just how loose they really were. And now his mouth was dry despite the coffee. ―It would be,‖ he agreed, choking on the words, ―cool.‖ ―Yeah,‖ Sawyer said, voice just as gruff and eyes fixed on Marc‘s. Jumpstarting the rational part of his brain took a moment. Marc floundered, then, desperate, focused on the memory of his Aunt May scolding him for breaking his date with Rachel. His resolve flooded back, and he was able to break the stare, stand, and speak with some intelligence. ―We should get to work. I‘m due at another site in an hour.‖ Sawyer gathered up the empty mugs and turned to place them in the sink. ―Sure thing,‖ he said over his shoulder. ―Go ahead. I‘ll be right there.‖ Marc hesitated. ―You okay?‖ ―Fine.‖ The mugs were receiving a very thorough rinsing. Sawyer took a deep breath, then another, his shoulders rising and falling rhythmically. After one last glance, Marc headed back to where he‘d left his duffel.

―SO

BASICALLY‖—Marc consulted his notes—―you‘re giving me

free rein to do just about anything I want. I‘m almost afraid to ask in case you change your mind, but are you sure?‖ ―Quite sure.‖ A flake of peeling paint caught Sawyer‘s eye. Frustrated, Marc watched while he picked at it. Sawyer had spent the past hour managing to be both forthcoming and informative about his plans and ideas, all without once looking Marc in the eye. ―I love this house,‖ Sawyer said. ―I always have. I want to bring it to life again. I think my grandfather would‘ve approved.‖

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Words that warmed Marc‘s heart. Not that the blank check hadn‘t helped. ―Would you like a ballpark figure?‖ Sawyer brushed his hands over his shorts. ―Would it be accurate?‖ ―Grossly understated, I‘m thinking. There‘s no telling what we‘ll find when we open up the walls.‖ He tapped the pen against his lips. ―It‘s going to be expensive. Can I be honest with you?‖ ―I believe that‘s your specialty.‖ And yours as well, Marc wanted to say. ―It‘s extremely unlikely you‘ll recoup the full cost when you sell.‖ ―Sell?‖ For the first time in the past hour, Sawyer fixed his attention completely on Marc. ―I‘m not going to sell.‖ ―Oh. I thought—‖ Marc bent down to re-pack his bag. ―Never mind what I thought. It‘s none of my business. I‘m sorry.‖ If Marc believed he‘d be able to maintain some kind of professional relationship with Sawyer, the last hour had proven him dead wrong. Their camaraderie was too easy and their banter far too familiar, Sawyer‘s strange mood notwithstanding. Now Marc was making assumptions when he hadn‘t the right to do so. Somewhere along the line, he‘d forgotten this was a client meeting, not a grilled steak dinner. ―No, it‘s okay.‖ Sawyer caught Marc‘s wrist. ―It is your business if I feel like sharing it with you.‖ Marc‘s pulse pounded under Sawyer‘s hold. He was bent over his bag in an uncomfortable crouch, not that he cared with Sawyer‘s fingers teasing over the back of his hand. With a sigh, Sawyer lowered himself to the foyer floor. He gave Marc‘s wrist a gentle tug, and Marc obeyed the implicit command, folding his legs in front of him as he sat. The informality made him nervous. At least the bag was between them. ―I think my brother is expecting me to sell,‖ Sawyer said. ―You‘ve already lost me.‖ But a memory stirred: their first meeting at the estate sale—Sawyer saying he had a brother named Finn. ―Sorry. It‘s like this.‖ Sawyer released Marc‘s hand but maintained eye contact. ―My brother hated my grandfather. Why he did is a long story, and maybe someday I‘ll share it, just not today.

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Anyway‖—he ran a hand through his hair, and his voice took on an edge Marc had never heard before—―I don‘t expect he thinks I‘ll stay here, not with my job and friends and everything else in the city.‖ Which was exactly what Marc had assumed. And with the right balance of structural and cosmetic changes, Sawyer could turn a pretty penny on the house. In the end, though, the place would get little more than a facelift, not what it really deserved. The grandfather clock in the next room chimed the hour. Across town, Reba and the others would be waiting for him, wondering what was taking so long. Marc shook off the thought. ―Are you thinking of staying?‖ ―The thing is, Marc, the way my job is, I can work from anywhere, and as for the life I‘d be leaving behind….‖ He shrugged. ―I‘ve been feeling for a while like it‘s time for a change.‖ A columnist, Mrs. Singer had said. Or some sort of famous writer, but Marc had been nosy enough for one day. He held his questions and nodded. Sawyer staying in Edgewood made him equal parts excited and terrified. He took a very shallow breath, hoping Sawyer didn‘t hear the unevenness in it. ―So I‘m sure Finn is waiting for me to dispense with the estate so he can claim a piece of it,‖ Sawyer said. Marc‘s head shot up. ―Did he inherit any of it?‖ ―No.‖ Sawyer‘s grin turned sardonic, and Marc frowned. Up until this very moment, he hadn‘t believed Sawyer to have a bitter bone in his body. ―My grandfather returned Finn‘s sentiments, believe me. He left him nothing.‖ ―But your brother expects a share of the estate.‖ ―He wants it. That doesn‘t mean I‘m going to give it to him.‖ Marc had, at times, resented being an only child, though his mother and father had been as fit to parent as a couple of kindergarteners. But there had been years, in his early childhood, when he‘d longed for a brother. Never in any of those fantasies had he imagined a situation like this. ―I‘m sorry.‖ Sawyer blinked. ―You‘re sorry?‖ ―It can‘t be easy. Having this between the two of you.‖

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The ensuing silence lasted long enough that Marc was sure he‘d overstepped, but finally Sawyer smiled. ―You know, you‘re the first person to ever look at it that way.‖ ―That‘s hard to believe.‖ ―Yes, but it‘s true. I think because people are so used to this tension between us, Finn and me. They‘ve never seen us friendly.‖ ―Were you ever close?‖ ―Yes.‖ Sawyer swallowed, then cleared his throat. ―A long time ago.‖ He pushed to his feet, brushed the dust from his shorts, and offered his hand. ―Thanks for listening,‖ he said once Marc was standing in front of him. ―And sorry about before.‖ The apology was heartfelt, Marc could tell, but then, everything Sawyer said seemed to be. ―It‘s okay. Did I say something wrong?‖ ―Not exactly.‖ Sawyer‘s low laugh wound its way down Marc‘s chest and into his belly. ―It isn‘t so much what you said. It was just‖— his fist tightened around Marc‘s fingers—―I was trying to keep that distance we‘d talked about.‖ He cringed. ―Christ, this is awkward. You didn‘t upset me or anything, okay?‖ ―Okay.‖ ―I just needed a few minutes to myself.‖ He blushed, and Marc finally clued in. It probably wasn‘t the best time to say something like I was in the same boat, or I deal with that about twenty times a day since I’ve met you, or, since he could feel his fingers curling around Sawyer‘s wrist as if they had a mind of their own, Next time don’t run away, because when it came to their relationship, they were keeping it strictly professional. ―I understand,‖ was what he said. Sawyer nodded. ―Good.‖ He made a halfhearted attempt to pull his hand away, but Marc didn‘t let go. After another sharp tug, Sawyer huffed and gave up. He spun his wrist until their hands were pressed palm to palm with Marc‘s on top. He relaxed his grip, and Marc did the same. ―Is this a test?‖ Sawyer asked. ―No,‖ Marc said. ―Maybe.‖ ―For me?‖

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―No. For me.‖ One of the most difficult he‘d ever taken. Gathering his will, he slowly pulled his hand back. Sawyer let it go, but stroked Marc‘s palm with his fingertips before the contact was broken. His eyes glittered when Marc cursed quietly and bent to pick up his bag. ―So how you‘d do?‖ Terrible. He hugged his duffel in front of him. ―The jury‘s still out.‖ Sawyer walked him to the door, then leaned against it, one hand balanced high on the frame above Marc‘s head. ―What‘s next?‖ ―I draw up a preliminary quote. It‘ll have all the details we spoke about today and a rough timeline for the project.‖ ―I can‘t wait to see it. When will you have it ready?‖ Tomorrow? Marc bit the inside of his cheek. ―I‘m a bit swamped this week. How about Saturday?‖ ―Mmm. Can we do it Monday? I‘m having a friend in for the weekend. It‘s his first time out here, and I wanted to spend some time showing him around.‖ Did he really? A chill swept through Marc. Well, didn‘t that sound cozy? He nodded, his smile so stiff his face ached. ―Okay. Monday‘s fine.‖

AS

LUCK would have it, the Kennerdale house was on the opposite

side of town from Sawyer‘s. Marc spent every second of the fifteenminute drive concentrating on how the price of Amish oak flooring would affect which of Sawyer‘s rooms would get three-quarter plank and which would get half-inch. Anything to direct the blood back into his brain. Once, about a mile from the site, he actually considered pulling off the road for a few minutes, but the shrill ring of his cell phone killed that idea. Karen‘s number flashed across the screen, and, resigned, Marc broke the speed limit the rest of the way up the hillside. The Kennerdales‘ house sat two hundred yards off the road, up a winding driveway that had caused Marc‘s team some serious problems with

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deliveries these past two months. But the worst was over. There were just finishing touches to be done now, and then it would be time to move on. To Sawyer. Marc parked his truck behind Rick‘s and opened his door to the comforting, familiar sounds of hammering. Tim met him in the driveway. Younger than Marc by two years, Tim enjoyed playing the stupid redneck, when in fact he was one of the smartest people Marc knew. ―Yeah, but once people know that, they expect so much,‖ Tim had once told him over a six-pack of beer. ―Who the hell wants that hanging over their head all the time?‖ He‘d stretched his lanky frame out across the booth they‘d been sharing and shrugged. ―I‘m happy. What else could a body ask for?‖ As usual, Tim‘s black hair was tied back in a short ponytail, and his clothes were clean, if tattered. When he saw Marc, he crushed the butt of his cigarette under his shoe and popped a piece of gum into his mouth. He looked Marc up and down, then cocked his head. Marc tried not to twitch; Tim had a keen eye for detail. Marc nodded a greeting. ―We missed you last night.‖ ―I didn‘t miss you. No offense.‖ ―None taken. So your date went well?‖ Tim grinned. ―One for the record books. You want details?‖ Marc grimaced. ―Pass.‖ Through the bay window that looked into the dining room, he could see Karen and Mrs. Kennerdale. The client was talking and gesturing, while Karen stood still as a statue, expression frozen in polite interest. ―Uh-oh.‖ Tim followed his gaze. ―Oh yeah. She‘s on a roll this morning. Putting Karen through the wringer.‖ ―Oh,‖ Marc said, vindication warming him. ―That‘s too bad.‖ ―Tim!‖ Rick called from an upstairs window. ―Stop flirting and get your lazy ass up here!‖ Tim clasped a hand to his heart. ―Language, Rick! You‘re tarnishing our professional image.‖ ―Bite me.‖ Rick disappeared, but was back a moment later. ―And bring the extra battery for my drill, slacker.‖

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Tim shared a grin with Marc. ―Do you hear the love in his voice?‖ He reached into the bed of the pickup and scooped out the requested battery. ―I hope he learns to tone it down. It‘s getting embarrassing.‖ They walked through the front door together. Tim loped up the stairs while Reba handed Marc a coffee. He took it with a sigh. ―My hero.‖ ―You‘re late,‖ Reba said, sipping from her own Styrofoam cup. And the whole morning, blissfully forgotten for a few minutes, came rushing back. A wave of heat crashed through his body. Jealousy followed, and on its tail, like a little red caboose, discomfiture. But no matter how many times he told himself that Sawyer‘s business (or pleasure) wasn‘t his concern, his head wouldn‘t listen. Reba waved a hand in front of his face. ―Marc?‖ ―What?‖ ―You‘re late.‖ ―Yes, I am.‖ He felt her withdraw and reassess. Christ, did everyone he‘d hired have to be so perceptive? ―So,‖ Reba ventured, watching him from the corner of her eye. ―How‘s Sawyer?‖ Marc‘s teeth ground together. He willed his jaw to unlock so he could sip his coffee. ―Fine.‖ And expecting company. For the whole weekend. ―You‘re certainly a fountain of joy this morning.‖ With a sigh and an almost physical effort, Marc banished Sawyer from his thoughts. ―Sorry. Didn‘t sleep well. It really did go fine. We‘ve got carte blanche, as far as I can tell, though that may change. I‘m drawing up the prelim this week.‖ Reba punched the air. ―I can hear the screams and gunfire already. It‘ll be a PS3 Christmas.‖ From the dining room, Mrs. Kennerdale‘s voice rose. Karen‘s conciliatory one echoed it. Reba snorted. ―You better get in there and rescue Karen.‖ Vengeance, Marc discovered, tasted a bit like coffee. ―Let her suffer a bit more.‖

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A few minutes later Mrs. Kennerdale came bursting into the foyer, her yappy black poodle on her heels. ―Good morning, Grace,‖ Marc said, bowing slightly. She sniffed at him. ―Hello, Marc. Excuse me, please?‖ She clacked by in her three-inch heels and started up the stairs. Rick, on his way down, plastered himself to the wall until she passed. The poodle growled as it trotted by, and Rick snarled back, then jogged down the last few steps. ―If I get a chance to step on that thing before we finish here, I‘m taking it. Just letting you know.‖ ―Get in line,‖ Reba said. Upstairs, Mrs. Kennerdale was calling, ―Tim! Tim!‖ ―Next victim,‖ Rick crooned. He punched Marc on the shoulder. ―Where have you been?‖ ―Leave him alone.‖ Rick glared at Reba. ―What are you, his mother?‖ Karen stumbled out of the dining room, unbuttoning her suit jacket with one hand and massaging her temple with the other. ―Kill me.‖ ―Don‘t tempt me,‖ Marc grumbled. To her raised eyebrow he said, ―Your fancy yuppie coffeepot died on me this morning.‖ ―What? What did you do to it?‖ It figured Karen would take the machine‘s side. ―I made coffee.‖ Karen swiped a strand of hair from her eyes and tucked it neatly back into her bun. ―You must have done something. Those machines don‘t just die.‖ Marc‘s eyes narrowed at the implied you idiot. Karen sighed. ―Don‘t worry, I‘ll get you another. And this time will you please read the instructions? I know it‘s not the macho thing to do, but I promise I won‘t tell anyone.‖ Marc crushed his Styrofoam cup in his palm and tossed it into the trash bin by the door. ―Don‘t bother. I‘ve already replaced it.‖ ―You didn‘t pay full price, did you? I could‘ve got you a twenty percent discount.‖ ―As a matter of fact, I did pay full price. Got the deluxe model too.‖ Karen‘s look of horror did wonders for his mood. ―Picked it up at

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the Trade-It Horn this morning: the Mr. Coffee deluxe model. In black. Set me back twenty bucks.‖ Karen gave a jolt when Rick burst out laughing. ―Heathen,‖ she hissed at him. ―Oh, hurt me, Barbie.‖ ―Marc!‖ Tim called. Marc leaned back over the banister. Tim‘s pale face greeted him from the floor above. ―Man, you have to talk to Mrs. Kennerdale. She decided she wants me to paint the molding in the library.‖ He gripped the railing. ―It‘s freaking mahogany.‖ There was a collective gasp. ―I‘ll talk to her,‖ Marc said. Karen cradled her head in her hands. ―Thank God we‘re almost done here. Two weeks. Lord, give me the strength for two more weeks.‖ The others echoed her sentiment, and Marc found himself once again battling an upsurge of complex emotions. Two weeks until they could start the Steinbrick renovation. Two weeks until he saw Sawyer every day. How the hell was he going to handle that? Fourteen days. Suddenly, it didn‘t seem like enough time at all.

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Chapter 5

SAWYER rolled over, wincing at the pull in his lower back, and stared at the curtained window above his head. Late morning sunlight crept through the cracks, throwing patterns onto the sloped ceiling. He lifted his fingers to the sunbeam and groaned when the twinge in his neck became a spasm. Obviously, reconnecting with his past wasn‘t worth sleeping night after night in a thirty-year-old twin bed. One of his childhood obsessions had been Star Wars, and this room still bore the marks. Movie posters covered the walls, and models of the Death Star and the Millennium Falcon collected dust on the shelf. It could be there was truth to the theory about your surroundings dictating your behavior; he‘d certainly been acting like a child for the past week, pining for Marc. Time for a change. Today he‘d buy a bed, a proper-sized one, and move into one of the rooms on the second floor. There were four, not counting his grandfather‘s, all large and airy. Why he‘d put it off this long was difficult to say, though he had entertained some juvenile fantasies about luring Marc up to his room. He curled his toes into the soft sheets and closed his eyes. Come on, Marc, let me show you the relics of my misspent youth. Pathetic. Sawyer laced his hands over his stomach. It was definitely time to move rooms. He cracked an eyelid and squinted at the poster hanging on the closet door. Yep, Luke Skywalker still did it for him. The fact that his Marc shared more than a passing resemblance to Mark Hamill was funny—and just the slightest bit creepy. ―Moving today,‖ he mumbled, letting his eye fall closed. Bed shopping. Too bad he wouldn‘t have Marc as company. Sawyer flopped onto his stomach, and the bed frame protested with a series of creaks and groans. Digging his hands under his pillow, he

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pressed his face into the cool cotton. Now there was a mission that would become torture inside of five minutes. Surrounded by a hundred soft, plush reasons to get Marc horizontal and not one of them morally acceptable. He pushed his hips forward, nestling his body further into the dip in the old mattress. The sheets were a tangled mess around his waist, and he used one leg to scoop more of them between his thighs, then snuggled back in with a low groan. ―My horoscope said my eyes would be opened to new experiences today. I had no idea it meant I‘d get to watch you hump your mattress.‖ Sawyer jumped, then sighed into his pillow. ―Bruce.‖ ―Good morning, sunshine.‖ ―You‘re early.‖ Sawyer lifted his head and shook the hair out of his eyes. Bruce stood just inside the doorway, huge hands on his broad hips, thick legs encased in yards of denim, and feet shoehorned into a giant pair of—Sawyer blinked sleepily—hiking boots? ―I think you get bigger every time I see you.‖ ―It‘s an optical illusion. This room is pint sized. And‖—Bruce‘s eyes swept over the paraphernalia—―bringing back memories of my own childhood I have no desire to revisit.‖ Sawyer snorted. Bruce jerked his chin toward the door. ―So can we take this somewhere else? If you‘re done making love to your pillow, that is?‖ ―Sure. Hang on.‖ Sawyer curled onto his side, winced, then swung his legs over the edge of the bed. ―Are you trying to cripple yourself?‖ ―Gonna move downstairs today. Just need to go buy a mattress and frame.‖ His joints protested with a series of sharp cracks when he struggled to his feet. Bruce chuckled, and Sawyer gave him the finger. ―What‘s with the Paul Bunyan get-up?‖ ―You no like?‖ Bruce spread his arms and spun in a circle. His red checked shirt was tucked into a pair of faded jeans, which were stuffed into the massive boots. He lacked the beard, but his mass of wavy, black hair and pale green ball cap made up the difference.

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Sawyer smirked. ―It‘s like watching a childhood icon come to life. Where‘d you leave Babe?‖ ―Don‘t take your sexual frustration out on me, Calhoun. And judging by your decor, you have no room to talk.‖ Bruce smoothed his hands over his shirt and jerked his thumb toward the door. ―Up and at ‘em.‖ They started down the stairs, Sawyer padding softly on bare feet and Bruce clomping behind in his boots. On the second landing, Sawyer found a reasonably clean pair of jeans tossed over the banister. He pulled them on over his boxers. Three steps from the next landing, he scooped a blue T-shirt off the riser and yanked it over his head. He heard Bruce sigh behind him. ―Some things never change.‖ ―You love me this way.‖ ―You‘re a slob. No one loves a slob.‖ But he reached forward and ruffled Sawyer‘s hair. Sawyer swatted at him. Bruce avoided it easily; for a big man, he had the reflexes of a snake. ―Listen,‖ he said as they descended, ―I know that you‘re about as likely to see a person out here as say‖—he paused—―a Bengal tiger. But you should really keep your door locked. I walked right in.‖ ―Why didn‘t you knock?‖ They reached the bottom of the steps. Bruce‘s disapproving stare was ruined by his half-smile. ―I did. Several times.‖ Sawyer held up a hand. ―I didn‘t hear you.‖ ―Well, you were having a private moment in the Star Wars room, so that‘s understandable.‖ Sawyer opened his mouth to deny it, then shrugged. ―Luke will always be my first love.‖ Which reminded him again of Marc, just as he‘d put the man out of his thoughts for the first time in a week. A shiver ran through him. ―Anyway, nobody locks their doors out here,‖ he said, distracted. Bruce paused in rolling up his shirt cuffs. ―That‘s very….‖ ―Endearing?‖ Sawyer offered. ―Stupid.‖ Sawyer‘s pithy comeback stalled somewhere between his brain and his mouth. ―Need coffee.‖ He turned toward the kitchen and

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promptly tripped over a suitcase. Bruce caught his arm and held him upright while Sawyer nursed his toe and frowned at the mountain of luggage. Besides the small satchel, there was a large rolling suitcase, a garment bag, and a duffel. Sawyer pinched the bridge of his nose. ―Packed light, as usual, I see.‖ ―Fuck you. You‘re lucky I‘m here at all. My job tried to swallow me.‖ ―Which is why you‘re eight hours early?‖ ―You‘re acting like that‘s a problem.‖ To Sawyer‘s arched eyebrow, he said, ―I promise I‘ll never say a word about your Chewbacca fetish. I just needed to get the hell out of the city.‖ Sawyer had been in the same boat more times than he cared to remember. He tugged Bruce in the direction of the kitchen. ―You‘re welcome anytime, you know that. I wasn‘t expecting you this early.‖ ―No, really?‖ ―But I‘m glad you‘re here.‖ Conversation lagged while the coffee brewed. Bruce wandered around the kitchen, mumbling under his breath at the ancient metal cabinets and cracked plaster. ―Okay,‖ he said once Sawyer had handed him a mug. ―Convince me again why moving out here is a good thing for you.‖ ―I wasn‘t aware it was you I had to convince.‖ The cuckoo clock on the wall chimed ten times and, stupidly, Sawyer wondered whether Marc was at work yet. He‘d said he had a busy week planned. It was that one fact that had stopped Sawyer more than once from picking up the phone and calling him. That and the sad truth that he had no real excuse to do so. ―Hellloooo?‖ Bruce waved a hand in front of his face. He stooped to stare at Sawyer, putting them nose to nose. ―What‘s wrong with you?‖ ―Just waking up.‖ Predictably, Bruce didn‘t buy his excuse. ―Uh-huh.‖ He tested the ragtag collection of chairs one at a time until he found one that supported his bulk. He crossed his feet in front of him and balanced his coffee on his stomach. ―When you left three weeks ago, you were coming out here to empty this place out. Sell the contents off.‖

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―Did that.‖ ―And list the property.‖ Sawyer took three large swallows of coffee. ―Didn‘t do that.‖ ―So I gathered.‖ He fell silent, but Sawyer didn‘t take the bait. Bruce rolled his eyes. ―What changed?‖ The view out the kitchen window caught Sawyer‘s attention. His grandfather‘s apple trees stood in three neat rows, almost too small a collection to call an orchard, but it had seemed massive to him as a boy. There had even been a picture of the orchard in the album Marc had given him, taken before the trees had passed their prime. Marc again. Sawyer pressed the mug to his cheek. ―I have a lot of good memories of this place,‖ he said, speaking mostly to himself. Then added, louder, ―You know I‘ve been unhappy.‖ ―Oh, please.‖ Bruce raised his mug, and Sawyer obediently refilled it. ―Spoiled brat. As if you have anything to be unhappy about. I know a hundred people who‘d sell their souls for a spoonful of your success.‖ Sawyer smiled as he poured. That was when Bruce moved in for the kill. ―Have you met someone?‖ Sawyer‘s arm jerked, and coffee splashed over the counter. He fit the pot back onto the burner and cursed his unsteady hands. His hesitation wasn‘t lost on Bruce. ―You have!‖ Bruce thumped the table. ―Details!‖ ―No.‖ The coffee turned bitter in Sawyer‘s mouth. ―I mean, there are no details. I haven‘t met anyone. Not really. I thought—no. Not in the way you‘re thinking. I mean… Christ. Never mind.‖ Bruce‘s eyes sparkled. ―Pretty special, is he?‖ Yesterday‘s newspaper was the nearest non-breakable item. Sawyer lobbed it at Bruce‘s head. ―Forget I said anything. It‘s not going to work.‖ ―Why not?‖ ―Because of one giant obstacle.‖ Bruce cringed. ―Married?‖

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―No.‖ Sawyer flopped onto a stool. ―Worse.‖ ―Straight?‖ ―Not that much worse.‖ ―Oh, good. Listen.‖ Bruce kicked Sawyer‘s stool with one of his heavy boots, and Sawyer‘s coffee sloshed out onto his T-shirt. ―Can we dispense with the twenty questions? It‘s starting to piss me off.‖ Sawyer made a face. ―He‘s hiding.‖ ―Ah.‖ Bruce pursed his lips. ―Can‘t blame him. Have you seen this town?‖ Sawyer shot to his feet and began to pace. ―Once or twice,‖ he said, voice tight. ―You?‖ The last thing he wanted to hear was a justification for Marc‘s decision. Pettiness aside, Sawyer didn‘t approve. Bruce ignored the temper tantrum. ―Drove through it to get here. It‘s so fucking cute, I almost vomited. By the time I turned off Main Street, I was craving a three-bedroom mortgage, a wife, and a puppy. Can you believe that?‖ It was impossible to stay angry at Bruce. ―No,‖ Sawyer said. ―You hate puppies.‖ That earned him a small smile. ―Not everyone is as brave as you are, Calhoun. I wouldn‘t hold it against him.‖ Sawyer couldn‘t dredge up a retort, so he turned and rinsed his cup, then set it gently in the sink. He didn‘t need a pep talk, or a guilt trip, or whatever Bruce was heaping on him. He‘d made his decision about Marc. At least he thought he had. Bruce lumbered to his feet. ―Are you making me breakfast or what?‖ ―I hadn‘t planned to have to make you anything until dinner. I don‘t have much in the way of breakfast food.‖ ―I was hoping you‘d say that. Your omelets give me gas.‖ Bruce patted his stomach. ―Let‘s go out.‖ The refrigerator was as bare as Sawyer remembered. He let the door swing shut as he nodded. ―I know just the place. I need to take a shower first, though.‖

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―Please do. Then you can spill the details about your new love interest on the way into town.‖ Bruce stood and stretched, wiggling his fingers at the burnished tin ceiling high above. ―Cool. Is that real?‖ Without waiting for Sawyer to answer, he wandered off into the next room, poking and prodding as he went.

RACHEL‘S was as Sawyer remembered from his earlier visits. The late morning crowd was thinning out by the time he and Bruce walked in the door, and there were several booths available. Pastel print mats and pale pink coffee mugs dotted the tables. The two waitresses on duty were sporting gingham aprons and matching ribbons around their high ponytails. The place smelled of yeast and bacon. Sawyer‘s stomach rumbled. Bruce leaned over his shoulder. ―So cute I want to—‖ ―Enough.‖ Sawyer jabbed him in the ribs, then nodded at the young dark-haired woman who approached them. Her wide smile revealed perfect white teeth, a sharp contrast to her black hair and brown eyes. ―Good morning, gentlemen,‖ she said in a husky voice. ―Two for breakfast?‖ Sawyer jerked a thumb behind him. ―He eats enough for two, so the reality is probably closer to three.‖ The woman gave a delighted laugh and squeezed Sawyer‘s arm. He found himself enjoying her open friendliness. ―Big appetites don‘t scare me. How does a booth near the back sound? Plenty of room to spread out your plates.‖ ―I like how you think.‖ Bruce shooed Sawyer out of the way and looped his arm around the woman‘s elbow. ―Lead on.‖ ―Keep that up, and you‘ll get free milkshakes.‖ She winked, and Sawyer watched Bruce lap it up like an eager puppy. The man did love to flirt. He had a keen eye for beauty and wasn‘t picky about the gender of his conquests. The woman led them to the back of the diner, waving at people as they meandered between the tables. Bruce slid across the bench with a

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sigh while Sawyer seated himself opposite. The woman handed them each a laminated menu. ―Would you like coffee?‖ Bruce rubbed his stomach. ―A whole pot, please.‖ The woman smiled and scribbled something on her pad. ―Sawyer?‖ Sawyer blinked. Peripherally, he was aware of Bruce shooting him a curious glance. ―Um.‖ He closed the menu and set it gingerly on the table. ―Yes, thank you. Do we know each other?‖ The woman reached to turn the two mugs over, then snagged a coffee pot from one of the passing waitresses. ―I know you, sweetheart. Sawyer Calhoun, of the Steinbrick renovation.‖ She filled both mugs. ―Yeah. That‘s me.‖ His throat felt dry. ―And I‘m sorry, but you are…?‖ ―I‘m Rachel Harper.‖ She stuck out her hand, and Sawyer took it. ―Nice to finally meet you.‖ ―Rachel?‖ Bruce handed her his menu. ―As in the owner of Rachel‘s?‖ Rachel tucked it under her arm and smirked at Bruce. ―Nothing gets by you city boys.‖ Sawyer was thankful for Bruce‘s sudden burst of laughter. Wary, he wiped his damp palms on his jeans. ―Rachel,‖ he said, almost to himself. The woman patted his shoulder. Her next words gave him a chill. ―Marc‘s Rachel,‖ she said. ―And my God, sometimes I wonder which one of us is dating the guy. He talks about you constantly.‖ A panicked voice rang out, ―Hey, Rachel!‖ One of the waitresses beckoned from the swinging doors that led to the kitchen. ―Oops. Gotta go. Nice to finally meet you properly, Sawyer.‖ She smiled at Bruce. ―And your friend. Marissa will be around to grab your order in just a sec, okay?‖ ―Okay,‖ Bruce answered when Sawyer didn‘t. ―No problem. We‘re not in any rush.‖ Rachel beat a path to the kitchen, and Bruce leaned back, slinging an arm over the top of the booth. He retrieved a toothpick from his pocket and stuck it in his mouth. ―Damn, Sawyer. I remember seeing

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this on As The World Turns.‖ The toothpick bobbed. ―Art does imitate life.‖ ―Unfortunately.‖ Sawyer scowled and picked at the placemat. ―What did you expect?‖ Bruce leaned across the table. ―You didn‘t think that Marc might have a girlfriend?‖ No, and why hadn‘t he, come to think of it? It made perfect sense. Lies upon lies. The whole thing turned Sawyer‘s stomach. He cast about for the empathy Bruce claimed he should be feeling, but all he could picture was Rachel‘s pretty face. He held the steaming coffee under his nose; it helped push back his pulsing headache. ―Whatever. More evidence that I made the right decision.‖ ―Oh yeah, that‘s convincing.‖ Bruce rolled his eyes. ―No.‖ Sawyer thumped his mug down. ―It was crazy to play his games.‖ Bruce cocked his head. ―What games?‖ ―Like this test thing he did the other day—‖ Marissa‘s arrival cut his explanation short. Bruce ordered half the menu, and Sawyer asked for oatmeal and fruit. She poured them both more coffee, then left. ―I should‘ve stopped it,‖ Sawyer said. No need to mention it got him wound tight enough to jerk off three times on Monday. ―So what you‘re saying is, you‘ve been leading him on. Flirting and saying ‗Let‘s be friends‘.‖ Bruce waved off Sawyer‘s protests. ―Face it. You have an M.O.‖ ―That‘s harsh. No.‖ Sawyer cut him off. ―Don‘t feed me shit about the truth setting me free.‖ ―I was going to say the truth hurts,‖ Bruce replied blandly. Sawyer scooted into the corner of the booth and sulked. Bruce stole the neglected coffee. ―Baby.‖ ―Jerk.‖ ―Sawyer?‖ Sawyer snapped his head up to find Marc standing by their table. He was dressed for work in faded jeans and a dark blue T-shirt, and looked too clean to have done anything but shower that morning. The faint odor of soap and shaving cream wafted over Sawyer. He straightened, bumping the table and grazing Bruce‘s shin in the

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process. ―Marc. Hi.‖ And that, apparently, was the extent of his conversational abilities. ―Hi,‖ Marc replied after an awkward moment. His eyes darted to Bruce, then back. ―Sawyer‘s so rude, isn‘t he? My mother doesn‘t even invite him to Sunday dinner anymore.‖ Bruce‘s booming voice carried across the room, and Sawyer winced. Bruce uncurled a hand from his coffee cup and held it out. ―I‘m Bruce Banner.‖ Marc paused in the process of shaking Bruce‘s hand. ―Are you kidding?‖ ―I‘m afraid not. Don‘t make me angry,‖ Bruce quipped. Marc snickered and pumped his hand harder, and for a bit too long, in Sawyer‘s opinion. ―How was it growing up with that name?‖ Marc asked. Bruce patted the vinyl seat, and after a short hesitation, Marc slid in. Sawyer quietly seethed. ―Not as hard as you might think,‖ Bruce said. ―I was already this size by the time I was fifteen. Bruce Banner fit me to a T. Guess what my nickname was.‖ ―No idea.‖ Bruce blinked, then howled with laughter. He clapped Marc on the back, then slid Sawyer‘s mug in front of him. ―I like you already, Marc. Here, have Sawyer‘s coffee. He‘s too busy being a crybaby to drink it.‖ ―Oh? And why is that?‖ Marc picked up the mug and raised it to his lips, and, ridiculously, a bolt of heat shot through Sawyer. Bruce grinned. ―He was up very early.‖ Sawyer infused his glare with a mixture of irritation and warning. Bruce raised his mug in an answering toast. ―And here I thought it was going to be a dull weekend.‖ ―Thanks for your faith in me,‖ Sawyer said. But his lips curled up in a smile. Bruce‘s good nature had a way of clearing away negativity. It was why Sawyer loved him. ―Join us for breakfast, Marc?‖ Bruce asked.

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Except when the bastard felt like stirring up trouble. Sawyer waited for Marc‘s answer, unable to settle on which he most wanted to hear: yes or no. ―I‘m afraid I can‘t. I‘m just dropping in to pick up a friend, then we‘re off to work. But thanks for the offer. I would‘ve liked the chance to get to know you better.‖ The innuendo was so subtle that Sawyer nearly missed it, though it didn‘t spark a rush of jealousy; Marc wasn‘t being coy. Still, the pitch of his voice was off. That was certain. ―Likewise.‖ Bruce‘s own moderated tone, also familiar, proved there was much being implied that wasn’t being said, a fact that made Sawyer nervous. But before he could interrupt, Bruce added, ―In fact, we still can, right?‖ Marc‘s quizzical smile matched Sawyer‘s. ―Sawyer was telling me about your office, and how unique it is. An old mill, right? It so happens….‖ Bruce paused for Marissa to fill their mugs from her bottomless coffee pot. She set a clean cup in front of Sawyer, and he felt like kissing her. ―It so happens,‖ Bruce continued once she‘d moved on, ―that I‘ve been on the lookout for that type of unique idea. I was wondering if we could stop by so I could take a look around.‖ Marc nodded. ―Of course. What kind of work do you do?‖ ―I‘m an architect.‖ Sawyer raised a brow at his friend. He couldn‘t remember the last time Bruce had described himself as merely ―an architect.‖ Only one of the most sought after in the city, he should have added, and often did. Marc gave a low laugh. It made Sawyer‘s toes curl in his sneakers. ―Well, with all due respect, Bruce, it‘s going to be close to impossible to replicate the ambiance of a century-old flour mill in a modern high rise.‖ Sawyer choked on his coffee. Marc probably didn‘t realize he‘d just thrown down the professional gauntlet. Bruce had made the impossible happen before. More than once. ―Oh ye of little faith.‖ Bruce tapped his fingers on the table. ―Give me a chance? And besides,‖ he added, ―Sawyer said you might have a quote ready to show him.‖

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A heavy silence descended, lasting for several of Sawyer‘s frantic heartbeats. ―I do,‖ Marc finally said. ―It‘s ready.‖ Marc‘s quiet voice shot the last of Sawyer‘s equilibrium to hell. ―How about this afternoon?‖ ―Sure. This afternoon is fine.‖ ―Three o‘clock?‖ Bruce ventured. ―I wouldn‘t want to risk anything earlier. We have to go buy a bed. Maybe two. Have ‘em delivered. Try ‘em out. You know the drill.‖ The bottom dropped out of Sawyer‘s stomach. He shot Bruce a dirty look. So did Marc, interestingly enough. ―Three o‘clock will work.‖ Marc glanced up, and Sawyer followed his gaze to the diner‘s entrance. Another young man was standing there, tall and thin, long hair pulled back into a ponytail. His hands were slung into the front pockets of his jeans, but when he caught Marc looking, he waved. Marc slid out of the booth. ―I need to go. Thanks for the coffee. I‘ll see you later, Bruce. Sawyer.‖ Bruce leaned forward to watch him make his way to the door. ―I can hardly wait,‖ he said under his breath. Sawyer kicked him, but Bruce wasn‘t fazed. ―Your infatuation makes a little more sense now.‖ Not what Sawyer wanted to hear. ―Yeah?‖ Marissa arrived with their breakfast. Sawyer stabbed at his oatmeal. Bruce obviously knew when to quit, or maybe just when to eat, because the rest of the meal passed peaceably. Of course, with Bruce in tow, that wasn‘t likely to last.

―WAS I bad?‖ Sawyer bit the inside of his cheek. Instead of answering, he flipped the turn signal, glanced over his shoulder, and shifted the Explorer into the left lane. Bruce squinted at him. ―You‘re ignoring me.‖ ―What makes you say that?‖ Swallowing a smirk, Sawyer took a sharp curve too fast, and Bruce hissed through his teeth.

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―Okay, I get it. My comments to the salesman were inappropriate. I‘m sorry.‖ He batted his eyelashes. ―But you did look fuckable in that oak sleigh bed.‖ Sawyer rode the next curve even more recklessly. Bruce tightened his seatbelt. ―Please don‘t splatter me all over the road. I just bought these clothes. I don‘t want blood on them.‖ ―I meant to say something about your new look. I hope you kept the receipts.‖ Bruce‘s glare coaxed Sawyer‘s smirk to the surface. ―Are you calling my outfit unbecoming?‖ ―Something like that.‖ They dipped down the hill and into a hollow. Rocks rose up on both sides of the car. In deference to his new vehicle, Sawyer eased off the accelerator, chuckling when Bruce relinquished his viselike grip on the dashboard. The car wound further into the ravine, through one switchback after another, losing more sunlight with every pass. Thick moss hung off the trees, and the air grew cooler. Bruce rolled his window all the way down and gave a satisfied sigh. Sawyer smiled, but didn‘t dare take his eyes off the road for more than a second. ―Like it?‖ Bruce nodded. ―Gorgeous.‖ He sniffed the air. ―Fresh. Tastes almost metallic. What is that?‖ ―That,‖ Sawyer said as they rounded the last bend and burst into a patch of sunlight, ―is the river.‖ Marc‘s mill was perched on the right side of the road, at the edge of a spillway. A weathered-looking covered bridge spanned the river just below it, and the road continued on the other side for about twenty yards before disappearing into the trees. Both banks were thickly forested, but the water was wide enough to provide a ribbon of sunlight through the gorge. Upstream, the river was glasslike. The only evidence of its movement was the curtain of water breaching the spillway near the mill‘s giant wheel. Below the dam, it churned and bubbled around huge boulders, kicking up white froth. A low roar echoed through the air. Sawyer swung the Explorer into a spot in front of Great Restorations. He‘d barely shifted into park when Bruce leapt from the passenger seat and jogged over to the wall that marked the edge of the

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river. Sawyer scrambled to follow, blanching when he saw his friend leapfrog the stone barrier and disappear from sight. ―Bruce!‖ He raced forward, heart pounding, only to find the other man picking his way over a jumble of boulders to the immobile water wheel. ―I‘m not sure you should be doing that,‖ Sawyer called. ―Relax, you sissy!‖ Bruce threw over his shoulder. ―Let him go.‖ Sawyer spun to find Marc at his elbow for the second time that day. He willed his pulse to stop racing, only to have it skip faster once Marc stepped forward, putting them shoulder to shoulder. He was more rumpled than earlier. His shirt was untucked, and a smudge of brown stain was smeared across his collarbone. The sun glinted off his hair. He flashed a smile, and just like that, all of Sawyer‘s lofty plans for keeping things platonic blew away. Marc rested one hip against the wall while he tracked Bruce‘s progress. ―I had a similar reaction the first time I saw the place. I thought the old guy who owned it was going to stroke out when I started climbing the wheel.‖ The picture, though ridiculous, was so vivid that Sawyer‘s breath caught. ―You loved it right away.‖ ―How could you not?‖ Marc asked, his puzzlement so genuine that Sawyer laughed. Marc joined in, then swiveled to lean against the wall. The move nearly erased the open space between them. Sawyer swallowed. ―Okay!‖ Bruce vaulted the low wall and advanced on Marc, finger wagging. A flush had spread across his cheeks and down his neck. His eyes glittered. ―How the hell did you do it? How is this place not a historical landmark or some shit like that?‖ Marc grinned and rocked back on his heels. ―I knew the guy who owned it. Mr. Delaney. He didn‘t have any family. Never married. No kids. My aunt always felt bad about that, and she invited him to dinner a lot when I was growing up.‖ Marc paused, pensive. ―He told great stories, just like your grandfather, Sawyer.‖ Sawyer smiled, awash in a rush of nostalgia. ―Anyway,‖ Marc continued, ―the government did want it. In fact, the mill and the surrounding property were reclassified as a historical

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landmark about ten years ago. That way, if Mr. Delaney died before selling it, ownership reverted to the state. Bruce raised an eyebrow. ―But?‖ ―He mentioned one night over dinner that he was thinking about selling it.‖ Marc shrugged. ―I jumped at the chance. He brought me out here, gave me some oral history on the place, and we signed the papers the next day. I can‘t believe how easy it was, but he seemed happy to hand it over to me. Which is strange, because he had several longstanding offers.‖ Not so strange, Sawyer thought, if Mr. Delaney saw something of himself in Marc. He couldn‘t be sure, of course, but it made sense. ―He took my money and went on a month-long cruise to the Mediterranean. His last hoorah, he called it.‖ Marc guided Bruce and Sawyer toward the door of the building. ―And it‘s not as though I razed the place. In fact, I restored it to its former glory, down to every last detail. As for the property being a historical landmark, it‘s still open for the public to enjoy.‖ ―And while they‘re sightseeing, you can talk restoration and renovation,‖ Bruce added. Marc winked. ―Exactly.‖ They stepped out of the sunlight and into the chill shade of the mill. Bruce studied Marc intently. ―Very clever. I think I might be a little bit in love with you.‖ To Sawyer‘s sudden scowl, he added, ―Relax. I‘m kidding.‖ He extracted a compact, leather-bound notebook from his shirt pocket. ―Kind of,‖ he added under his breath as he wandered off. Sawyer took a deep breath. The mill had a pleasant underlying smell of earth mixed with fresh paint. ―How long have you owned it?‖ ―Let‘s see.‖ Marc‘s tongue darted out to wet his lips, and Sawyer felt an answering pull in his gut. ―Four years.‖ Sawyer did the math. ―You were only twenty-three when you bought it?‖ ―Yep.‖ ―I doubt it was cheap.‖ ―No,‖ Marc replied, laughing.

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―Where did you get the capital? Loan?‖ ―No,‖ Marc said again. ―I paid cash. Well,‖ he added, ―and took a small loan. But that was mostly to fund the renovations and get the space ready for the business.‖ Now Sawyer was intrigued. ―Don‘t feel the need to answer, but I have to ask. Where‘d you get so much cash?‖ ―It‘s okay.‖ Marc began to meander across the floor, and Sawyer fell into step beside him. ―I‘d saved it. I was working up to buy my house from Aunt May.‖ ―Now I‘m confused. The one you‘re living in now? You don‘t own that?‖ ―Uh, no.‖ Marc looked, of all things, embarrassed. ―It belongs to my aunt. She wanted to give it to me, but I wouldn‘t let her. She put herself out there, financially, to buy it, and even though that was twenty-five years ago, and she‘s not struggling now, I‘m going to make sure I give her what it‘s worth.‖ That was… a shock. Not many people turned their noses up at a free ride like that. There had to be more to the story. Sawyer hated to pry, but his curiosity got the better of him. ―Why did she need the house in the first place?‖ Marc‘s mouth twisted into a bitter smile. His hands curled into fists, and as though he wanted hide his agitation, he shoved them deep into his pockets. ―It was for my parents. So they had a place to settle down.‖ The night that Sawyer had followed Marc to his house after their argument at the pizza parlor, Marc had made a throwaway comment about ―taking‖ the house. It finally made a little sense. ―But they didn‘t settle down, did they?‖ Sawyer asked quietly. ―No.‖ Marc took off across the floor again. Trying to escape old demons, was Sawyer‘s bet, based on the conversation. He stopped at one of the large windows that looked over the spillway and waited for Sawyer to join him. ―And that‘s the story of the mill and the house. It‘s taken a while, but business has been good the last couple of years. I‘m almost ready to make her an offer she can‘t refuse.‖ He winked, and Sawyer laughed. ―And that would be?‖

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―A roundtrip ticket to the Antiques Roadshow in Des Moines next year, and a very large certified check to fund her passion.‖ Sawyer slapped him on the back. ―Perfect.‖ He didn‘t say what he was thinking—that he was impressed, and more than a little charmed. Marc hadn‘t been fishing for compliments. ―So‖—Marc crossed his arms—―how was your shopping excursion?‖ The defensive posture made Sawyer swallow his glib response. That tone was back, the guarded one from earlier. Sawyer squeezed Marc‘s shoulder. ―Bruce is just a friend.‖ Marc twitched, but he didn‘t shake Sawyer off. ―Oh?‖ ―Yes. And to answer your question‖—because he couldn‘t resist—―the shopping excursion was a success. I have a brand new king-sized bed for my room and one for the guest room, where Bruce is staying.‖ ―A king?‖ The corner of Marc‘s mouth lifted. ―You like to spread out when you sleep.‖ ―And when I do other things.‖ Marc tensed. He stepped around Sawyer to watch Bruce meander toward the staircase that led down to the millstone. Sawyer shadowed him. The railing ended in a V that hung out over the floor below, and Marc followed it until he was nestled at the junction of the beams. There was nowhere else for him to go, and something primal inside of Sawyer howled at having cornered his prey. In an eerie repeat of their last rendezvous at the mill, Sawyer sidled close enough to link their fingers. Marc didn‘t stop him, but they were more or less alone; Bruce had jogged down the stairs to investigate the stone and piston. A cool river draft carried his appreciative whistle to their ears, and both Marc and Sawyer watched as he explored the machinery, touching it now and again with a quiet reverence. Standing half-behind Marc gave Sawyer a modicum of privacy, and after waffling for a few seconds, he exploited it. Slowly, he lifted his hand and laid it gently on Marc‘s back, fingertips first, but when Marc‘s only reaction was a subdued gasp, he spread his palm flat. Marc could have been a statue. He barely breathed.

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Sawyer checked on Bruce once more before leaning to whisper in Marc‘s ear. ―Tell me to stop.‖ There was no chance his tone could be mistaken for playful. Intent, he tightened his grip on Marc‘s shirt and brushed his nose across the shell of his ear. ―Tell me to back off.‖ Marc said nothing, but his sharp exhale and the minute tremble of his body emboldened Sawyer. He took one more step and pressed his chest against Marc‘s side. ―Last chance, I swear to fucking God, Marc. Tell me to stop.‖ ―God, Sawyer.‖ Sawyer squeezed his eyes shut, hating Marc‘s anguished tone. He wrenched away, but Marc‘s fingers clamped around his wrist. He straightened his shoulders and took a deep breath before speaking. ―Don‘t stop. Don‘t.‖ Well, all right. That was the sort of command Sawyer appreciated. He pried his fingers off Marc‘s shirt and coiled them around his upper arm. ―Didn‘t you have a quote to show me?‖ ―Up in my office.‖ ―I was hoping you‘d say that.‖ Sawyer ignored Marc‘s shaky laugh and steered him round to the stairs. His gentle push was all the impetus Marc needed, because he immediately took the lead, dragging Sawyer behind him by his belt buckle. ―Oh, Romeo?‖ Sawyer pulled up short, jerking Marc to a stop as well. He growled and angled his head over the railing until he could see Bruce‘s upturned face. ―What?‖ he snapped. Far from put off, Bruce grinned. ―Oh, nothing. Just wanted to let you know you were about to have company.‖ ―There‘s no room for you.‖ ―I wasn‘t talking about me, princess. Although….‖ He shook himself. ―Never mind. Someone just pulled up.‖ Beside him, Marc froze. Outside, a car door slammed, and Sawyer slapped his palm against the wood railing. ―Damn it!‖ He risked a quick touch; he cupped Marc‘s cheek in his hand. ―This isn‘t over.‖ Wide-eyed, hands fisted at his sides, Marc shook his head.

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The front door was kicked ajar by one strappy crimson sandal, and Karen breezed in, arms loaded with reams of fabric. ―Marc?‖ she called. ―Hello, fine lady.‖ Bruce appeared out of thin air and dipped into a low bow. ―May I assist?‖ He gestured at the pile of material. Sawyer made the most of her distraction and slipped into the shadows to collect himself. Marc might have a chance of flying under Karen‘s radar, but Sawyer doubted he‘d be so lucky. The bulge in his Dockers wasn‘t exactly subtle. He peeked around a wooden beam to find Karen giving Bruce a thorough once-over. ―Sure, handsome,‖ she said, and dumped the entire stack into his arms. ―I do love a gentleman.‖ ―And I adore a woman who can delegate,‖ came Bruce‘s muffled reply. ―Where do you want them?‖ ―Table along the far wall,‖ Karen said. She waited for Bruce to stumble away before turning to greet Marc. ―Is Mr. Bunyan interested in our business?‖ she asked in a low voice. Sawyer muffled a laugh. ―His name is Bruce, and he‘s a friend of Sawyer‘s,‖ Marc answered. ―Oh!‖ Karen smoothed her skirt. ―Is Sawyer here?‖ Reprieve over. Sawyer took a steadying breath and stepped forward. ―Right here.‖ ―Just the person I wanted to see.‖ The clack of her pointy heels threw echoes around the room as she walked forward and took his arm. ―I‘ve been flooded with ideas since we spoke last week. Think you can make some time for me?‖ And be throttled by either Marc or Bruce. Or both. What fun. ―I suppose,‖ he hedged. ―Though I haven‘t even seen the quote yet. How about one day next week?‖ Her nails sank into his arm. ―Wonderful! Over dinner?‖ ―Uh….‖ He snuck a look over her shoulder. Marc‘s eyes flared with enmity. It was a miracle Karen hadn‘t dropped dead on the spot. ―During the day is better,‖ Sawyer said. ―Why don‘t you call me when you‘re going to be in the office?‖

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She withdrew her hand, and Sawyer released the breath he‘d been holding. ―Whatever works for you.‖ She turned to the others, suddenly all business. ―Why don‘t we go over the quote now? Between Marc and myself, we should be able to answer any questions you and your friend might have.‖ Bruce clapped his hands together. ―I think that‘s a great idea. How much fun is this going to be?‖ He winked at Sawyer, then offered Karen his arm. ―Can we make popcorn?‖ Karen shed her suit jacket before taking his elbow. ―Whatever you want, Paul.‖ ―Bruce.‖ ―Just Bruce?‖ Bruce swept her past Marc and Sawyer and onto the staircase. ―Bruce Banner.‖ ―No, seriously.‖ ―Swear to God.‖ Their voices faded as they climbed. Sawyer banished his disappointment and gestured for Marc to follow. After a long, searching look, Marc did.

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Chapter 6

THE contract was signed, the schedule set, and all Marc had to do was survive the last week of his current project without falling prey to the distraction that was Sawyer Calhoun. His energy went into wrapping up the Kennerdale renovation, which he did by Thursday, two days early—a miracle considering his pitiful attention span. The team said goodbye to the Kennerdale family, then gathered that night at Reba‘s to get spectacularly drunk. Reba‘s house, while nothing special architecturally, had what Marc‘s had always lacked: a sense of family. Losing her husband ten years ago had galvanized Reba into making a stable home for her sons. Every room reflected that goal. Pictures of the boys decorated the walls, their sports trophies cluttered every flat surface, and their report cards hung on the refrigerator. The love and affection the three shared was infectious. Reba excelled at the job she did for Marc, but motherhood was her true calling, one she relished. Marc, Karen, and Tim were her honorary adopted children. Rick she tolerated. The morning after one of their end-of-project parties was never a pretty sight. Marc took one look at them, sprawled in every corner of Reba‘s living room, and declared a three-day weekend. ―Be at Sawyer‘s by nine on Monday,‖ he said as he left. He preferred to recover from his hangover in the comfort of his own house. Karen emerged from beneath her blanket. ―Thought you told him eight.‖ ―I get the feeling he‘s not an early riser. Let‘s give it an extra hour the first day.‖ ―Marc, I love you,‖ Rick said from his nest on the floor, voice raspy from too many cigarettes.

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―That‘s what you said last night too.‖ Marc leaned over him. ―You also said I should keep your bonus check and buy something nice for myself.‖ ―The hell I did.‖ ―You did,‖ Reba confirmed. ―I ain‘t gonna repeat what you suggested either. Pervert.‖ ―I can‘t be held responsible for my actions when Tim is mixing my drinks. I think he was trying to poison me.‖ ―Don‘t know where you got that idea,‖ Reba said. She clapped her hands together. ―Who wants eggs?‖ A collective groan followed Marc out of the room. He found Tim outside, sprawled across Reba‘s porch swing, hands folded behind his head. He greeted Marc with a lazy wave. ―Did you hear?‖ Marc asked. ―Nine o‘clock Monday, chez Calhoun. Got it, boss.‖ Tim stretched and sat up. He pulled a leather tie from his pocket and tied his hair back. ―You ready?‖ ―Ready?‖ Marc faltered on the top step. His clothes were stiff, and he ached from sleeping on Reba‘s floor. All he wanted at that moment was a shower and a bottle of Tylenol. What he didn‘t want were cryptic questions from a man who saw far more than Marc was comfortable with. ―Yeah.‖ Tim‘s easy smile did nothing to ease Marc‘s nervousness. ―For the job with Sawyer.‖ ―I guess. Yeah.‖ Tim smiled. ―Cool.‖ He settled back and closed his eyes. Discomfited, Marc staggered to his truck. His answering machine coughed up two messages from Rachel and one from Aunt May, reminding him that tomorrow was Saturday, and please be prompt, because I want to get on the road no later than eight. The estate sale out on Route 78 is supposed to be huge. He erased all three, burying his guilt. The situation with Rachel made his head hurt even when he wasn‘t hung over. He‘d expected her to push for something more by now. He didn‘t know what to make of the fact that she hadn‘t. Sighing, he headed for the shower, putting everything out of his head.

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Except Sawyer. He refused to be banished. Marc was used to that by now. Seventy-two hours until they saw each other. For days, Marc had been juggling anticipation and dread, fantasy and reality, unable to shake the feeling that his life was about to be turned upside down. One thing was for certain: resisting what was now on offer would be close to impossible.

HE

PULLED up in front of Sawyer‘s house at 8:55, pleased to see

everyone else waiting. Reba offered him a large coffee. ―Rachel‘s Diner‖ was scrawled across the Styrofoam in red curly print. Marc gnashed his teeth as he shook his head. He‘d dodged Rachel‘s calls all weekend. Of course, Reba had to mention that fact in front of everyone. ―Rachel said she couldn‘t get in touch with you. Everything okay?‖ ―Fine.‖ Sometimes Reba‘s mothering went a bit too far. Marc hefted his bucket of tools and pointed at the front door. ―Let‘s go.‖ They climbed the steps in a line, Rick and Tim in front, lugging a miter saw between them. ―Ding dong! Anybody home?‖ Rick struck Sawyer‘s door with his hammer. ―Stop that.‖ Reba plucked it from his hand and tossed it at the five-gallon bucket she‘d carried onto the porch. Marc and Tim jumped out of the way, but her aim was perfect. The hammer landed handle down in the nest of tools. ―You‘ll dent the door.‖ ―And then,‖ Rick drawled like Reba was a confused child, ―we can replace it with a new one.‖ He rubbed his thumb and fingers together. ―The guy can totally afford it.‖ ―You know there‘s a picture of you in the dictionary next to morally impaired?‖ ―‗Morally impaired is two words.‖ ―Ass is one word,‖ Marc volunteered. ―You‘re hurting me, boss.‖ Rick leaned over and waggled his butt. ―But I do have a cute one, you have to admit.‖

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Reba slapped her hands over her face. ―I‘m blind! Does that count as sexual harassment, Marc?‖ ―Only if his actions offend you.‖ Marc‘s tone carried his own opinion on that point. Reba smacked her gum. ―Shit, he offends me every day. You mean I could‘ve sued his ass and been rich by now?‖ ―It‘s always about my ass. Can‘t you guys obsess over something else for once?‖ Rick knocked again, using his knuckles this time. ―Calhoun! Open up! The cavalry‘s arrived.‖ The door swung open with a loud squeak, and Sawyer blinked at them through the screen. Marc smirked. ―Morning, Sawyer.‖ ―It‘s eight already?‖ Sawyer asked. Rick hooted with laughter. ―It‘s nine, Sleeping Beauty.‖ He hefted the bucket in one hand and his tool belt in the other. He smashed his face against the screen. ―Let us in.‖ Reba whipped him with her work gloves. ―Animal. You‘re scaring the poor boy.‖ Sawyer answered with a blank stare, clutching his shirt closed. His hair stuck straight up on the right side and plastered flat on the left. ―Nine?‖ Marc took pity on him. ―Why don‘t you go make some coffee while we get set up.‖ ―Good idea,‖ Rick said. ―Coffee inspires me. And Sawyer?‖ Sawyer stumbled back around at Rick‘s question. ―Hmm?‖ ―Love the hair.‖ ―Ass,‖ Sawyer mumbled. He kicked the screen door open, then turned and ambled off in the direction of the kitchen. Reba grabbed it before it swung closed. ―Why, Rick. Your reputation precedes you.‖ She shot Marc a sidelong glance. ―Go give Sawyer a hand before he hurts himself.‖ Marc‘s protest got lost in the chaos of the team dragging their tools through the front door. Rick‘s playfulness disappeared in a heartbeat. He knew when to buckle down, or Marc would‘ve let him go long ago. ―Set up here for now. Tim and I will scope out the best place

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for the saw and compressor. Reba, what lengths of wood are we talking?‖ ―Up to fourteen feet.‖ ―We‘ll need a big room, then. Wet saw can go right on the porch.‖ When nobody replied to Marc‘s ―Sawyer is capable of brewing coffee by himself,‖ he stalked out of the foyer and up the hall to the kitchen. The smell of freshly ground beans greeted him at the door. He leaned against the jamb, smiling at the sight of Sawyer standing over the machine, fogged expression still in place. ―Need help?‖ His voice brought Sawyer to life. A slow grin spread over his face as he turned, rolling his hips along the counter. ―Hey, you. Long time no see.‖ Too long, Marc had to agree. Not since the previous weekend when they‘d signed the contract. Which brought to mind another subject. ―How‘s Bruce?‖ Sawyer snatched two mugs from the dishwasher, filled both with coffee, and handed one to Marc. ―Pining for Edgewood. Which,‖ he paused to sip his coffee, ―is weird.‖ Marc wrapped his palms around the cup and leaned against the counter next to Sawyer. ―Why?‖ ―Just… no reason. Never mind.‖ Sawyer shook his head and slid closer. Marc‘s hands tightened on his mug, but he didn‘t retreat. ―I‘ve been looking forward to this since last Friday,‖ Sawyer said. He glanced at the door, then back to Marc. ―Thought about calling you.‖ ―Why didn‘t you?‖ ―Did you want me to?‖ Yes. No. ―Uh.‖ Sawyer dropped his eyes. ―That‘s what I thought.‖ In the foyer, Rick called a warning and the band saw roared to life. Marc edged away. ―This isn‘t the best time to be discussing this.‖ ―I know.‖ The moment stretched, tension playing out until Marc had to speak before he did something foolish. ―Sawyer—‖

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―Later.‖ Sawyer refilled his mug, then set it aside while he buttoned his shirt. ―Let me get cleaned up, okay? I‘ll get with everybody one at a time, in case they have questions. Then‖—one side of his mouth curved upward—―I found something I want you to see. Relax.‖ He laughed at Marc‘s expression. ―I think you‘re going to like it.‖ He slid by, and Marc choked on his coffee when Sawyer‘s fingers trailed over his stomach. ―Be right back.‖ Marc hid in the kitchen for several minutes after Sawyer left, reviewing the most boring details of the renovation contract in his head. Materials, pricing, timetable…. When he‘d wrestled his body back under control, the obvious, which he‘d managed to ignore before now, hit him. If he reacted this way every time Sawyer came near him, he‘d never make it through the project without someone finding out. His stomach rolled. It would‘ve been better if they‘d held to Sawyer‘s rules about hiding and deception, but in the end, the ball was in Marc‘s court. Sawyer had made that clear enough. Foisting off his lack of control wasn‘t fair. He set his mug down too hard, sloshing it onto his fingers. ―Fuck.‖ ―Yo, Marc.‖ Rick ducked his head through the kitchen door. ―Got a sec?‖ ―Yeah.‖ He swiped a paper towel through the mess, rinsed his cup, and followed Rick into the hall. ―Problem?‖ ―Not really. You okay?‖ Marc‘s heart skipped a beat, then sped ahead twice as fast. ―Yeah. Why?‖ ―Just wondering.‖ Rick slung his drill over his shoulder. ―Is it bad to change the plan on the morning of the first day?‖ ―Depends on how much it costs.‖ Rick grinned and gestured between the two of them. ―See? Simpatico. Not a cent. Come on. Let me show you my brilliance.‖ Admitting Rick‘s plan was brilliant was out of the question. Nobody would ever hear the end of it. But Marc did approve of the suggested changes, and everyone else agreed. Flexibility was the name of the game when it came to their craft.

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Sawyer appeared thirty minutes later, looking damp and smelling like soap, and Marc escaped outside to unload the lumber from Rick‘s truck before someone caught him staring. His reprieve lasted ten minutes. ―Hey, there you are.‖ Sawyer leaned over the truck bed and helped slide the next piece of wood onto the growing pile on the ground. ―Ready for your big surprise?‖ ―I won the Powerball?‖ ―Better.‖ Wary, Marc watched Sawyer circle the truck to stand beside him. ―Better?‖ ―Oh yeah. Come on.‖ He jerked his head toward the house. Left with no valid reason to refuse, not that he would‘ve, Marc grabbed his tool bucket and followed. Tim ignored them as they passed through the foyer and up the stairs, but Reba shot them a curious glance. They climbed to the second floor, then around the landing to the next set of steps. On the third floor, Sawyer stopped and pointed to the wainscoting that ran the length of the hall. Marc arched an eyebrow, and Sawyer rolled his eyes. He bent down and tapped one of the panels. ―This one‘s hollow.‖ Sawyer bounced on his toes like a five-yearold. ―Let‘s pry it open.‖ ―Easy,‖ Marc said. ―You don‘t pry century-old cherry paneling.‖ ―No?‖ Marc sighed and elbowed him to the side. The piece Sawyer had found was out of place. Enough so that he could be on to something. Marc chewed his lip while he pressed at the edges of the wood. Sawyer‘s breath tickled his ear. ―Is there, like, a secret lever or something? Maybe a trap door?‖ ―Good thinking, Shaggy.‖ Marc ducked away from Sawyer‘s warmth. ―Why don‘t you and Scooby go look for clues.‖ He escaped Sawyer‘s huff of laughter by sliding a few feet down the hall and peering over the banister. Rick and Reba‘s voices drifted up from two floors below. Karen yelled for Tim. A power drill roared to life. ―Relax. We‘re alone.‖ Marc scowled over his shoulder. ―We‘re hardly alone.‖

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―If we find the passageway‖—Sawyer moved behind, closing Marc in with a hand on either side of the railing—―then we‘ll be alone.‖ ―Just you, me, and the mice. How could I resist?‖ ―My house doesn‘t have mice.‖ Marc burst out laughing. ―Okay. Whatever you say.‖ ―It doesn‘t.‖ Sawyer frowned when Marc turned in his arms. ―Does it?‖ ―Probably not,‖ Marc conceded. ―But if we do find something, I can guarantee it isn‘t going to qualify as a romantic getaway.‖ Sawyer grinned, hooked a finger in Marc‘s belt, and pulled him close. ―Don‘t need anything fancy.‖ ―Okay.‖ Marc drew a shaky breath. ―I‘ll take your word for it.‖ ―You won‘t need to. If we find what we‘re looking for.‖ Sawyer moved away, and Marc steadied himself on the newel post. The next few minutes passed in silence, Marc examining the length of wall they‘d identified and Sawyer hovering, obliterating every hope Marc had of concentrating. He found what he was searching for in the end, but chalked it up to dumb luck rather than experience. Especially as Sawyer‘s hands had begun to wander, sliding up and under his shirt. ―Sawyer. Jesus.‖ Marc‘s head fell forward against the wall. ―Stop. I found it.‖ ―Found what?‖ Sawyer‘s fingers teased around the button of Marc‘s jeans. ―The room. Passageway. Whatever it is. I found it.‖ ―Really?‖ ―Your faith is inspiring.‖ ―No, I just meant—never mind.‖ Sawyer‘s fingers fell away. ―Can we get in?‖ ―Don‘t know.‖ Marc retrieved a small crowbar from his tool bucket. ―That‘s going to depend on how long it‘s been closed up. I bet it swung open pretty easily at one time, but who the hell knows how long ago that was. I wonder if your grandfather even knew it was here.‖

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―If he did, he never said anything to me.‖ ―It‘s not exactly the kind of place you want kids snooping around.‖ ―I guess.‖ A boyish grin crept over Sawyer‘s face. ―So can you open it?‖ ―I think so. Might take a little work.‖ He showed Sawyer the crowbar. ―I‘m sure you said not five minutes ago that we weren‘t going to use unnecessary force.‖ ―It‘s not unnecessary. And I know how to be careful.‖ Sawyer wrinkled his nose. ―Oh, thanks.‖ ―Don‘t take it personally.‖ Marc fit the edge of the bar under the raised molding and lifted, then slid it a few inches right and lifted a bit more. ―You‘ve got to ease it open,‖ he said, talking mostly to himself. ―I‘ll keep that in mind.‖ Marc‘s hand slipped. ―Think we could lay off the innuendo for a few minutes?‖ Sawyer leaned close enough to whisper in his ear. ―What innuendo?‖ Marc elbowed him away. ―Back off. I‘m working.‖ ―I know, and I can‘t get enough of it.‖ Marc tested the panel. It wiggled. ―Meaning?‖ ―I like to watch you. You know, when you‘re all into your job.‖ Marc met his playful smile. ―You‘re very odd.‖ ―But sexy.‖ Marc fit the bar back under the wood. ―Don‘t forget modest.‖ ―Hey.‖ Marc looked up, and Sawyer shot forward and kissed him. It held all the intensity of their first, but none of the frustration, and for all its brevity, it still left Marc breathless and dizzy. Sawyer‘s hand fastened to the nape of his neck, securing him, but Marc nearly toppled over when Sawyer‘s tongue darted out to trace his own. The crowbar slipped out of his hands and banged to the floor. Sawyer scooped it up and handed it back to him. ―You okay?‖

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Marc‘s reply was lost in the roar of Rick‘s saw, but his sudden tension must have been obvious. Sawyer squeezed his hand. ―Okay,‖ he said. ―Let‘s open this thing.‖ It took several more minutes with Marc working the edges, but the panel gave perfectly without any damage. Sawyer whistled. ―I‘m impressed.‖ ―Wait until you see what‘s on the other side.‖ They each took a hold of the panel and lifted it away, resting it against the opposite wall. Marc pulled a flashlight out of his tool bucket, crouched down, and shined it in the dark space. ―Okay, so far I‘m unimpressed.‖ Sawyer laid his chin on Marc‘s shoulder. ―Is there more?‖ Marc ignored the question. He ducked lower and fit his shoulders through the small opening. A gentle, musty breeze rustled his hair. About two feet below was a small landing, no more than thirty-six inches in diameter. A set of rickety wood steps dropped off to the right and descended into the gloom. Marc pulled back out and grinned. ―Ready for a little adventure?‖ ―Yeah.‖ Sawyer rubbed his palms together. ―Bring it on.‖ ―Grab the lantern out of my bucket.‖ ―Nope. That‘s just one more thing to carry. You‘ve got a flashlight. Let‘s live on the edge.‖ ―That‘s what you‘ll be doing. I don‘t see a railing. Stay behind me.‖ ―I love it when you take charge.‖ Marc pushed his feet through the opening. ―Hold that thought.‖ He slithered inside, then stood up, keeping one hand on the wall. Cobwebs brushed his face, and he swung his arm in a wide arc to clear the way. ―Be careful.‖ ―I will if you will.‖ Sawyer crawled through after him, Marc guided him to stand, and they crowded together on the tiny landing. Sawyer‘s hand caught the edge of his sleeve. ―Seriously, Marc,‖ he said, all humor gone. They were alone, and it was dark, so Marc curled his fingers over Sawyer‘s and squeezed. ―Don‘t worry.‖ ―Famous last words,‖ Sawyer mumbled.

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On the third floor, the opening between the walls was narrow, but dry. Marc filed that fact away for later and set his foot on the next riser, then smiled when it held his weight without bending. No rot whatsoever. ―So far so good.‖ More warm air danced over his face and something crawled up the side of his neck. He reacted without thinking, whipped his hand out to brush it away, and realized his mistake too late to save himself. Careening off balance, he scrambled for a handhold. The flashlight slipped from his fingers. Its spinning descent illuminating just how far it was to the ground, but it was too late. He was falling. ―Marc!‖ Marc reached blindly, connecting with Sawyer‘s hand just as his feet slipped off the step. He went weightless for a moment, then jerked to a stop. Sawyer gave a grunt of pain. ―Hang on!‖ An inch at a time, Sawyer pulled until Marc was able to swing his foot onto the steps. ―Got it,‖ Marc grunted. He clawed his way back onto the landing and collapsed in a messy sprawl, panting. Above, Sawyer cursed under his breath. He held Marc‘s hand tight. ―Okay, I‘ve seen enough,‖ he said. ―Let‘s get out of here.‖ Marc‘s laugh devolved into a hacking cough. ―Where‘s your sense of adventure?‖ ―At the bottom of this fucking hole, with your fancy flashlight.‖ His grip turned painful. ―Jesus, Marc.‖ ―I‘m fine.‖ There was a tremble in Sawyer‘s voice that cut through Marc‘s residual panic. He scooted to the edge and looked over. Sawyer hissed and grabbed his shirt. ―What are you doing?‖ ―Relax. I just wanted to see the flashlight.‖ Marc peered into the dark. ―It looks like the shaft goes all the way to the basement.‖ Sawyer poked his face over Marc‘s shoulder. ―It sure looks a lot deeper than thirty feet.‖ His breath tickled Marc‘s ear. ―Do you think these stairs go all the way down?‖ ―Only one way to find out.‖ He reached out, and his hand found Sawyer‘s stomach. Unable to resist, he snuck underneath his shirt and scratched his fingers across warm skin. ―You up for it?‖

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―Now that‘s just reckless.‖ Even in the dark, Sawyer‘s frown was obvious. Marc scrabbled around until his feet were underneath him, then crept up the steps, straddling Sawyer‘s legs. ―I‘ll make it worth your while.‖ ―You‘re not the good boy you pretend to be, are you?‖ Sawyer asked, voice gruff. He grabbed hold of Marc‘s waist. ―There, wouldn‘t want you to fall.‖ ―That‘d be no fun.‖ Marc slid higher. Sawyer gave a couple of helpful tugs on his jeans, and in a minute they were face to face. Cozy, but not ideal. ―Not the place to be distracted,‖ Marc said. ―No shit.‖ Rather than move past, Marc stretched out, coaxing a growl of approval from Sawyer‘s throat. Suddenly the air was too thin. His shoulder ached from the fall, and the rough wood dug into his elbows, but Sawyer‘s body fit beneath him perfectly. ―Fuck,‖ he whispered, rolling his hips. Sawyer‘s head clunked backward onto the step above. ―Okay,‖ he said, trying to twist away. ―Enough. This is torture.‖ Marc slithered down until he was free of the jumble of Sawyer‘s legs. ―So, what‘s the verdict?‖ he asked, staring up into the dark. ―Keep going?‖ ―Are you going to fall again?‖ ―No.‖ Unease filled Sawyer‘s voice. ―I‘d feel better if we had a light.‖ Marc thought for a moment. ―Okay. Hang on. I‘ll be right back.‖ ―Do you want me to move?‖ ―Just stay put for a second.‖ Marc crawled up and over Sawyer, ignoring the other man‘s huff of surprise, then reached through the opening to snatch the LED lantern from his bucket. He sacrificed his belt to rig a sling, then hung the light over the drop, beam pointed downward. The stairs continued down and out of sight. Marc counted three additional landings and one possible side passage close to the bottom.

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Sawyer whistled. ―Much better. Couldn‘t we have done that the first time?‖ ―Wouldn‘t have been as much fun.‖ ―Right,‖ Sawyer drawled. Marc contemplated crawling back over Sawyer to take the lead. The idea was far more attractive than it was safe. ―You first this time,‖ he said. ―Slow and careful. Stay low. Test each riser before you put your weight on it.‖ ―Got it.‖ They traveled down and around the twisting staircase. Another two turns brought them to a second landing. ―Another way in?‖ Sawyer asked. ―Good chance.‖ But where the hell were they? Marc pulled up a mental map of the house and counted the turns they‘d taken. ―Best guess is the small bedroom on the second floor.‖ Silence for a moment, then, ―The one with that cherry armoire?‖ Sawyer asked. ―Think so.‖ They continued down. At the next landing, Sawyer stopped, then motioned Marc closer. Marc slithered down next to him. ―Hey,‖ Sawyer breathed, nuzzling his neck. Goose bumps broke out over Marc‘s skin. ―Did you need something?‖ ―Check it out.‖ Sawyer pointed straight down. Marc squinted into the gloom and realized he could see the bottom. Diffused light from above gave the impression of a large open space, maybe fifteen feet below where they sat. The little boy in him started jumping and clapping. ―My house is the coolest,‖ Sawyer said, awed, and Marc burst into laughter. Sawyer reached out, finding Marc‘s arm in the dark. ―Shh. Listen.‖ Marc strained his ears, then jumped when Rick‘s voice boomed through the space. He was right on the other side of the wall. Marc racked his brain. What room did Rick say he‘d be working in? ―We‘re behind the dining room,‖ he whispered in Sawyer‘s ear.

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―Hey, Reba,‖ Rick said, his words echoing through the shaft. ―What‘s up with Marc?‖ Marc tensed at his name, and one of Sawyer‘s arms slid around his back. ―What do you mean?‖ Reba replied. ―Haven‘t you noticed how weird he‘s acting?‖ ―No,‖ came Reba‘s clipped reply. ―Well, I have. Especially around—‖ ―Okay, listen. I‘m not into talking about people behind their back.‖ Rick hooted. ―Since when?‖ There was a small crash. Rick‘s yelp of pain made Marc smile. ―You deserved that,‖ Reba said. ―Now mind your own business and do your job. Is that too much to ask?‖ ―Slave driver. Where is Marc, anyway?‖ The voices moved off. ―Time to go back?‖ Sawyer asked. ―Yeah.‖ The return trip took half as long as the descent had. Marc lifted himself shoulders first through the opening and onto the floor, then collapsed on his back. Sawyer tumbled after him, laughing when he landed on Marc‘s chest. ―Oops. Sorry.‖ ―Yeah right,‖ Marc grumbled, eyes still closed against the bright light. ―You okay, boss?‖ a voice asked. Marc‘s eyes shot open. Tim sat at the top of the stairs, one leg bent, the other stretched out across the top riser, mouth turned up in the beginnings of a smile. The familiar panic rose in Marc‘s chest. Sawyer saved him. He rolled off of Marc and into a sitting position. ―Tim, your boss is reckless and doesn‘t always think straight.‖ Tim‘s lips twitched. ―That, I do know.‖ Whatever awkward conversation was about to follow, the ring of Marc‘s cell phone stifled it. Sawyer cleared his throat, stood, and

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brushed the dust and cobwebs from his jeans. Tim smirked at the both of them. Marc‘s good-natured reprimand died on his lips when he checked the caller ID. Sawyer was the first to notice his expression. ―Everything okay?‖ Marc shot him a look before flipping the phone open. ―Hello?‖ ―Marc? Is that you?‖ ―Who‘s this?‖ The sudden din of the saw drowned out the caller‘s response. Marc moved into the nearest bedroom, shutting the door behind him. ―Sorry, I didn‘t hear you.‖ ―It‘s Hank, May‘s neighbor. Hank Cutler.‖ ―Mr. Cutler.‖ Marc pressed a hand to his stomach. ―What—? Is something wrong?‖ In the background, he heard Aunt May, the timbre of her voice leaving no question as to her mood. ―Quiet, May,‖ Hank grumbled. ―Well, Marc, your aunt says no, but I think you might want to come on over and judge that for yourself.‖ Marc barely heard May‘s angry response. He was already moving, out the door, past a concerned Sawyer and down the stairs. ―What happened? Is she all right?‖ ―Found her lying on the drive out by the mailbox.‖ ―I was mailing something!‖ Aunt May screamed from the background. ―Stop alarming the boy.‖ Hank sniffed. ―She was having trouble breathing and was confused when I first got to her.‖ ―Hank, you interfering old coot! Your next batch of brownies is getting Miralax in it. The extra-strength stuff.‖ ―‘Course,‖ Hank continued, ―she seems all back to normal now.‖ ―I‘m on my way. Ten minutes.‖ Marc stopped at the bottom of the stairs. The pain in his stomach had grown. His pulse pounded in his ears. ―Marc?‖ Sawyer put a hand on his back. ―Everything okay?‖ ―I‘ve got to go check on my aunt.‖ ―What‘s wrong?‖ Reba filed into the foyer, Rick on her heels.

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Marc took a deep breath. ―Nothing. Everything‘s fine.‖ He waved them off. ―I‘m going to run over to Aunt May‘s for a sec. Be right back.‖ Rick‘s eyes narrowed. ―She okay?‖ ―I‘m sure. Sounds like nothing serious. Uh.‖ Marc struggled to focus. The bed of his truck was full of lumber and tools. ―Rick, you want to help me unload—‖ ―No.‖ Everyone swiveled to look at Sawyer. ―I‘ll drive you over. That way you‘re not wasting time fussing with the truck or taking anything these guys need.‖ ―Are you sure?‖ ―He‘s sure.‖ Reba shooed them forward. ―Go on. Call and let us know everything‘s okay.‖ ―We will,‖ Sawyer said, taking charge. He gave Marc a gentle push out the door. ―Give me your keys,‖ Marc said as they jogged down the front steps. Sawyer shook his head. ―No way. You‘re shaking like a leaf.‖ Dismayed, Marc realized it was true. He pressed his lips together. ―Fine. Don‘t drive like an old lady, okay?‖ Sawyer let Marc‘s irritation soar over his head. He slammed the Explorer into gear and kicked up a cloud of dust as he accelerated out of the driveway. He drove too fast, just shy of the recklessness he‘d accused Marc of, and soon they were pulling into May‘s wide gravel drive. Hank was waiting on the porch. ―Mr. Cutler.‖ Marc ran forward, but stopped at the bottom of the steps. ―Is she okay?‖ ―Okay?‖ Mr. Cutler‘s bushy eyebrows drew together, and he raised one wrinkled hand to point at the door. ―She threw me out!‖ Behind Marc, Sawyer burst into laughter. Even Marc smiled. He shuffled up the steps to the front door. ―Sorry about that. Thanks for calling.‖ Mr. Cutler grabbed his cane. ―You‘re welcome,‖ he said as he walked away. He mumbled something else that Marc didn‘t hear, but

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could guess at. One more victim of Aunt May‘s legendary temper. Her only saving grace was her skill in the kitchen. He wasn‘t surprised to find the door locked. Knocking would be useless. He pulled out his keys and let himself in. ―Aunt May?‖ She appeared at the end of the hall, crisp white apron tied around her waist. ―Go back to work! I‘m fine. Damn meddling people.‖ ―Aunt May.‖ Marc threw his keys on the foyer table, his temper getting the better of his fear. ―Mr. Cutler said he found you lying on the driveway! You‘re not okay! Did you pass out? What the hell happened?‖ Sawyer‘s hand on his arm stemmed the tirade. Without answering, May turned on her heel and retreated into the kitchen. When Marc tried to follow, Sawyer held him back. ―Go easy, Marc. She‘s obviously upset.‖ ―She‘s not the only one!‖ Sawyer shook his arm. ―And she‘s embarrassed. You need to stay calm if you‘re going to get her to tell you anything.‖ Marc made a serious effort to cap his anger. ―Okay.‖ ―Okay.‖ Sawyer searched his face before letting him go. Marc steeled himself with two deep breaths, then followed his aunt into the kitchen. Pots bubbled away on the stove—one water, the other something thicker. May stirred rhythmically, ignoring Marc‘s presence. The room smelled of ripe strawberries. Without speaking, Marc washed his hands, then ducked into the pantry for a bag of sugar. When he placed it on the counter, she nodded. ―Thank you.‖ ―I love your strawberry jam,‖ he said, then placed his hand over hers. She sighed. ―I‘m fine, dear.‖ ―Really.‖ ―Yes.‖ Marc measured sugar into a mixing bowl. ―Is this the first time something like this has happened?‖ ―Don‘t know. Can‘t remember.‖ She doubled over with a cackle, but Marc didn‘t crack a smile. ―Kids these days,‖ she said with a sniff as she returned to her stirring. ―No sense of humor.‖

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―Do you need to go to the hospital?‖ ―Suggest it again, and I‘ll poison you.‖ She scooped some of the simmering berry mixture into a food mill and began to crank. Marc took over after two turns. ―Is this the first time?‖ he repeated. Things he hadn‘t noticed before cinched the knot in his stomach tighter. The rip in the elbow of her blouse. The long run in her hose, and the smear of dried blood on her knee. ―Marc.‖ She took the mill from him and dumped the pulp and seeds into the trash. ―You‘re making a mountain out of a molehill. Now please go back to work.‖ She glanced over his shoulder. ―Sawyer?‖ Marc started at the name. For a moment he‘d forgotten they weren‘t alone in the room. ―Yeah?‖ Sawyer came forward. ―That‘s your cue.‖ Marc shot his aunt a dirty look, and Sawyer shook his head. ―Sorry. I‘m with Marc on this one. I think you should go get checked out. Just to be safe.‖ She threw her spoon, and it landed with a splat on the counter. ―Oh, you two.‖ She took Marc‘s face in her hands. ―I‘m fine. I promise. Don‘t worry yourself over me.‖ She patted his cheeks. ―Now off you go. I‘ve got loads to do, and you‘re putting me behind.‖ Humming, she turned back to her strawberries. Subject closed. Just like she‘d been doing to him since he was a kid. For the first time, Marc resented his aunt‘s bullheadedness. Pale and silent, he trudged to the car and slouched in his seat while Sawyer steered the Explorer back down the driveway. ―She‘s going to be fine.‖ Marc shook his head. ―You don‘t know her. She won‘t go to the doctor. She hates them.‖ ―I know the type.‖ Sawyer pulled off the road, under the drooping limbs of a huge maple. ―What are you doing?‖ ―Just giving you a minute.‖ ―I‘m fine.‖

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―Okay.‖ But he didn‘t start the car again, and Marc didn‘t push it. He laid his forehead against the glass. A moment later, Sawyer‘s hand settled on his knee. ―Is there someone you can call? You know, to help convince her she should get checked?‖ Marc shook his head. ―What about your parents?‖ ―My—?‖ Marc‘s anxiety bled out in a harsh laugh. ―Not likely. I‘m sure it wouldn‘t fit into their itinerary.‖ Sawyer gave his knee a gentle squeeze. He didn‘t speak again. Eventually, Marc straightened and scrubbed his hands over his face. ―Okay, let‘s get back to work.‖ ―You sure?‖ Marc chewed his bottom lip. ―Yeah.‖ ―She‘s fine, Marc.‖ Sawyer started the car. ―Try not to worry.‖

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Chapter 7

―HEY, Bruce says you’re probably getting bored playing Little House on the Prairie, so why not spend the weekend at mine?‖ Frowning, Sawyer stared at the answering machine. ―Come on. It’s been a while. Let’s have some fun.‖ The ensuing pause carried enough innuendo to etch deep lines in Sawyer‘s forehead. ―I miss you.‖ With the tip of his pencil, Sawyer pressed stop, but on the display window, a tiny red 3 continued to blink like a beacon. He‘d bet his bank account the other calls were also from Kurt. Once the man got an idea in his head, he didn‘t let go. He leaned back. The desk chair protested with a squeak, and the movement kicked up a cloud of fine dust. Leaving the door to his office closed hadn‘t kept the mess at bay. The house was filled with tools and sawdust, not that he cared much; it wouldn‘t be like that forever. He traced the blinking number with the pencil. So Kurt wanted a weekend of uncomplicated sex. What irked is that he was considering it. Marc had been in his house all week, underfoot and quietly flirtatious, but they‘d had no time alone. By yesterday, Sawyer had given up acting like a dog begging for a bone and retreated to his office. This strategy had produced little actual work. Mostly he just snapped at people over the phone, driven to nastiness with frustration. Maybe a weekend at Kurt‘s would help. He spun the pencil between his knuckles and pressed the play button. The machine coughed up message number two. Bruce‘s voice boomed forth. ―Take the man up on his offer.‖ Sawyer rolled his eyes. ―Face it, you’re being a bastard, and soon you’ll have no friends left. Go work the kid out of your system before I stop talking to you.

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Sexual frustration leads to all sorts of health problems. Don’t ask how I know that. Just trust.‖ So now he was his friends‘ pet project. Pathetic. He was tempted to refuse on principle, but rational won out over childish. He scooped his cell phone off the desk and sent Bruce a text. The sun was just peeking over the horizon. No chance he‘d be awake and coherent. Fine, he sent, I’ll be there tomorrow tonight. See you then. The decision made, a curious sensation settled in the pit of his stomach: guilt-laced anticipation. Mumbling about interfering friends, he pulled himself out of his chair. Time for coffee. He picked his way over a pile of wood blocks and stepped around a toolbox, stubbing his toe on the edge as he passed. Some time away from this chaos was just what he needed. He threw open the door and charged into the hall. Right into Marc. Sawyer‘s startled yelp eclipsed Marc‘s grunt of surprise. He reached for Marc‘s arm before one of them crashed into the lumber shoehorned into the narrow space. ―Sorry. What are you doing here?‖ Marc straightened, gracing Sawyer with a smile, one far too bright for so early in the morning. ―I told you I‘d be here early. I have a bunch of things to check before I leave.‖ Sawyer blinked with caffeine-deprived stupidity. ―Leave?‖ With a tilt of his head, Marc‘s warm smile turned concerned. ―I‘m pretty sure we talked about this yesterday afternoon. Are you okay?‖ Irritation niggled at Sawyer. ―Fine. Why?‖ ―You‘ve just seemed distracted.‖ ―Is that your way of saying I‘ve been an uptight bastard?‖ Marc pursed his lips against a grin, and Sawyer‘s irritation ballooned. ―No,‖ Marc said. ―It‘s my way of saying you‘ve been a bit tense.‖ He gestured at the scattered tools. ―Is this getting to be too much?‖ ―Which part?‖ Sawyer grunted, taking in Marc‘s dark T-shirt and paint-splattered jeans. ―The renovation,‖ Marc said, his expression broadcasting he meant no such thing. ―I can handle it.‖

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Marc opened his mouth before snapping it shut again. With a shrug, he said, ―I‘m taking Aunt May to the doctor today. I doubt I‘ll be back in time to catch the gang before they leave, so I‘m progresschecking this morning. I‘ll be out of your way in a few.‖ Fighting the urge to pout, Sawyer gave his own casual shrug. ―No rush. Have some coffee.‖ Then what Marc had said hit him. ―She agreed to go to the doctor?‖ Marc bit his lip. ―Not exactly.‖ ―Not exactly.‖ Sawyer folded his arms. ―Where does she think she‘s going?‖ With a guileless smile, Marc answered, ―The new Tom Cruise movie?‖ And with that, Sawyer‘s big plan to spend the weekend in Kurt‘s bed evaporated. ―Very clever,‖ he mused, advancing until he had Marc trapped neatly against the wall. ―It‘ll be laxatives in your brownies for sure.‖ Marc lifted his chin. ―I‘ll take the chance.‖ He wasn‘t joking, Sawyer knew. The risk of poisoning meant nothing compared to his aunt‘s health. Sawyer advanced another step into Marc‘s personal space. ―Are we alone?‖ he asked, planting a hand on the wall above Marc‘s head. ―For now,‖ was Marc‘s quiet reply. That was how it went: moment to moment. Not much to hang hope on, but it hadn‘t discouraged them yet. Sawyer cupped Marc‘s face in his hands and pushed forward in an ungentle advance. The breath rushed out of Marc‘s lungs at the press of Sawyer‘s chest against his. ―This okay?‖ Sawyer asked. Cheeks blotchy with color, Marc nodded. His chest heaved. ―Fuck,‖ Sawyer whispered, and then he kissed him, spreading his fingers across Marc‘s cheeks then into his hair, holding him in place. A jolt of pleasure snapped his hips forward. Marc whimpered into his mouth. Cursing again, Sawyer bit along the line of Marc‘s jaw before retracing the same path with his tongue. Marc was shaking, working at the top button of Sawyer‘s jeans. ―Help me,‖ he said against Sawyer‘s lips. His fingers dipped below the waistband to tease the skin underneath.

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All Sawyer‘s strength went into resisting the urge to rip his jeans open and shove Marc‘s hand lower. Instead, he captured the eager fingers in his and said the first thing that came into his head. ―Busy tonight?‖ Marc went still, then huffed a laugh, most of which Sawyer captured with his mouth when he bent to kiss him again. ―No,‖ Marc said, when Sawyer let him breathe. He gulped twice. ―Are you sure?‖ ―Oh yeah.‖ Sawyer‘s hands crept up and under Marc‘s shirt, mapping out the dip of his stomach before sneaking higher on his chest. ―Bring something cold to drink. I‘ll take care of the rest.‖ ―I can do that.‖ Marc‘s fingers unclenched from the front of Sawyer‘s jeans. ―What time?‖ ―Early. I‘m no masochist. How does six sound?‖ ―Okay.‖ They didn‘t separate, and Sawyer was curling his hand around the back of Marc‘s neck to pull him in again when someone knocked on the front door. Marc jumped, but not away. Sawyer grunted his approval. Progress. ―I‘ll get that.‖ He brushed a last kiss over Marc‘s lips. ―You go do your progress thing.‖ Laughing under his breath, Marc disappeared down the back hall, and Sawyer adjusted himself with a grimace before answering the door. Reba greeted him with a crooked smile. ―Sorry about the early hour, Sawyer.‖ ―I was up.‖ ―So I see.‖ Sawyer resisted the urge to glance downward. He had a feeling Reba would never let him forget it. ―I was hoping to catch Marc before he took May to the movies.‖ She curled her fingers into air quotes, and Sawyer laughed. ―Quite the plan. Think it‘ll work?‖ ―Yeah.‖ Reba popped her gum. ―She shouldn‘t suspect anything until the end. May has a thing for pretty boys. Clouds her judgment.‖

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Sawyer swallowed the I can relate that sprang to his lips, then scowled. He hated censoring himself. Clearing his throat, he waved Reba toward the kitchen. ―He went that way.‖ ―Toward the coffee.‖ Reba waggled her fingers as she slipped by. ―So predictable.‖ Back in his office, Sawyer erased the remaining messages without listening to them and sent Bruce another text. Change of plans. See you next week. His phone rang ten seconds later. Regarding the small device like it was a rabid dog, Sawyer gingerly opened it and held it to his ear. Foregoing his usual greeting, Bruce launched his tirade with, ―You‘re going to give up getting laid for playing house? What‘s wrong with you?‖ Sawyer stood, picked his way across the debris-filled floor, and pushed the door shut with one bare foot. ―What makes you think I‘m not getting laid?‖ ―Seriously?‖ Bruce asked several seconds later. ―You mean, it‘s seriously not your business? Then yes, seriously.‖ More silence. Pleased with himself for rendering the great Bruce Banner speechless, Sawyer spun in his chair until he was facing the window. Grubby with sawdust, it twisted the objects beyond into unrecognizable shapes, but Marc‘s truck, parked just off the driveway along the west wing of the house, was unmistakable. ―Still there?‖ Sawyer goaded. ―Okay, I‘ll admit it. I‘m shocked. So what changed? Marc held a big coming out party this week?‖ Even Bruce‘s cynical dose of reality couldn‘t dampen Sawyer‘s enjoyment of the situation. ―No,‖ he answered. ―Then?‖ ―I‘m hanging up now.‖ Bruce‘s laughter burst over the line. ―You‘re weak, Calhoun!‖ ―Have a good weekend.‖ ―Take pictures,‖ he heard Bruce yell before he ended the call.

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SAWYER debated cooking a fancy meal, but settled for pizza. No sense wasting a good steak when a fair chance existed it wouldn‘t get eaten until late. Maybe even until morning. The downside of ordering in was how much time it left to kill between when the crew left at four and Marc arrived at six, which was two hours longer than Sawyer‘s imagination needed. By the time Marc‘s truck pulled up in front of the house, he‘d worked himself into a tight knot of lust. ―Something cold?‖ Marc handed over a six-pack of dark beer. ―Looks great,‖ Sawyer said without checking the label. ―Come here.‖ He pulled Marc inside. ―You‘re not hungry, I hope.‖ ―At dinnertime? That‘d be crazy.‖ He didn‘t resist when Sawyer guided him toward the stairs instead of the kitchen. ―But maybe—‖ Sawyer looked back. ―A drink first?‖ Marc asked. The forced nonchalance penetrated Sawyer‘s haze of desire, and he halted with one foot on the stairs. Marc‘s hand was ice cold. ―Yeah,‖ Sawyer said. ―Of course.‖ He stepped down and folded Marc against his chest, frowning at how his heart was racing. Tangling his fingers in the hair at the nape of Marc‘s neck, he pulled his head back and pressed a kiss to his lips. ―Sorry.‖ ―Don‘t be,‖ Marc said with a shake of his head. But he was. He wasn‘t falling into bed with a seasoned partner, something he needed to remember. As always, the thought of Marc‘s inexperience sent a bolt of excitement through him. ―I have pizza,‖ he said. ―There‘s always the novel idea of eating it while it‘s hot.‖ ―And we could drink the beer while it‘s cold,‖ Marc suggested. Sawyer snorted and led him down the hall. ―Don‘t get crazy.‖ He scooped the six-pack off the foyer table. ―So how‘d it go with your aunt today?‖ In the kitchen, he retrieved two plates from the cupboard and loaded them up. Marc shrugged. Sawyer laughed at his sour expression. ―That good, huh?‖ ―Well, let‘s put it this way.‖ Marc tossed a beer to Sawyer and took a long swig from his own bottle. ―I saw the new Tom Cruise movie.‖

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Sawyer inhaled a mouthful of beer. Choking, he said, ―But you didn‘t see the doctor.‖ Marc flashed a tight-lipped smile and took a bite of pizza. ―No. But we did almost see the inside of a jail cell for disturbing the peace. I got her as far as the sidewalk in front of the doctor‘s office, and she started screaming bloody murder. Then‖—a pained expression crossed his face—―she didn‘t stop until I agreed to take her to the movie. As promised.‖ Sawyer pushed him onto a stool and grabbed the seat next to him. ―You tried.‖ Marc grunted and took a bite of pizza. ―You lost the battle, not the war.‖ Covering his laugh with a cough, Sawyer said, ―Just beware the brownies.‖ ―I‘m glad you find this so amusing.‖ Gesturing for Sawyer to slide another beer forward, he took a third slice from the box. ―The frustrating part is that she needs to go. I‘ve been watching her this week. She‘s forgetting the simplest things.‖ His hand curled into a fist, crushing the paper napkin. ―Things she‘s known for years. And her short-term memory is messed up too. She‘s tired, but sleeps all the time….‖ Falling quiet, he stared out the window, meal forgotten. Sawyer popped the lid on the beer and set it in front of Marc. ―Don‘t worry. We‘ll think of something.‖ Silent, Marc nodded and picked at a string of congealed cheese. Despite having taken the extra slice, he didn‘t eat it. Sawyer watched him drain a second beer, then collected the plates and put them in the sink. He stayed Marc‘s hand when he reached for a third bottle. ―You don‘t need that.‖ A blush spread across Marc‘s face. With a jerky nod, he pulled back. Keeping a tight rein on his libido, Sawyer leaned back against the counter, dragging Marc with him, who came with all the trepidation of a teenage bride on her wedding night. Sawyer sighed into his neck. ―Are you sure about this?‖ In answer, Marc burrowed closer, sliding his arms around Sawyer‘s back. Content to let him explore and set the pace, Sawyer matched Marc‘s advances—a hand on his hip, a kiss to the underside of

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his chin—until his nervousness evaporated. A spiraling, dizzying sexual tension filled the void. ―That‘s better,‖ Sawyer whispered, shifting their hips together. Movement in the doorway caught his attention, a flash of brown and gray, and Sawyer lifted his mouth from Marc‘s neck. When he saw who was leaning against the jamb, surprise jolted through him. ―What the fuck?‖ he whispered to himself, but his visitor caught the quiet words and leered. Sawyer scowled. What the hell was his brother doing here? Oblivious, Marc continued his tentative caresses, fingers dipping low over the small of Sawyer‘s back. Frozen, Sawyer held him and stared at Finn. He hadn‘t seen his brother in over a year. Hadn‘t talked to him in three months. What made him think he could walk in here now without an invitation? Finn‘s leer widened as he brushed a finger over his trim mustache. His suit was the usual: tailored, expensive, and gray, what all the lawyers were wearing these days, though Finn had always favored the color. It complemented his olive skin and dark hair. ―Isn‘t this cozy?‖ he drawled. Marc went from pliant to stiff in a heartbeat, but when he tried to pull away, Sawyer held him tight. Rather than struggle, Marc craned his neck to look over his shoulder. Finn‘s hands moved to his hips, pushing his suit coat back to reveal the requisite blue shirt beneath. His lazy smile didn‘t fool Sawyer. As usual, it held little warmth. His eyes played over the scene, taking in things he had no right to. Sawyer‘s temper began to boil. He pushed Marc behind his back, shielding him from Finn‘s view. ―What are you doing here?‖ Finn put his hand over his heart. ―I‘m hurt, little brother.‖ ―Bullshit.‖ Finally peeling his eyes from Marc, Finn gave the room a quick once over, then eased through the door, swiping his fingers over dustcovered shelves and counters. His lip curled in disgust. ―You‘re living here? It‘s filthy.‖ ―It‘s being renovated,‖ Sawyer explained. Unnecessarily, as he‘d said as much in his email when their grandfather had died.

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―When you said ‗renovate‘ I thought you meant, I don‘t know‖— Finn waved his hand through the air—―new carpeting and some updated lighting.‖ He brushed his palms down the front of his suit slacks, smearing twin tracks of dust over the material. ―Well, I didn‘t.‖ ―So I see.‖ Finn refocused on Marc. ―New boy toy?‖ ―God, you‘re obnoxious.‖ Sawyer reached back to give Marc‘s arm a gentle squeeze before striding forward. ―Get out.‖ Finn blinked. ―You‘re throwing me out?‖ ―I‘m throwing you out of the kitchen.‖ Sawyer pointed, but Finn didn‘t budge. He leaned around for another look at Marc. Growling, Sawyer sidestepped to block his view. ―Finn, I‘m warning you.‖ The standoff lasted several seconds, Finn‘s cold brown eyes boring into Sawyer‘s. Finally, he lifted his chin. ―No need to get all protective. I was just curious.‖ He stepped aside. ―Lead the way.‖ ―No.‖ Sawyer jerked his chin at the door. ―Down the hall, hang a right at the end. My office is the last door on the left. Can you manage that?‖ ―I think so.‖ ―I‘ll be there in a minute.‖ Sawyer waited until Finn disappeared around the corner, then returned to Marc‘s side. He hadn‘t budged, Sawyer saw. Whiteknuckled from gripping the counter, he tried to smile. ―Your brother?‖ he guessed. ―In the flesh. Fuck!‖ He snaked an arm around Marc‘s waist, and when Marc didn‘t bolt, leaned in to press their foreheads together. ―Sorry.‖ ―Not your fault.‖ He slithered out of Sawyer‘s grip. ―I should go.‖ If the conversation with Finn went the direction Sawyer anticipated, he should. It wasn‘t going to be pretty. Not that Finn ever did anything without reason. The timing of the visit meant the gloves were coming off. ―I don‘t want you to.‖ Marc sighed. ―But I should.‖ When he tried to slide past, Sawyer caught him by the waist. Marc accepted his gentle kiss, retreating when it threatened to escalate. ―Call me.‖

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―I will. As soon as I have this sorted,‖ Sawyer promised. He walked Marc to the front door, watched him climb inside his truck, then detoured to his office. He found Finn stretched out in his chair, hands crossed over his stomach. He‘d shed his suit coat and tie. His shirtsleeves were rolled to his elbows. Ready for battle. Sawyer took a deep breath before entering. He chose the tactical advantage and sat on the edge of the desk. Staring down his nose, he asked, ―Why are you here?‖ Finn raised an eyebrow. ―A man needs a reason to visit his brother?‖ ―Most don‘t. You do.‖ With a quirk of his lips, Finn acknowledged the point. A measure of tension left him. He sagged backward, brushing a hand over his thick, short-cropped hair. ―Surely I don‘t have to spell it out.‖ Sawyer shook his head. ―Nope. Don‘t bother. Just turn around and drive that fancy car back to the city and mind your own business.‖ Planting his hands on the arms of the chair, Finn rose, putting them on equal footing. ―He was my grandfather too.‖ ―Oh, for Christ‘s sake, spare me,‖ Sawyer spat. ―You hated him!‖ ―And you should have.‖ Finn swept his hand over the desk, scattering Marc‘s painstakingly drafted blueprints. Sawyer bit back his rebuke. ―After what he did to our mother.‖ Sawyer stooped to gather the blueprints off the floor. ―That‘s all water under the bridge. Even she admitted it in the end.‖ He rolled up the papers and slipped a rubber band over the end. Finn had the nerve to look incredulous. ―So that‘s it. You‘re going to hermit yourself away in this backwater town for the rest of your life?‖ ―Jesus!‖ Sawyer slammed his fist on the desk. ―What is it with everyone? This isn‘t the end of the earth.‖ His frustration didn‘t go unheeded, and Finn, always the strategist, changed his approach. ―Cute kid. The blond.‖ Sawyer‘s hackles rose. ―Leave him out of it.‖ ―Have I struck a chord?‖

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He had, and that he saw it spelled danger for sure. ―Since when is my personal business any concern of yours?‖ A nostalgic smile crossed Finn‘s face. ―Since you turned fifteen and I realized we‘d never come to blows over a woman.‖ Sawyer dropped into the abandoned desk chair, watching warily as Finn picked his way around the room, sneering at the stacks of packing boxes and tools. ―Lucky for you.‖ As soon as he said the words, he ached to snatch them back. Finn‘s life goal was to outpace Sawyer. It was stupid to draw attention to that race now. Finn had inherited their father‘s fascination with the law, Sawyer their mother‘s love for the written word. There was never any doubt who she‘d favored, much to Finn‘s chagrin and Sawyer‘s embarrassment. Finn was wedded to his plans and routines while Sawyer rolled with the punches. As boys, the competition had almost destroyed their relationship. Finn had been proud of his slight build and sharp features until Sawyer had grown tall, broad, and classically handsome. The difference opened yet another rift between them. Strangely, Finn had never exploited his knowledge of Sawyer‘s sexuality, even as a teenager. They never spoke of that one kindness, but Sawyer thought of it often. Which didn‘t mean he let his brother bully him. He ran his hands over his face, already tiring of the game. He missed Marc. ―Can we get this over with?‖ Finn leaned over the desk. Twin spots of color had appeared on his cheeks. ―I thought we agreed we‘d sell the house and split the profit.‖ ―No. That‘s what you wanted. I didn‘t agree.‖ ―You‘re actually going to live here? Why?‖ Finn spreads his hands. ―To get back at me?‖ ―Jesus,‖ Sawyer replied with a bitter laugh. ―Not everything is about you.‖ He cursed when Finn‘s jaw tightened. ―Listen, I built some good memories here. I‘m not ready to let them go. Maybe I never will be. I don‘t know. But the fact is, you don‘t have a say in it one way or the other because it belongs to me.‖ ―The golden boy gets everything, just like always,‖ Finn jeered. ―You‘re the only one who ever saw it that way,‖ Sawyer replied, voice strained. ―This discussion‘s over.‖ He stood. As tempting as it

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was to throw Finn out on his ass, he couldn‘t. ―Do you have somewhere to stay tonight?‖ ―You‘re going to shelter me from the elements? Even after I let your nightly entertainment escape?‖ ―You know what? Fuck you. Enjoy the drive.‖ Finn pinched his lips together. Sawyer‘s irritation had finally penetrated, then. About time. ―Ahhh.‖ Finn tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling. ―All right, Sawyer. You win. For now.‖ His face lost its hostile expression. ―I‘d appreciate your hospitality.‖ At times, Sawyer questioned whether Finn put them through these scenes out of some perverted need to bicker. ―You‘re in luck. As of a couple of weeks ago, I have a fully furnished guest room. It even has cable and internet. You should love it. You can hide there happily until morning.‖ Finn followed him into the hall. ―You were expecting me?‖ ―Hardly. It was for Bruce.‖ ―Ah, Bruce.‖ They climbed the stairs without speaking. Sawyer crossed the landing and opened the double doors that led to the guest suite. Finn joined him in the doorway, and together they surveyed the room. ―That explains the king-sized bed. How is Mr. Banner these days?‖ ―Still hating your guts.‖ Finn‘s snort was cut short by the pile of towels Sawyer dumped into his arms. ―I expected nothing less,‖ Finn said. ―Good to know some things never change.‖ ―I wouldn‘t mind some things changing,‖ Sawyer mused, referring to several issues at once, but Finn only latched on to what concerned him. ―Don‘t get sentimental on me. My heart can‘t take it.‖ ―What heart?‖ Sawyer asked, then closed the door on Finn‘s bark of laughter. Downstairs, he dialed Marc‘s number but hung up before the call went through. A night of pleasure wasn‘t in the cards. Not with Finn lurking upstairs. He put the pizza in the fridge, grabbed the rest of the

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beer, and retired to his own room for a night of mindless television. He was still juggling beer bottles and the remote when his phone rang. Sawyer answered without checking the number. ―Miss me?‖ ―Didn‘t I say as much on my message?‖ a voice replied, not Marc‘s. Sawyer froze, beer halfway to his mouth. ―Kurt.‖ ―I thought you knew that, based on your greeting, but apparently not.‖ ―No,‖ Sawyer said, flipping on the television but keeping the sound muted. ―Thanks for the invite, but I can‘t get away this weekend.‖ ―Bruce said you could use some company. Just thought I‘d offer. No big deal.‖ And it wasn‘t, Sawyer knew. They understood each other. Their encounters defined casual, which was the only reason Sawyer had considered the idea in the first place. No strings. Just relief. ―Maybe some other time,‖ Kurt said. Disconcerted, Sawyer found he wanted to say no. ―Maybe,‖ he replied, lost in thought. ―Uh-huh.‖ Kurt clucked his tongue. ―Nice knowing you, Sawyer. And I mean that. Take care.‖ The line went dead before Sawyer could reply. Just as well. He settled back on his pillows, feeling curiously lighter. After a few minutes of channel surfing, he dialed Marc again. This time he let the call go through. Marc answered on the first ring. ―Everything okay?‖ ―Yeah.‖ Sawyer eyed the closed door to his bedroom. Like he could read Sawyer‘s mind Marc asked, ―Is Finn still there?‖ ―Yeah, but I put him to bed.‖ Something like a snort drifted across the line. ―Was he being bad?‖

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―Always.‖ After one full body stretch, Sawyer rolled onto his side, cradling the phone between his ear and the pillow. He shut off the television. ―Sorry about earlier.‖ ―It‘s nobody‘s fault.‖ ―I‘m not so sure about that.‖ In the background, paper rustled. Sawyer heard the clink of ice cubes in a glass. On an evil impulse, he asked, ―What are you wearing?‖ The rustling paused. ―You did not just ask me that.‖ ―So what if I did?‖ ―What are you, twelve?‖ ―Now you‘re just stalling.‖ Grinning, Sawyer turned out his light, then fell back onto his pillow. ―Where are you?‖ ―Bedroom.‖ ―You never answered my first question.‖ A trickle of exasperation entered Marc‘s voice. ―You go first.‖ Sawyer slithered out of his jeans. ―Okay. I‘m wearing… nothing.‖ ―Should‘ve known.‖ Diffused moonlight cast a glow over the bed, helping Sawyer to find the small bottle of lube in his bedside drawer. ―Don‘t sound so shocked.‖ Marc‘s low laugh shot to the tips of his toes. Sawyer lowered his hand to his stomach, fingers scratching at the sparse trail of hair that started below his navel. ―You‘re still stalling,‖ he accused, breathless. ―Hmmm.‖ More rustling, not paper this time. ―Nothing.‖ ―Nothing?‖ Sawyer croaked. ―Nothing now. I couldn‘t let you be the only one who‘s naked.‖ ―God, I love your competitive spirit.‖ Sawyer coated his fingers with the lube and closed his fingers around his erection. ―Keep talking.‖ ―Talk?‖ Marc stuttered. ―About what?‖ ―I don‘t care. Anything. Tell me about your day. Tell me about the movie. The drive home. What kind of jelly you had on your toast

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this morning.‖ He smiled at Marc‘s soft peal of laughter. ―Just talk to me.‖ ―Let‘s see,‖ Marc began, ―I really wanted to kill your brother tonight.‖ ―Take a number.‖ ―I didn‘t want you to stop touching me,‖ Marc whispered. Hissing, Sawyer arched into his fist, stroking twice more before he could stop himself. ―Hell,‖ he breathed, moving his trembling hand back to his stomach. ―What are you doing, Sawyer?‖ ―What do you think?‖ He kicked the sheet away. ―Keep talking.‖ Marc‘s breathing picked up, whistling unevenly. ―Tell me what you‘re doing.‖ ―Right now?‖ The hand on his stomach twitched. ―Yeah.‖ Tilting his head back onto the pillow, he stretched his fingers the last few inches and brushed the tip of his cock. He closed his eyes. The darkness and Marc‘s strained voice made a near perfect fantasy. ―Right now I‘m thinking about touching you. Isn‘t that what you want?‖ Marc‘s breath rushed through the phone, and underlying that, Sawyer heard another sound, one that made his mouth go dry. The steady whisper of flesh on flesh. ―How?‖ Marc asked. ―Touching me how?‖ Sawyer picked up his own rhythm, and damn it, he‘d been too close too often today. His orgasm was already a sharp taste in his mouth, an ember of heat in his stomach. He rolled his head back and forth on the pillow. ―Just want to make you come, Marc,‖ he rasped. ―Don‘t care how.‖ Marc gasped, then gave a low, hoarse cry, and Sawyer was lost, spilling over his fist and onto his stomach. He clenched his teeth, trapping the groan in his throat. Even though the walls weren‘t thin, he wasn‘t going to risk giving Finn the satisfaction.

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They lay quietly for several minutes, the silence easy and comfortable, before Sawyer spoke. ―And that,‖ he said, still shaky, ―concludes our adolescent activities for the evening.‖ The sound of Marc‘s laughter chased him into sleep.

HE‘D grown used to Marc‘s team invading his house every morning. What he sacrificed in privacy he regained in strong, dark coffee. Sometimes Reba brought donuts—rich, crème-filled balls of flaky dough that Sawyer could‘ve become addicted to. Until he found out that Rachel had baked them. They never tasted the same after that. ―Morning, Tim,‖ Sawyer said, breezing into the kitchen. Perched on the counter next to the coffee pot, Tim raised his mug, then filled one for Sawyer. ―You‘re up bright and early,‖ he said. Sawyer took a sip of the scalding liquid. At least the burn dimmed the sappy grin he couldn‘t keep off his face. ―Yep.‖ He surreptitiously searched the kitchen. ―Get a ride with Marc this morning?‖ ―Yep,‖ Tim echoed. ―He‘s still outside.‖ ―And everyone else?‖ A racket from the hall answered his question. They entered in a line: Karen first, wearing a beige sweater dress, hair in a flawless French braid; Rick on her heels, looking like he‘d just rolled out of bed; and Reba in the rear, bearing Rachel‘s famous donuts. Their overlapping, ―Good morning, Sawyer,‖ brought his smile back full force. ―Morning,‖ he addressed the group. Karen used a tea towel to brush the dust off a chair, then sat, crossing one leg over the other. ―Someone looks happy this morning.‖ she said, arching an eyebrow at Sawyer. ―Two someones,‖ Reba amended, digging in the pastry box. ―Marc was all smiles too. Must be something in the air.‖ Clearing his throat, Sawyer turned to rummage in the fridge for orange juice. Christ, now he remembered why he hated this kind of deception.

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Rick bit his donut in half, then spoke through lips covered in powdered sugar. ―I’m not happy. Did you watch that game last night? I‘ve never seen so many blown calls.‖ Karen returned his indignation with a blank look. ―The football game,‖ Rick said, enunciating each syllable. ―I didn‘t watch it,‖ she admitted. Rick rolled his eyes. ―Tim?‖ Tim smirked over the rim of his coffee cup. ―I was washing my hair.‖ Marc arrived in time to see Rick choking on his donut. ―What‘d I miss?‖ ―The usual.‖ Reba held out the donuts. Marc took one, and childishly, Sawyer ached to slap it out of his hand. ―Feel like something more substantial?‖ he heard himself asking. ―I could make omelets.‖ ―Ooh!‖ Rick‘s hand shot into the air. ―Me!‖ Finn chose that moment to arrive, pressed and dressed like he was stepping into court instead of a cramped car for a three-hour drive. This morning‘s suit was also gray, but with a white pinstripe. The polish on his loafers was bright enough to reflect the morning sunlight pouring through the windows. ―Good morning,‖ he said when the room fell silent. ―Please don‘t stop on my account. I‘m just stopping in to say goodbye.‖ Karen rose with the grace of a queen and stepped forward, hand outstretched. ―Hello, I‘m Karen.‖ ―Finn.‖ ―My brother,‖ Sawyer clarified, and that might have been a happy end to a potentially explosive situation, but of course, Finn loved to stir up trouble. He greeted everyone with a cordial handshake, turning to Marc last. ―Nice to see you again. Sorry about last night.‖

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Chapter 8

AS IF scalded, Marc dropped Finn‘s hand. ―Say what?‖ Rick blurted through his mouthful of donut. Finn‘s brows furrowed, and his eyes skipped around the room, falling on everyone in turn. He studied Sawyer last, and then dropped his gaze, smoothing a hand down the front of his tie. His lips twitched, and Sawyer tensed, damning his brother‘s keen intelligence and intuition. There was no question: Finn knew exactly what was at stake. ―Finn,‖ Sawyer said, praying his brother‘s mean streak didn‘t extend to outright cruelty. Ignoring Sawyer‘s warning, Finn looked down at his left shoulder, then his right. Clearly bemused, Karen cocked her head. ―What are you doing?‖ ―Just trying to decide who to listen to,‖ Finn answered. ―The devil or the angel.‖ Pale, Marc stepped forward, but Finn waved him off. ―Marc was here going over some contractual details with Sawyer when I arrived last night. To put it delicately, I was in a foul mood, and made some abrasive remarks.‖ He nodded at Marc. ―None of which I meant. I‘m sorry.‖ ―It‘s no big deal,‖ Marc said, stuttering through his reply. ―I‘m glad to hear it.‖ With a loose salute, Finn collected his coat and turned to go. ―It was a pleasure meeting you all.‖ ―Wait,‖ Sawyer said. ―I‘ll walk you out.‖ Already normal conversation had resumed—Reba was berating Rick for something—so Sawyer slipped away without any further explanation. He led Finn to the front door, aware of how his brother‘s gaze took in the mess and disorder. ―I‘ll call you,‖ Sawyer said as they stepped outside.

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―I doubt you will.‖ Finn paused, one foot on the porch steps. ―I‘m not mistaking what you said, Sawyer.‖ He ran his hand down the side of a fluted column. In that instant, his touch reminded Sawyer of Marc‘s, almost reverent. ―I understand that sometimes you‘d rather avoid an argument, but you deliberately misled me about your intentions for this place.‖ ―Whatever you say, counselor.‖ Finn closed his eyes. ―Why do I bother?‖ he mumbled. That was a question to which Sawyer had no answer, but he could make one up easy enough. They‘d been trading insults for twenty years, but he still had a few good ones up his sleeve. But before he could speak, Marc joined them. His fingers brushed Sawyer‘s as he passed. ―Could I have a word with you, Finn?‖ he asked. Noting that Finn looked as surprised as he did, Sawyer started to protest. Marc threw him a hard look, and, nursing a surge of dismay, Sawyer shut his mouth. ―Of course.‖ Finn hefted his briefcase in one hand, but before he could reach for his garment bag, Marc swung it over his shoulder. Finn muttered his thanks, and Marc answered with a shy smile. Sawyer watched Finn absorb it, blink, then offer a guileless grin in return. It was a moment of self-realization for Sawyer. Had he not been one hundred percent sure that Finn‘s interest was platonic, he would‘ve bitten his head off. Disconcerted, he took a firm grip of the porch railing and lowered his head to his chest, breathing deeply. Marc and Finn walked off, neither indicating Sawyer should follow, and in fact they closed ranks, walking shoulder to shoulder and speaking in low tones. Sawyer‘s mouth flooded with a sour taste. Resentment. Stiff with anger, he walked to the end of the porch and took a seat in one of the rocking chairs clustered in the corner. His grandfather‘s chair. It felt appropriate. A few minutes later, he heard Finn‘s BMW roar to life. He raised his eyes from the scuffed wood deck and watched him speed down the driveway in a cloud of dust. Good riddance. It was pathetic, the way Finn could twist him around like this. Sawyer thought he‘d left the residual hurt feelings behind, but that was

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as untrue today as it had always been. He couldn‘t remember the last time he‘d called Finn his brother and meant it. ―Have a good talk?‖ he called once Marc had reached the steps. Marc paused. ―Yes. Thanks.‖ ―For?‖ Sawyer kicked at the railing, coaxing his chair into a slow rock. The bad taste grew thicker when Marc went tense at his tone. ―For the privacy. I just wanted to thank him.‖ Rather than join Sawyer, Marc hoisted himself onto the railing several feet away. ―He didn‘t have to—he could‘ve—‖ ―Oh yeah. He‘s an upstanding guy. Never doubted for one minute what he was going to say.‖ No need to ask if his sarcasm came through; Marc didn‘t refute Sawyer‘s words. He pulled a leg up beside him and looped an arm around his knee. ―He‘s not so bad. And he apologized again for last night.‖ He caught his bottom lip in his teeth, shooting an anxious glance at the door. Sawyer refused to be charmed. ―We‘re alone.‖ ―For now.‖ Smiling, Marc slid a few feet closer. Harmless words. Wistful. But Sawyer was in no mood to play or coddle. ―Don‘t worry. Your secret‘s safe. At this rate, you‘ll take it to the grave.‖ The light in Marc‘s eyes died. Sawyer cursed and bent over his knees, pressing his palms to his forehead. This was what hiding and dishonesty brought. ―I‘m sorry.‖ Marc‘s face was a chiseled mask of indifference. ―Don‘t be.‖ He glanced away, down the driveway, as if he could still see Finn‘s car in the distance. ―I deserved that.‖ ―Yo, Marc!‖ Rick called from inside. Marc jumped lightly to the porch. One hand on the rail, he hesitated. He started to speak, but snapped his mouth shut with a rueful shake of his head. Hand curled into a fist, he pounded the railing, hard enough for Sawyer to feel the vibration where he was sitting, then turned and disappeared inside. His good mood nothing but a memory, Sawyer locked himself in his office. A handful of calls later, he‘d progressed from irritated to

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livid. He‘d been away from the magazine for longer than this in the past. What had possessed everyone to choose this month to fuck up? ―Since when do I need to be looking over your shoulder every damn minute of the day?‖ he growled at his admin. Trish could usually juggle a dozen tasks at once. Two deadlines missed in one week was unprecedented. ―Since when is it my responsibility to do your job on top of my own?‖ she shot back. ―Check in every once in a while for Christ‘s sake!‖ ―I‘ve been busy,‖ Sawyer ground out. ―You know what, Sawyer?‖ Trish huffed through the phone. ―You‘re shit at this managerial stuff.‖ ―That‘s what I tried to tell them when they gave me the promotion,‖ Sawyer admitted. ―You should have tried harder.‖ ―Watch it. I‘m your boss, remember?‖ She hung up on him, which was when Sawyer admitted to himself that the situation with Marc was turning him into a veritable ass. He either needed to make things right between them, or he‘d have no staff left by the end of the day. Luckily, Tim was the first person he saw. Being angry at someone so unassuming was impossible. Sawyer even managed a smile. ―Hey, Tim. Know where I could find Marc?‖ ―Back at the mill. Said he had a bunch of paperwork to catch up on.‖ His inflection put Sawyer on guard. ―Paperwork.‖ ―That‘s what he said.‖ Tim handed Sawyer the end of a tape measure, showed him where to hold it, and marked the two-by-four he‘d balanced across a pair of sawhorses. ―Looked like hell, though,‖ he added without meeting Sawyer‘s eye. ―Thanks,‖ Sawyer said, already halfway down the hall. His phone was ringing when he got back to his office. Ignoring it, he grabbed his wallet and keys and went to find Marc.

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Libby Drew HADN‘T been to the mill in weeks, since he‘d stopped by with

Bruce to sign the contract. In that time, the trees had morphed from a deep green to a patchwork of reds, oranges, and browns. Fallen leaves drifted down the river, spinning in the calm waters above the mill and falling one by one over the spillway into the churning rapids below. But for Marc‘s truck, the parking lot was empty. Just as well. Sawyer didn‘t have the patience to deal with anybody else at the moment. He had some things to say and wanted privacy to say them. The heavy door pushed open without a sound. As he expected, the main floor was deserted. He circled the area, just to be sure, leaning over the short wall that surrounded the water wheel. A cool, wet breeze wafted up from below. The river. He took a deep breath, then another, letting the clean scent and dull rush of the water calm him, then climbed the stairs to Marc‘s office. Sawyer hesitated on the small landing, then stepped into the sliver of sunshine that spilled from the cracked door and peered through the gap. A clue to Marc‘s mood would be helpful. He had a feeling he‘d need every advantage he could get. The crack was small, but the angle just right. Sawyer had a clear view of Marc‘s desk. And of Marc. Contrary to what Marc had claimed, he wasn‘t busy with paperwork. Sawyer could‘ve called that one. Slouched in his chair and facing the window, he didn‘t move, even when Sawyer used a finger to push the door open several more inches. His hands were folded over his stomach, his head tilted back on the chair‘s headrest, and he was so lost in thought that Sawyer advanced several paces into the room before he moved. ―Hey,‖ Sawyer said when Marc finally noticed him. Marc said nothing. Now that he was there, Sawyer‘s brave words stuck in his throat. They stared at each other in silence. Marc was the first to act. Using his heels as leverage, he spun the chair around. ―Sawyer,‖ he said. What a difference a few hours made. Marc had entered Sawyer‘s kitchen that morning with clear, bright eyes, his usual quiet enthusiasm, and a preoccupied smile. Remembering the night before? Sawyer

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hadn‘t been able to clear the images from his head, and each recollection had brought another wave of lust. But now Marc looked drawn and pale. Defeated. Sawyer‘s throat constricted. He kicked the door shut behind him. Turned the lock. Marc followed his movements. ―You ran off,‖ Sawyer accused. Marc didn‘t deny it. Sawyer reached the desk and continued around the other side until he was standing in front of Marc‘s chair. Taking hold of its armrests, he spun it until Marc was facing him, hemmed in by Sawyer‘s spread legs. Marc swallowed. ―What are you doing?‖ ―Apologizing.‖ ―You did that already. And I told you it wasn‘t necessary.‖ Sawyer snorted. ―Shows what you know.‖ Hope sparked in his chest when Marc‘s lips twitched. Unable to help the compulsion, Sawyer leaned down and kissed him. Marc‘s response was sweet and slow, questioning. ―I‘m so fucking sorry,‖ Sawyer whispered against his cheek when they‘d parted. ―My brother has a habit of turning me into a real prick. No—‖ He forestalled Marc‘s reply. ―Enough about him. But we do need to talk.‖ ―Yeah,‖ Marc said, sinking lower in the chair. Fortifying himself with a deep breath, Sawyer said, ―I need to know. Before we go any further. You told me…. I thought you were trying. Are you? Are we on the same page?‖ ―Yes,‖ Marc insisted without a hint of hesitation. ―But—‖ ―But,‖ Sawyer repeated, voice dull. Crossing to the window, he stared down at the parking lot. How many more excuses could he stomach? Marc‘s chair creaked. A moment later, Sawyer felt a hand come to rest on his back. ―What‘s wrong with giving me a little time?‖ Marc asked. Old resentments flared up. ―What‘s wrong is that a little time turns into a lot of time. And that turns into forever.‖ He shrugged off Marc‘s hand. ―I don‘t want to be sneaking into your house when we‘re

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fifty. Jesus, how can you turn your back on your true feelings like this?‖ Voice pitched low, Marc answered, ―How do you know what my true feelings are?‖ Good point. He‘d been so wound up with physical desire, everything else had fallen by the wayside. More uncertain than ever, Sawyer didn‘t answer. ―I hate this,‖ Marc murmured. ―I don‘t know how to explain without going into a whole bunch of stuff that I‘m not really sure I understand myself.‖ ―What‘s the bottom line?‖ Marc paused before answering. ―I don‘t like to lose people.‖ Those six words dripped with enough misery that Sawyer immediately wanted to know the driving force behind them. Now wasn‘t the time. ―I know it‘s hard–‖ ―No, Sawyer, I don‘t think you do. And it‘s not your fault. I mean, that‘s just who you are.‖ Marc choked on a laugh. ―But I‘ve never been a hero.‖ ―You don‘t have to be. You‘ve built this up in your head as something insurmountable. It‘s not. Give people a chance to understand.‖ ―And if they don‘t? Are you going to feed me some line about how I‘m better off without them?‖ Sawyer turned and gripped Marc by the shoulders. ―Actually, yes. You think that‘s harsh?‖ ―It feels harsh.‖ ―It‘s not. You‘re making it that way.‖ Easing his grip, Sawyer ran his hands down Marc‘s arms. ―Listen, can we go somewhere and talk?‖ ―Somewhere?‖ ―An early lunch. Just us.‖ Marc‘s hands felt like ice. Absently, Sawyer rubbed them between his palms. ―I want to try to work through this.‖ ―In public?‖ Firing off a string of curses, Sawyer dropped Marc‘s hands.

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Marc‘s jaw tightened. His voice rose in pitch to match Sawyer‘s. ―This isn‘t easy for me.‖ ―Marc. Jesus,‖ Sawyer yelled, giving in to his frustration. ―It‘s all about what‘s easy, isn‘t it? You‘re living this way because it‘s easy. No questions. No awkwardness.‖ He threw his hands into the air. ―You‘re worried about losing people who don‘t even know you.‖ At some point, he‘d crossed a line. One look at Marc‘s face proved that. ―You think you know me,‖ Marc said, more chill in his voice than Sawyer had ever heard. He shook his head. ―You don‘t.‖ Disagreeing would get him nowhere, but he couldn‘t help himself. ―I do.‖ A knock on the door cut off Marc‘s reply. Just as well. They‘d started to tip into dangerous territory, to a place where neither of them would back down. ―Marc?‖ someone called. Sawyer couldn‘t place the voice at first. But when it came again, a tentative ―Marc, honey?‖ he put a name to it. Rachel. ―Your girlfriend‘s here. Perfect timing.‖ Marc paled, and Sawyer‘s stomach cramped, like someone had punched him in the gut. Did Marc really believe Sawyer would betray his confidence because they‘d had an argument? Damn it, he hadn‘t signed on for this. When the hell was he going to learn? Hiding wasn‘t who he was. ―I‘ve got to go,‖ he muttered, stumbling around to the door. He flicked the lock and opened it for Rachel. Her face lit up when she saw him. ―Sawyer! Long time, no see.‖ ―Yeah.‖ He nodded and forced a smile onto his face. ―Long time.‖ She glanced past him to Marc. ―Hey, you. Feel like taking a girl out to lunch?‖ ―Uh, sure,‖ Marc answered, avoiding Sawyer‘s eyes. ―You okay?‖ She‘s fine, Sawyer almost snapped, only to realize his error a second later. Rachel shrugged and reached back to tighten her ponytail. Her hands were shaking. ―Oh, you know. Same crap.‖

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Marc‘s lips pursed. ―He called again.‖ More tears sprang to Rachel‘s eyes. ―I should‘ve checked the caller ID. I just wasn‘t thinking.‖ Marc shook his head. ―You shouldn‘t have to check it. He needs to learn to leave you alone.‖ The implied or else was so obvious that Sawyer forgot his own anger for a moment. Rachel gave a shaky sigh and aimed an adoring smile at Marc. ―I know. I need to stop letting it get to me. You always know what to say to make me feel better.‖ Marc tugged the chain on his desk lamp, throwing the office into shadow, while Sawyer wrestled with another bout of jealousy. ―How about The Brick Oven?‖ Marc asked Rachel. ―It‘s quiet this time of day.‖ She swiped a hand over her cheek, drawing Sawyer‘s attention to the unshed tears in her eyes. ―Thanks. That‘d be perfect. I mean‖—she gestured to Sawyer—―if you‘re finished.‖ ―Oh yeah,‖ Sawyer said. ―We‘re finished. I was just leaving.‖ ―Sawyer,‖ Marc called as he brushed past Rachel. His eyes swam with remorse. ―I‘ll call you.‖ Don‘t bother, Sawyer wanted to say, but he couldn‘t. Not with Rachel right there. He responded with a noncommittal shrug and descended the steps two at a time back to the main floor. The Explorer‘s wheels spun on the loose gravel in the parking lot, then caught, and the car shot up the hill and out of the gorge.

REBA took the brunt of his bad mood when he got back to the house. As a testament to her experience with teenaged theatrics, she brushed it off. ―What the hell crawled up your ass?‖ ―Nice,‖ he growled, stalking by her into the kitchen. ―No, seriously.‖ She followed, thrusting her travel mug in his face when he yanked the coffee pot off the burner. He filled her up first, though it left him with little more than a dark, bitter mouthful, riddled with grounds.

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―I‘m fine.‖ After one taste, he spit the coffee back into his mug and poured it down the sink. ―Okay, I‘m not fine, but it‘s nothing serious.‖ ―You‘re lucky your nose doesn‘t grow when you lie.‖ Reba snorted, snapping the lid onto her cup. ―I‘m leaving,‖ Sawyer blurted. At least that worked to get Reba‘s full attention. ―Like, forever?‖ ―No.‖ He contemplated how much time it‘d take him to get his head on straight. ―Maybe a week. I‘ve been neglecting some things at the magazine.‖ He waved his hand. ―You know.‖ ―Do you have to leave today? It‘s the weekend.‖ Sawyer hadn‘t forgotten. He wondered if Kurt‘s offer was still on the table. ―Yeah, I do. Sorry.‖ ―Huh.‖ Reba shrugged. ―Tomorrow‘s poker night at my place. Thought you might want to join in.‖ It was Sawyer‘s turn to be caught off-guard. ―Me?‖ ―Sure.‖ Reba flashed him a sugary grin. ―In case you haven‘t figured it out by now, we love to take your money. You should come. You could meet my boys, ignore Rick, laugh at Karen when she tries to bluff. Doesn‘t it sound cool?‖ Sawyer indulged in his first heartfelt laugh all day. ―Actually, yes.‖ ―And Marc makes this mean drink with rum and Midori. I don‘t even think it has a name, but it‘ll knock you on your ass.‖ Marc and lots of alcohol. Definitely not a good idea. But the disappointment was keen. Too keen. He really needed to get the hell away. ―Maybe some other time.‖ ―Okay. You don‘t work too hard, and we‘ll try not to do any serious damage around here. Does Marc know you won‘t be around?‖ Sawyer had to clear his throat twice. ―No. Let him know for me, okay?‖ He turned to fuss with the coffee pot. Reba didn‘t take the hint, but stood watching him, plastic mug clasped in both hands. He glanced at her over his shoulder, arching an eyebrow. ―Was there something else?‖

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She frowned at him. A disappointed, motherlike frown. ―Reba?‖ ―Nope. See ya,‖ she said, shaking free of her reverie, though her farewell was clipped and cool. She pushed through the door into the hall. He stared after her, mind whirling at her odd behavior. His splitsecond decision was looking better by the second. Perspective, that was exactly what he needed. A massive dose.

IT TOOK him fifteen minutes to pack a suitcase and another ten to clear the city limits. He rang Bruce as soon as he‘d left the narrow, twisting roads for the eight-lane interstate. ―Heads up. I‘ll see you tonight.‖ ―You‘ve had a change of plans to your change of plans?‖ ―Something like that.‖ ―Okay. Weirdo.‖ Sawyer grinned. ―Go to hell.‖ He cranked the window down, enjoying the warm breeze. If this was the last of their Indian summer, he planned to enjoy it. Already his head felt clearer. ―Are you bringing Marc, by any chance?‖ As if Bruce‘s words carried the power of prophesy, the sun disappeared behind a bank of dark clouds. Frowning at the sudden gloom, Sawyer ripped off his sunglasses. ―No.‖ ―Huh.‖ Bruce clucked his tongue. ―Damn.‖ ―Why?‖ ―Well, it‘s like this: I‘ve got the prelims for that project out by the waterfront—the one modeled after the mill—and I wanted to run them by your boyfriend.‖ Sawyer clenched his teeth. ―He‘s not my boyfriend.‖ ―I have some authenticity questions,‖ Bruce said, too amused for Sawyer‘s liking. ―I see how it is. You couldn‘t care less about seeing me. It‘s Marc you want, so you can pick his brain. That‘s low.‖

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―Are you saying that I can‘t use you to get to people and then exploit their talents for my own personal gain? What kind of a friendship is this?‖ ―I‘m not bringing him,‖ Sawyer grumbled. He punched the button to roll up his window. The air had grown chilly all of a sudden. ―Oh well. The questions can wait.‖ ―Good.‖ ―But not forever.‖ ―Fuck you.‖ Bruce‘s laughter rang through the phone. ―You better be nice to me, or you‘ll be sleeping in the park tonight.‖ Sawyer started scrolling through the radio stations. ―What? I don‘t own an apartment anymore?‖ ―It‘s been sublet. They called you two days ago, but you obviously didn‘t get the message. Ask me how I know that.‖ ―Fuck!‖ Sawyer slammed his fist against the steering wheel. ―I erased a bunch of voicemails without listening to them. I figured it was you nagging me.‖ ―Well, you‘re officially homeless. A nice Chinese couple is now putzing around your gourmet kitchen. The gal‘s about three feet tall and two years pregnant. Seriously. I don‘t know how she manages to walk. The guy liked your red door. Some cultural thing. They moved in yesterday.‖ Sawyer cursed again, and Bruce chuckled. ―Hey, it was your idea, and a good one, by the way. That place is prime. You‘re going to make a bundle.‖ ―It‘s just that the timing could have been better.‖ Like some weekend when he wasn‘t running away from Marc. ―And I left a few personal things behind.‖ ―No, you didn‘t. Your real estate lady panicked when you didn‘t call her back, so she called me. What the fuck, Sawyer? You gave your real estate agent an emergency contact?‖ ―So?‖

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―Emergency contacts are for when you‘re dying in the hospital, not when you need someone to fetch your porn. Speaking of which—‖ Bruce cleared his throat. Sawyer sighed. ―Yes?‖ ―It‘s acceptable to hide your dirty movies in a box under the bed when you‘re fifteen, okay? But when you‘re a grownup, you display them with pride. In order to set you on the path to true manhood, I‘ve emancipated your porno collection from its cardboard prison.‖ Sawyer took a quick mental stock of the contents of his cardboard box. ―You‘re not keeping my movies.‖ ―They‘re much happier here. I alphabetized them and gave them a spot of honor on the top shelf of my entertainment center, between Top Gun and Bringing Up Baby.‖ A fraction of Sawyer‘s depression lifted. ―I‘ll be there by dinnertime.‖ ―I‘m aquiver with anticipation. How long are you staying?‖ ―A week or so.‖ He hadn‘t been lying to Reba. The situation at the magazine had reached the tipping point. The higher-ups didn‘t care if he spent 365 days a year at the North Pole, as long as he did his job. The writing he could do anywhere, and often did. The operational side, he delegated. ―Things are a mess at work. Starting Monday, I‘ll be camping out at the office.‖ ―Don‘t you hate that?‖ Bruce asked. ―You ignore your job for a month and your business has the nerve to fall in the crapper.‖ ―It‘s un-American,‖ Sawyer agreed.

HE

SPENT Saturday crashed on Bruce‘s leather sectional, watching college football and gorging himself on the kind of food he couldn‘t get in Edgewood. Bruce, never one to let his routines be upset, guest or no guest, didn‘t emerge from his bedroom until after noon. Sawyer held up a takeout container as he shuffled by. ―Pad Thai?‖ Hair askew, robe tied in a crooked knot, Bruce gave him the finger. He reappeared a few minutes later with a steaming mug of

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coffee and stood over the U-shaped couch, lip curled. ―That‘s disgusting.‖ ―Which part?‖ Sawyer took stock of the empty beer bottles, takeout containers, and previous night‘s pizza boxes. ―Actually, I don‘t recommend the Thai. Not as good as I remember.‖ He belched. ―I was referring‖—Bruce picked up the sheet Sawyer had slept on last night and held it between his fingertips—―to the mass of filth you‘ve created in my living room.‖ Sawyer popped the lid off another beer. ―You do realize they have a name for people like you.‖ ―Clean?‖ ―Obsessive-compulsive.‖ ―Okay. I‘m not going to be able to take a week of this.‖ Bruce railroaded most of the trash into a pile and sat down next to Sawyer. ―What happened?‖ Sawyer nibbled a tortilla chip. ―Sawyer?‖ ―Go away, Bruce. You‘re bringing me down.‖ ―I really doubt you could sink much lower.‖ ―You know, you should take these pep talks on the road. You‘ve got a gift.‖ Bruce made a grab for the remote, but Sawyer was quicker. ―I don‘t want to talk about it.‖ ―Since when do I care what you want?‖ Bruce plunged his hand behind the jumble of cushions and re-emerged with another remote. With an evil smile, he flicked off the television. ―Decoy remote.‖ Fuck you, Sawyer mouthed, then he stuffed another chip in his mouth. ―Now,‖ Bruce said, plunking his bare feet onto the coffee table. ―Tell Uncle Bruce what happened with Marc.‖ He slurped his coffee. Like a rebellious child, Sawyer pushed the power switch on his own remote and the television clicked on. Nonchalantly, Bruce used his remote to turn it off. ―I can do this all day, Calhoun. My life is that exciting. Now spill.‖

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A cell phone trilled. Before Sawyer even registered that it was his, Bruce shot forward and scooped it off the table, shamelessly peering at the display. ―You‘re scary,‖ Sawyer said, waving a hand at his friend. Beer sloshed onto his leg. ―Were you a ninja in a previous life?‖ Bruce smiled at the phone. ―It‘s your man.‖ He held it out. ―Want it?‖ ―No.‖ ―That‘s mature.‖ The phone fell silent, turning over to voicemail, and Bruce set it down between them. ―Seriously,‖ he said, enough genuine concern in his tone that Sawyer looked at him in surprise. ―What the hell happened?‖ ―I broke my own rules,‖ Sawyer answered, matching Bruce‘s even tone. ―And got screwed.‖ He took a long swig of beer, pointed his remote at the television, and hit the power button. A stadium packed with cheering fans burst across the screen. After a long look, Bruce settled in next to him to watch the game.

MARC called once more that day. And once on Sunday. Sawyer didn‘t answer either time, and Marc didn‘t leave any messages. Monday began at six a.m. and turned into a nightmare of such epic proportions that Sawyer didn‘t even look at his phone until midnight, when he found it buried in the bundle of blankets on Bruce‘s couch. Fifteen missed calls. All Marc. With bloodshot eyes, Sawyer stared at the display, conflicted. Then, very deliberately, he pushed it under his pillow. Tuesday brought an additional twelve calls, all before noon. Then nothing.

SAWYER should‘ve felt on top of the world. In a matter of days, he‘d singlehandedly defused a dozen crises, reshaped a slipshod and

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unproductive department, and repaired his working relationship with his coworkers and subordinates. Not bad. He still hadn‘t managed to evict Marc from his thoughts. As a reward for surviving the week, he rounded up his team on Friday afternoon and took them out for dinner and drinks. Dinner lasted thirty minutes, but four hours later the liquor was still flowing. ―Guess I rode you guys pretty hard these past few days,‖ he told Trish, his admin. She had the good grace to agree without calling him a slavedriving bastard. ―Now don‘t go fucking it all up again,‖ he said as she handed him a shot. He squinted at the liquid swirling in the glass, and she giggled. ―No problem, boss.‖ She hiccupped. ―Thanks for taking us out.‖ Sawyer glanced around the bar, grinning. ―They deserve it. It‘s been a hell of a week.‖ The vodka slid down his throat like water. Trish handed him another. ―It‘s been nice to have you around again. I mean it!‖ she squeaked when he jabbed her in the ribs. ―Once you got over your little snit.‖ Which he wasn‘t over, really. Not at all. He downed the next shot, then frowned into the empty glass until Trish replaced it with another, this one filled to the brim. ―To Sawyer!‖ someone yelled, and the group raised their glasses, clapping and whistling. It seemed only polite to join in. An hour later, he poured Trish into a cab and slapped a twenty into the driver‘s hand. ―Make sure she gets in the door, okay?‖ The cabbie winked. ―No problem.‖ As he drove off into the thick Friday night traffic, Sawyer rocked back on his heels. The city was a pleasant blur around him. Tingling with alcohol and an ache he‘d been ignoring all week, he hailed his own cab and rattled off an address. It slipped from his tongue easily, unhampered by the vodka, which Sawyer took as a clear sign: he deserved this. Kurt lived in a reclaimed building near the river. Several of the factories and warehouses around his had been remodeled and turned into condos, but others languished empty. His was a neighborhood in

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transition. In places, the streets were deserted, riddled with broken streetlamps and crude graffiti. In others, the yuppie lifestyle had established a foothold with coffee houses and gourmet food stores. Some developer had shoehorned a new playground into the empty lot next to Kurt‘s building, filled it with jungle gyms, swings, and seesaws, and so far, it had escaped any serious vandalism. Entranced by the row of plastic rocking dinosaurs, Sawyer tripped over the curb. He caught himself before he fell on his face, but it was a close thing. Laughing, he waved off the driver‘s concern and meandered over to the door of Kurt‘s building. He blinked at the intercom, but the numbers refused to come into focus. His finger felt thick and clumsy. With a halfhearted shrug, he stabbed at the third button from the left. ―Yes?‖ a woman‘s voice answered. ―Hi!‖ Sawyer pressed his face against the speaker. ―Who are you?‖ After a pause, ―Who are you trying to buzz?‖ Sawyer opened his mouth to answer, but couldn‘t remember. ―Hello?‖ ―Oh! Kurt. I want Kurt.‖ As an afterthought, he added, ―Please.‖ ―He‘s in number three.‖ ―I pressed three,‖ Sawyer sang into the speaker. ―Asshole.‖ A burst of static sent Sawyer stumbling backward. The intercom went dead. ―Now that was rude.‖ Bracing himself on the bricks, he spent another couple of minutes squinting at the numbers. ―Stop moving, you little bastards. Ah, fuck it.‖ He lifted his palm to smack them all at once, but a hand caught his before it made contact. ―Sawyer?‖ Sawyer blinked to clear his vision, had little success, but he recognized the voice. ―Hey! I was just trying to call you.‖ He crowded into Kurt‘s personal space, and the fuzzy details sharpened. Long enough to brush his shoulders, Kurt‘s thick black hair was loose and tucked behind his ears. His favorite wire-rimmed glasses were perched on his nose, magnifying the gold streaks in his brown eyes. As broad as

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Sawyer and two inches taller, he was one of the few men Sawyer had met who could physically overpower him, a condition he‘d tested on more than one occasion. Clumsily, he ran his hands through Kurt‘s hair. ―Miss me?‖ ―Always,‖ was Kurt‘s amused reply. He bent to show Sawyer just how much. Already dizzy, the kiss sent Sawyer reeling against the wall. Laughing, Kurt caught him under the arms and pushed him inside. Operating under alcohol-induced fatigue and intense sexual frustration was similar to being sick with a high fever, Sawyer decided. His limbs felt heavy, his face hot, and the idea that he probably should‘ve gone back to Bruce‘s instead of coming to see Kurt niggled in the back of his brain. Kurt led him up one set of stairs, then another. Two doors, facing each other across a narrow hall, occupied the third floor landing. Both were standing open. ―You were expecting me,‖ Sawyer purred in Kurt‘s ear as they stumbled up the last steps. ―Actually, no.‖ Kurt nodded at the woman standing in the second doorway. ―Thanks, Sarah.‖ Sarah folded her sweater closed over her flannel pants and Tshirt. Her pinched expression was at odds with her reply. ―No problem, hon.‖ With a curt wave, she retreated inside her apartment. Kurt steered Sawyer into his. ―Here, hold this wall,‖ he said, twisting away from Sawyer‘s roving hands. ―I‘m going to lock up.‖ Giddy, Sawyer waited until Kurt‘s back was turned, then tackled him against the door. ―Surprise,‖ he breathed into Kurt‘s ear, rucking up his shirt to get at the skin underneath. Kurt turned them until they were chest to chest, with Sawyer‘s back to the door. ―It‘s not really a surprise. Bruce said you were in town.‖ ―You know what?‖ Sawyer slid Kurt‘s sweatpants down over his hips. ―You talk to Bruce about me too much and not enough to me about what you should be saying.‖ Kurt snickered and kissed his neck. ―I think you left your grammar back at the bar, hotshot.‖

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―Grammar‘s overrated,‖ Sawyer said. He pushed the sweats lower, over the curve of Kurt‘s ass. ―Kind of like, you know… that other thing.‖ Kurt stroked his back. ―Krispy Kreme donuts?‖ ―No,‖ Sawyer said, too loudly. He dug his fingers into Kurt‘s hips and dropped his head against his shoulder. ―That other other thing,‖ he whispered. He hadn‘t noticed the lag in his clumsy seduction until Kurt sighed and cupped the back of his neck in his hand. He tilted Sawyer‘s face up and kissed his forehead. ―Ready for bed?‖ Sawyer rolled his eyes. ―That‘s why I‘m here.‖ Without answering, Kurt took his hand and led him down the hall to his bedroom. ―Take off your shirt,‖ he instructed while he pulled the spread down. ―Just my shirt?‖ That didn‘t fit in with the plan. Indignant, Sawyer set his hands on his hips. ―What about the rest?‖ ―Just the shirt for now.‖ Kurt helped him with the buttons. Together they stripped it off, Sawyer stealing kisses as often as Kurt allowed. ―Lie down,‖ Kurt said quietly. Confused, Sawyer obeyed, sinking onto the mattress with a groan. ―Feels good,‖ he said. ―I bet.‖ With a series of gentle tugs, Kurt pried off Sawyer‘s shoes and socks. Then he sat on the end of the bed, stroking one of Sawyer‘s calves, a fond, sad smile on his face. Finally, Sawyer started to squirm. He held out his arms. ―Come here.‖ With a low laugh, Kurt obeyed and spent several minutes returning Sawyer‘s enthusiastic kisses. To Sawyer‘s annoyance, the warm glow in his chest expanded, but never ignited. More agitated than aroused, he pushed Kurt away. ―Go grab what we need,‖ he said, determined. He was going to shake Marc from his system. Head propped on his elbow, Kurt grinned. ―Sure.‖ He traced a finger over Sawyer‘s forehead. ―Stay put.‖ As if he were capable of doing anything else. Though it couldn‘t hurt to use the time wisely. He unfastened the clasp on his slacks and

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pushed them down. The material tangled around his thighs, and with a growl of defeat, he fell back to the bed. Kurt‘s familiar laughter made him scowl. ―That‘s the best I could do,‖ Sawyer mumbled. ―The rest is up to you.‖ ―I think I can manage.‖ Kurt worked the pants free and tossed them on the floor. ―Here you go,‖ he said, perching on the edge of the mattress. In one hand he held a glass of water. In the other, four Advil. ―Huh.‖ Sawyer swallowed the pills one by one and chased them with the rest of the water. ―You‘re smart.‖ ―So they tell me.‖ ―What about the other things you were supposed to find?‖ ―You mean, the other other things?‖ Kurt smoothed Sawyer‘s hair back. ―I‘ll get them in a minute.‖ Sawyer‘s eyes felt heavy, so he closed them. ―Okay.‖ He turned his face into Kurt‘s hand. ―I trust you.‖ ―Yeah. I figured that‘s why you came.‖

SAWYER woke up feeling like hell. Luckily, the first thing he saw when he peeled his eyes open was another tall glass of water, dripping with condensation, and a bottle of painkillers. Swallowing a whimper, he took the pills, drank the water, and curled back up under the blankets. The next time he woke, the sun was higher, not shining directly in the window, and he felt human. He made it into the bathroom without any major mishaps, attacked the packaging on the new toothbrush propped against the mirror, then stood under a scalding shower for fifteen minutes. It was the smell of fresh coffee that drove him out. He pushed the curtain back to find Kurt standing in the doorway, holding two mugs. Sawyer scrubbed a towel over his hair before reaching for one. ―Marry me.‖ ―No way. You‘re a complete slob. We‘d kill each other within a month.‖

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Sawyer wrapped the towel around his waist, then scratched his chin, more self-conscious than he wanted to admit. ―My clothes?‖ Kurt wrinkled his nose. ―If you want them, they‘re folded on a chair in the bedroom. But you did leave a few things here last time that‘ll get you home without being arrested for indecent exposure. Also, they don‘t reek.‖ ―Always a plus.‖ Kurt produced a plastic bag for his clothes, fed him a piece of toast, and, when the time came for Sawyer to leave, filled a Styrofoam cup with more coffee. That was when things turned awkward, at least for Sawyer. ―I‘m sorry,‖ he said, standing half in and half out of the apartment, clutching his rumpled suit. He didn‘t say for what. No sense stating the obvious. Besides, Kurt was a smart guy. Kurt kissed him and gave him a gentle shove out the door. ―Don‘t mention it. See you around, Sawyer.‖ Things were always easy with Kurt, Sawyer mused on the ride back to Bruce‘s apartment. Easy and honest. So why couldn‘t he work up more than a passing affection for the man? Why was he hung up on some guy who made every single day more difficult than the one before? He let himself in, calling, ―Lucy, I‘m home,‖ and tossed his bag of clothes onto the sofa. A detour into the kitchen brought him face to face with Bruce. ―Morning,‖ Sawyer said. Bruce didn‘t return the greeting. He stood motionless in the center of the room, phone to his ear. Pale, lips pressed into a thin line, he spoke into the receiver. ―He just got in. Hang on.‖ Slowly, he handed the phone to Sawyer. Sawyer took it. ―What‘s wrong?‖ he asked, but Bruce didn‘t answer. Dread churning in his stomach, Sawyer cleared his throat. ―Hello?‖ ―Sawyer! Finally.‖ ―Karen?‖ ―Yeah. Tell Bruce I‘m sorry to bother him, but I‘ve been trying to reach you since yesterday, and I didn‘t know who else to call. I couldn‘t get through on your cell.‖ ―I turned it off.‖

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―Oh,‖ she said after a long pause. Sawyer‘s head had started to pound again. ―It‘s been a crazy week, that‘s all.‖ He waited through another long silence. ―Karen? Is everything okay?‖ ―I‘m sorry. This is just—didn‘t Marc call you?‖ Sawyer dodged the question. Feeling sicker by the second, he asked, ―Has something happened?‖ ―You don‘t know.‖ Karen sniffed. ―Yes. Something‘s happened.‖ ―What?‖ He steadied himself on the counter. ―Is Marc okay?‖ ―He—it‘s not him. It‘s May.‖ ―She‘s sick?‖ Karen‘s sniffs became quiet sobs. ―She died on Tuesday.‖

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Chapter 9

MARC would never understand the idea of throwing a party when somebody died. The old folk could call it whatever they wanted, but the bottom line was that people were milling around his house, eating catered food and talking about everything under the sun. Everything except his aunt. What the spread on the Vikings game had to do with respecting the dead was a mystery to him. He‘d attended his fair share of wakes with Aunt May. People needed closure, she‘d said. So every time someone died, he drove her to the church, then to the cemetery, and then to the wake, where, more often than not, she‘d achieve closure on the back porch, black pumps kicked off while she giggled with her friends over spiked iced tea. Strangely, he‘d expected today to be different, more somber, but it wasn‘t. The old ladies were gossiping about the newest member of the bridge club, and the men had started up a game of horseshoes out on the back lawn. ―Marc?‖ Reba appeared at his elbow, offering a plate of food. Dressed in black slacks and a dark gray silk blouse, she looked different than usual. More the mother and less the brash carpenter. She rubbed his shoulder. ―You should eat.‖ Marc‘s stomach rolled, and he swallowed, hoping he wouldn‘t vomit. ―No. Thanks, Reba. I‘m not hungry.‖ He shrugged away from her touch. ―Sweetheart.‖ Reba put the plate down next to him. ―Please. You need to eat.‖ He scowled and ignored the food. He needed to eat, and drink, and sleep, but he couldn‘t seem to do any of those things. He needed to

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get past the tragedy, start grieving, begin healing…. The list of advice went on, but Marc had stopped listening days ago. ―Marc, there you are.‖ It was a man‘s voice, rugged with age. ―I‘m so sorry.‖ Marc nodded his thanks without looking at the speaker. The man moved off, but somebody else took his place. ―My condolences,‖ a soft voice said. A hand brushed over his. ―She was an extraordinary woman.‖ ―Thank you,‖ he rasped, standing so quickly he knocked Reba‘s plate of food to the floor. ―Marc,‖ he heard Reba call after him, but he didn‘t stop. Short of breath, a cold sweat breaking out on his forehead, he squeezed through the crowd and into the kitchen, dodging half a dozen people who tried to get his attention. He ducked through the deserted kitchen, down a short hall, and slipped into the butler‘s pantry. It was damp and dark, but quiet. He leaned over the utility sink and splashed a few handfuls of icy water over his face, hanging there until the nausea backed off enough for him to straighten and swipe a hand over his mouth. Shaking, he twisted out of his suit coat and threw it on a nearby shelf. The wake had started two hours ago, and people were still arriving, each taking the opportunity to remind Marc that she was gone forever. I’m sorry. She’ll be missed. I’m sorry. This wasn‘t closure; it was torture. He‘d love to throw everyone out, but that‘s not what Aunt May would‘ve wanted. If Marc didn‘t let her go out with a bang, then chances were she‘d find a way to haunt him from beyond the grave. The kitchen door banged open. Marc heard the hiss of a bottle cap being twisted off a beer. ―Gonna grab another piece of that chicken and then I‘m heading home, Frank. The game starts in an hour. You coming?‖ ―Probably shouldn‘t just yet. I haven‘t seen Marc.‖ ―Don‘t worry about it. I‘m sure the last thing he wants right now is someone else in his face. Poor kid.‖

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―Yeah.‖ Another beer was snapped open. ―Notice his parents aren‘t here.‖ ―I take it back. That’s probably the last thing he wants. Worthless couple of souls, those two.‖ Marc clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle his bitter laughter. Small towns. Nothing was sacred. Even if most of what was bandied about was true. If football started in an hour, then the two men drinking his beer and eating Rachel‘s chicken wouldn‘t be the only ones clearing out. Maybe if he could get Reba and Rachel to leave, too, he could go to bed and pretend to sleep. Not as refreshing as the real thing, but it couldn‘t hurt to try. He couldn‘t remember the last time he‘d slept for more than an hour at a stretch. Sunday night, maybe? It had been Monday when Aunt May collapsed in her kitchen. She‘d languished in a coma for a day, but by the next afternoon, another stroke finished what the first had started. By Tuesday, he was alone.

KAREN was the first to arrive at the hospital. He’d called her before anyone else, even Reba, knowing he could still intimidate Karen to a degree, and that when he told her to go and leave him alone, she would. Seeing her run across the linoleum in her four-inch heels almost drew a smile. He met her in front of the nurse’s station, aware he was still in the clothes he’d worn to work on Monday. She grabbed his hands, looked him up and down with mascara-stained cheeks, then smacked his arm. “You’re fine, you son of a bitch. What do you mean calling me and telling me to come down to the damn hospital?” She stifled a sob, hitting him again for good measure. “What happened? Have you been here since yesterday?” His carefully prepared speech died in his throat. He’d spent the night in a hard plastic chair by his aunt’s bed and watched her sleep the deepest sleep there was. But he hadn’t closed his eyes. He’d been too scared.

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“Marc?” Karen smoothed a hand across his cheek. “What’s going on, sweetheart? You look like hell.” The words stuck in his throat. If he didn’t say something soon, she’d either panic or get angry, and he couldn’t face that. Just like he wouldn’t have been able to face Reba’s mothering without losing the tight stranglehold he’d been keeping on his emotions. “Thanks for coming,” he said, a start, even if it came out in a whisper. “It’s Aunt May.” Karen’s mouth formed an O, and suddenly it was Marc who was the stronger of the two, taking her arm and guiding her into a chair. A bit unsteady himself, he sat beside her. Eyes wide, Karen grasped his hands in hers. “Oh shit, Marc. How is she?” He’d been wrong to call her. He wasn’t going to be able to keep his composure. He shook his head. “She’s gone.” Karen gasped, a soft, broken sound, and her eyes welled with tears. “When?” she asked, swiping a hand under her eyes. Marc opened his mouth, surprised to find that his voice worked. “This afternoon. But she’d been in a coma all night. She had a stroke yesterday morning.” “Yesterday morning!” Karen shrieked. “And you’re just calling someone now?” No. He’d called someone. Last night. Today. But Sawyer hadn’t answered. “I didn’t want a lot of people hovering around,” he said. “It wouldn’t have made any difference. She’d been having tiny strokes for weeks apparently. They told me in the ER yesterday that it was only a matter of time.” He stood, extracting his hands even when she tried to cling. “I’m glad it was quick. She would’ve hated that, hanging in limbo, just waiting to die.” “Oh, Marc, honey.” She leaned forward, tried to touch him again, but he slid away. Fresh tears rolling down her cheeks, she dropped her hand. “What can I do?” “I need to start making some calls.” His voice caught on the last word. He cleared his throat. “Can you please take care of telling the team? And I won’t be at work the rest of the week. Obviously.”

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“Obviously,” she repeated, voice lost. “Yes, of course I’ll tell them. What else?” The simple act of donning his coat exhausted him. “Nothing. Thanks. I’ll take care of the rest.”

THE rest. The arrangements. The casket. The headstone. The flowers. The obituary. The wake. At least it had kept his mind occupied, focused on one mindless task after another. There‘d been little time to dwell on the fact that he‘d actually lost her. Her and Sawyer. He hadn‘t forgotten that part, either. More conversation drifted in from the kitchen, different from before. The men had bootlegged a bag of chicken and snuck out through the back door. These voices were softer, feminine. Friends from one of May‘s card clubs probably. ―Look at this breakfront,‖ one said. ―The detail.‖ She clucked her tongue. ―Lovely.‖ ―May gave that to him,‖ the other said. ―I‘ll say one thing, that woman had an eye for beauty. She‘s got some unique and valuable pieces in that house.‖ Seething, Marc curled his fingers over the edge of the sink and concentrated on staying calm and quiet. She‘d hate this. May. Listening to her so-called friends fawning over the treasures she‘d spent years collecting, and each wondering when they might get their hands on them. He dropped his head between his shoulders. No, that wasn‘t fair. He was letting bitterness get the best of him. These people had loved her, many of them, even if most thought her brittle and a bit selfish. They hadn‘t known her at all, really, because she‘d been never been either of those things. Never.

THE winter he turned eight years old was the year he moved in with his aunt. One day, after his parents had been gone for three months, she said, “I can’t make proper jelly in your mother’s kitchen, Marc. And

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the bed in that guest room is giving my back fits. Let’s go back to my house. I have just the room for you, with big windows and even a tiny balcony, but you must promise never to fall.” She removed her apron with a flourish, threw it on the berry-splattered sideboard, and grabbed his hand. “Ready to go home?” Her home became his, and his parents’ house became an empty shell of wood and plaster, which, he recognized not too long afterward, was what it had been all along. One night, he found her bent over an old photo album. “What are you looking at, Aunt May?” She slapped the album shut so fast that a cloud of dust exploded off the jacket, making Marc sneeze. He rubbed his nose on the sleeve of his pajamas. Peering her disapproval over the rims of her glasses, she handed him a tissue. “Never you mind, Marc.” He craned his neck for another peek. “What are those pictures?” “They’re nothing important.” But her touch was reverent when she smoothed a hand over the cover. “Have you brushed your teeth?” “Yeah.” He crawled onto the couch next to her. She’d been old to him even then, with graying hair always in a bun and wrinkled hands that ruffled his hair if given the chance. “What are they from?” He traced the flowing cursive M embossed on the cover. With a sigh, she scooped him in close, then pulled a throw over the both of them. “I suppose it can’t hurt to show you. Open it up. Go ahead.” Eager, he obeyed. That was the night she showed him the man who’d loved her—a man with wavy brown hair, a funny-looking coat, and high boots—and all the places they’d meant to go together, but never did. “But why didn’t you go?” Marc asked, grinning at one picture: the man at the base of a great pyramid. The jungle rose up around him. Rain dripped off his hat. He waved at the camera. “Some things aren’t meant to be, Marc Wynn, and this was one of them. We both knew it. He stopped sending letters and pictures after a while, and I can’t say as I blamed him.” May chuckled. “Who would want to wait years and years for an old bird like me?”

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Marc frowned. “I would’ve.” “You sweet thing.” She kissed the top of his head. “Don’t be angry at him, Marc. I’m not. I imagine he settled down eventually. Had a family. I like to think he did, anyway.” She caught Marc’s chin in her fingers. “I’m happy with how things turned out. And besides, I had your mother to look after, you know. Traipsing around the world is no life for a child.” “I think it would be great!” He turned page after page. “Yes,” May said in a soft voice. She ruffled his hair again. “I suppose you would.” “Did you ever show these to Mom?” “She used to spend hours looking at them,” May admitted. Then more quietly, “Hours and hours.” “Hey.” Marc pointed. “This looks like the place in the postcard Mom and Dad sent last month.” May nodded. “One and the same. That, my dear, is the Taj Mahal. It’s a very famous building in India. For hundreds of years, people have traveled from all over the world just to lay eyes on it. It’s that beautiful.” Marc picked at the edge of photograph—that same man was in it—until May grasped his finger. “Don’t fidget, dear. Well? Turn the page. You might as well see them all.” He shook his head, no longer enthusiastic. Attuned to his mood after so many years, May closed the book and set it aside. Marc bit his lip and laid his small head on her arm. “Traipsing around the world is no place for a child,” he said, repeating her words from earlier. “No, I should say it isn’t.” “Seeing all those beautiful buildings must be pretty important.” May huffed. “To some.” He nodded. Outside, the first snow of the season was falling. Great, fluffy flakes that clung to the window. They’d melt with the morning sun; early snows never stayed very long. A log cracked in the fireplace. Frank Sinatra sang “Silent Night.” “Do you think they’ll be home for Christmas this year?” Marc asked.

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“I expect we’ll have to wait and see.” May hugged him close. “Lots of baking to do in the meantime. We’ll start tomorrow.” Cheered slightly, Marc asked, “Thumbprints?” “If I say yes, will you leave some for me or will you eat them all yourself again?” She chuckled from deep in her chest, rocking Marc against her. Shooting her a sly grin, he shrugged, and she hooted with more laughter. “Oh, my boy,” she said, kissing the top of his head. “My darling boy. Thumbprints it is.”

TOO much. Too damn much. Marc curled back over the sink, pressing his palms against his eyes. There was a change in the air, a whisper of sound behind him, and then a pair of arms locked around his chest. Caught between shock and embarrassment, he didn‘t react until he heard a voice in his ear. ―Marc,‖ Sawyer said, pressing his lips to the side of Marc‘s face. Until that moment, Marc hadn‘t realized how deeply Sawyer‘s disappearance had affected him. If relief could be crushing, then that was the name he‘d put to the way his lungs constricted in his chest. He gasped for breath, ignoring Sawyer‘s quiet, ―Shhh,‖ and turned in his arms. As soon as Sawyer realized his intent, he helped, spinning Marc around until they were chest to chest. ―I‘m sorry,‖ Sawyer said in his ear. ―I‘m so sorry.‖ More unnecessary apologies, but the most Marc could do to communicate that was to shake his head. Of course, Sawyer misinterpreted it. ―I am. I swear. Jesus, if I‘d known, I promise I would‘ve been here.‖ He crushed Marc against him, one arm squeezing like an iron band across his lower back, the other clamped around the back of his head. Marc took a deep breath. ―How did you find out?‖ ―Karen called. She said it was a stroke?‖ It had been a stroke, in the beginning and then again in the end. But in the middle it had been nothing. Absolutely nothing but the beep of the machines and Marc sitting in the chair by her bed. Waiting. To

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Sawyer‘s question, he nodded, the same answer he‘d been giving to everyone these past several days. ―Are you okay?‖ Sawyer‘s fingers stroked over his neck. Marc nodded again. ―No, you‘re not,‖ Sawyer said against his cheek. He cupped Marc‘s face in his hands and rested their foreheads together. ―I‘m so fucking sorry I wasn‘t here.‖ Marc leaned into the touch, content that the ugliness between them had been brushed aside for the moment. His life before Monday was hazy, dreamlike, while every detail of the past week flashed through his brain in crisp detail. Which was wrong. It was all wrong. Except for this part. Marc fisted his hands in Sawyer‘s shirt and yanked him closer, ignoring his grunt of surprise. ―What are you wearing?‖ Marc asked, rubbing his face against Sawyer‘s neck, noticing the T-shirt and running shorts for the first time. He swiped a thumb over Sawyer‘s stubble-covered chin. ―In a hurry this morning?‖ The expressions that raced across Sawyer‘s face made him frown. ―Yeah,‖ Sawyer said, ―I was in a hurry. I left as soon as I hung up with Karen. Went about eighty-five miles per hour the whole way.‖ Marc drew in a sharp breath. ―She called this morning?‖ ―Yeah. Well, she called Bruce, actually.‖ ―Huh.‖ Marc drew him close again, trying not to imagine why Sawyer had been with Bruce early on a Saturday morning. ―She asked me if you were coming. Earlier, at the church.‖ ―What‘d you tell her?‖ Sawyer asked, his tone a mix of curious and miserable. ―I didn‘t.‖ ―Could be why she called.‖ Maybe. It didn‘t matter, but Marc felt stupid now for how he‘d acted. It would have been a small capitulation to leave a message at the end of one of his desperate phone calls, and maybe Sawyer would‘ve come sooner. Maybe even on Monday. He just hadn‘t known what to say. The rush from having Sawyer back began to fade, leaving Marc more exhausted than ever. He closed his eyes, lulled by the rhythmic

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movement of Sawyer‘s hands over his back. A second later, he heard it: the distinctive creak of the loose floorboard outside the pantry door. Not as attuned to the house‘s sounds as Marc was, Sawyer didn‘t stir. His knuckles pressed against Marc‘s spine, up and down, back and forth. Marc opened his eyes. Even the shock of seeing Rachel in the doorway couldn‘t shake the lethargy from his bones. His heart leaped once, then settled back into its slow, grief-laden beat. Rachel‘s mouth fell open in surprise. Without taking her eyes off Marc and Sawyer, she reached for the doorframe, missing twice before her hand connected and her fingers clamped onto the molding. She didn‘t speak. Neither did Marc. The moment stretched longer than any few seconds had a right to, and Marc felt as if the floor was tilting under his feet. A single tear rolled down Rachel‘s face. Marc tracked its path over her cheek and into the hollow of her throat, but as he steeled himself to pull away from Sawyer and speak, Rachel moved. She drew in a deep, silent breath, straightened, and relinquished her hold on the doorframe. Her hands fluttered nervously over her skirt. More tears fell from her eyes. But she smiled at him. The world righted itself a few degrees. Marc closed his eyes to absorb the relief, only to find, once he‘d opened them again, that their audience had grown. Reba stood behind Rachel. She spared Marc a cursory glance that, to his surprise, was devoid of shock or recrimination. Curling an arm around Rachel‘s shoulders, she turned her away from the door, sparing Marc one more placid look before leading her out of sight. Marc‘s knees went weak. ―Shit,‖ he whispered into Sawyer‘s shoulder. ―I‘ve got you,‖ Sawyer said, oblivious to Rachel and Reba, but not to Marc‘s trembling. ―Tell me what I can do.‖ ―Make everyone leave,‖ Marc answered before he could censor himself. ―Okay.‖ Marc groaned against his shoulder. ―Don‘t tease.‖ ―I‘m not teasing. How long has this thing been going on?‖

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―Couple of hours.‖ Marc glanced at his watch, not really seeing the numbers. ―Not sure, to be honest.‖ ―Long enough.‖ Sawyer pressed his lips to Marc‘s forehead, then propelled him out of the pantry and around the corner to the rear staircase. ―Go on. I don‘t have to ask you to know you haven‘t been sleeping. Lie down. I‘ll take care of the people.‖ ―My head‘s killing me,‖ Marc admitted. ―But Sawyer‖—he leaned against the banister—―you can‘t just throw everyone out.‖ ―Why not?‖ ―Well,‖ Marc let his eyes rove over Sawyer‘s clothes. ―It would be rude. And I‘m not sure how many people are going to take you seriously when you‘re dressed like that.‖ Sawyer gave him a gentle shove up the stairs. ―I really don‘t give a crap about what anybody else thinks at the moment.‖ His hand lingered on Marc‘s back. ―Just you.‖ Marc‘s strength was leaving him by the second. His mind kept trying to circle back to Rachel, but he buried those thoughts deep, at least for now. One thing at a time. ―I‘m glad you‘re back.‖ Sawyer‘s tortured expression returned. ―I‘m sorry I wasn‘t here sooner.‖ ―You don‘t owe me anything, Sawyer,‖ Marc said. And there they were again. Back on the exact same conversation, like the past six days hadn‘t even happened. Only this time Sawyer changed the script. ―Yes, I do,‖ he said. ―I shouldn‘t have left you alone.‖ ―There were people here.‖ ―Not me. I wasn‘t here.‖ Marc rested his head against the wall. ―You are now.‖ ―Yeah.‖ Sawyer scrubbed his hands over his face and dropped his eyes. Marc‘s sad smile faltered. ―Sawyer?‖ ―Go to bed, Marc,‖ Sawyer said, staring at the floor. He didn‘t want to. Was it any wonder, after last weekend, that he was hesitant to let Sawyer out of his sight? ―Are you coming up?‖ ―Do you want me to?‖ Genuine surprise colored Sawyer‘s voice.

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―Yes,‖ Marc replied. ―Please.‖ Sawyer‘s boyish smile fanned an ember of warmth in Marc‘s chest. The first he‘d felt in days. ―Let me get rid of your guests,‖ Sawyer said. ―Then I‘ll be up.‖ ―Yeah,‖ Marc drawled. He held up a finger, pointing in the direction of the living room. ―Just how are you going to do that, by the way?‖ Sawyer waved him off. ―I‘ve got it under control. Now go and try to get some sleep, okay?‖ That was good enough for Marc. With a parting wave, he obeyed. His room was a mess. He eyed the sturdy, cedar hangers lying on his bed, but in the end, the suit pants, dress shirt, and tie got piled on the floor by the hamper. The hangers landed on top. Marc climbed under the blanket.

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Chapter 10

SAWYER watched Marc trudge up the stairs, hand trailing behind on the banister, and another wave of guilt swamped him. He should‘ve answered the phone. He should‘ve known something was wrong. But all he‘d been concerned about was work. And getting laid. That part shouldn‘t be forgotten, either. He‘d promised Marc he would take care of the guests, and he would. But first…. He sank onto the steps. Elbows on his knees, he massaged his temples. Until he could get past the knowledge that he‘d screwed up, and screwed up badly, he wasn‘t going to have it in him to be diplomatic. Or even polite. That he hadn‘t been cited for speeding on the drive over counted as a minor miracle. All he could think about was getting to Marc, but now that he was here, the inadequacy that had been plaguing him grew. ―Sawyer?‖ The soft, feminine voice brought him out of his daze. He peeked between his fingers, then nearly groaned. ―Hi, Rachel,‖ he said, scrubbing his hands down his face. ―Nice spread.‖ Rachel shrugged. She took a seat two steps below Sawyer. ―I did what I could. Food‘s my thing, you know.‖ ―And you‘re very good at it,‖ Sawyer felt compelled to say. ―Mmmm.‖ Reaching up to unfasten the pin in her hair, she said, ―I didn‘t know. About you and Marc.‖ Every muscle in Sawyer‘s body froze. Only his eyes moved, tracking Rachel‘s movements as she tilted her head back against the wall. ―You know what hurts the most?‖

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Could his mouth get any drier? Speechless, Sawyer shook his head. ―That I won‘t have a convenient hiding place anymore.‖ Finally, she looked at him. Sawyer was no coward. He met her stare. ―But that‘s pretty unfair to Marc, isn‘t it?‖ ―What is?‖ Sawyer croaked. ―Using him like that.‖ For what, was Sawyer‘s instinctive question, but he quashed it. If she wanted to share with him, she would. ―I suppose,‖ he began slowly, ―he was doing a bit of the same.‖ More than a bit, but that was as far as Sawyer was willing to bend. Rachel shrugged. ―I suppose. But you know, Sawyer?‖ She patted his knee. ―No matter what did or didn‘t happen, we‘re still very good friends. Marc and me.‖ Sawyer sensed a trap. ―I‘m sure.‖ ―He was there for me when I really needed a friend. A patient, understanding friend.‖ Sawyer flashed back to the conversation at the mill. ―Somebody hurt you?‖ Rachel gave a little groan and rubbed her eyes. ―Yes,‖ she admitted. ―I don‘t like to talk about it. I know that‘s not healthy, but what am I supposed to do? The whole damn thing was like a bad dream that I couldn‘t wake up from. I was—‖ She shook herself. ―I was frozen. I couldn‘t even pick up the phone to call for help. It was too heavy, and I was so tired all the time. And all I could think was, I‘m never going to get away from him. I‘m never going to escape.‖ ―But you did.‖ Rachel nodded. ―Yes. And I know I shouldn‘t be embarrassed— Marc says I shouldn‘t be—but I am, Sawyer. I still can‘t believe I let someone do that to me. It‘s hard to trust again, you know?‖ Sawyer nodded. ―You mean it‘s hard to trust other people.‖ ―No,‖ Rachel said with a rueful laugh. ―I mean it‘s hard to trust myself.‖ After some consideration, Sawyer acknowledged this with a nod.

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Rachel waited until he met her eyes again. ―Marc has really helped me with that. He‘s been good to me, despite my frequent crazy behavior. So forgive me for being cliché, but if you hurt him, you‘ll have me to answer to. And I‘m good for a little more than Miralax in your brownies.‖ A rush of vertigo washed over Sawyer. Part relief, part fear. He held out his hand. Rachel took it, and they shook. ―Does doing my best count for anything?‖ Sawyer asked, because in reality, Rachel already owed him one nasty poisoning. A knowing smile broke over her face. ―Did you screw up already?‖ ―Isn‘t that obvious?‖ Rachel cocked her head. ―I‘ll give you a freebie. But starting today‖—she stood, smoothing her skirt over her knees—―watch yourself.‖ Sawyer stood, taking her arm when she tried to move away. ―Thank you. He never wanted to hurt you.‖ ―What about you? Did you ever want to hurt me?‖ He thought about it too long, and Rachel laughed. ―I just bet you did.‖ ―I‘m not the jealous sort.‖ ―Sure you‘re not.‖ She sighed, rubbing at a bit of smudged mascara. ―Where is he?‖ Sawyer followed her gaze up the stairs. ―Sleeping, hopefully.‖ ―Have him call me, okay? When he feels up to it. No rush.‖ Sawyer slung his hands into his pockets, feeling self-conscious of his outfit for the first time since he‘d barged through the door, demanding to see Marc. ―I‘ll tell him.‖ In the room beyond, a plate clattered to the floor, and they both craned their necks to look. The room had been tomb-silent a minute ago. Rachel smirked. ―I believe that‘s my cue.‖ She stepped forward and kissed Sawyer on the cheek. Stunned, Sawyer didn‘t reply, and a moment later, she was gone, slipping out the back door. Furious whispers brought Sawyer out of his daze. He slunk forward around the corner and into the kitchen. Reba saw him first. She

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smacked Karen, who was arguing quietly with Rick, and they both snapped to attention. Rick‘s face had turned red. Karen‘s blush was more becoming, but her agitation was plain. Tim was perched on the counter, gnawing a drumstick. He waved. Karen cleared her throat. ―Sawyer.‖ Sawyer eyed the group. So this was how it was going to be. He braced himself. ―Karen,‖ he said, adding a nod in Rick and Reba‘s direction, then in Tim‘s. Tim smirked back. ―Nice duds.‖ Reba waved at his running shorts. ―Is that standard city attire for funerals?‖ ―I was in a hurry to get here.‖ No one said anything, but Karen‘s eyes softened. In the end, adding yet another surprise to Sawyer‘s day, it was Tim who spoke. He waved the chicken leg at Sawyer. ―So you and the boss, huh?‖ He nodded and took another bite. ―Cool.‖ Sawyer could have kissed him. Probably not the best of ideas, considering the subject matter. He nodded with exaggerated slowness, so there was no mistake. ―Thanks, Tim.‖ He turned to each of the others in turn. ―Anybody else think it‘s cool?‖ Karen stumbled forward, a bundle of nervous energy. ―It‘s a nonissue for me.‖ ―Me too,‖ Reba piped in. ―Mostly because I already knew.‖ Sawyer turned to Rick, who sputtered, ―It‘s not a nonissue for me. And‖—he turned to Reba, pointing one beefy finger in her face—―what do you mean, you knew? How could you know? You knew? What the fuck, Reba?‖ ―Oh, please.‖ Doing her best to be as condescending as possible, Sawyer was sure, she said, ―I‘m the mother of two boys.‖ Rick spread his hands. ―What difference does that make? I’m a boy.‖ ―That‘s the truth,‖ Karen muttered. ―And I didn‘t know,‖ Rick finished.

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―Don‘t feel bad,‖ Reba soothed. ―You‘re blind to everything that doesn‘t involve your dick.‖ ―Which this most definitely does not,‖ Rick rushed to add. Sawyer‘s head began to throb. ―So what are you saying, Rick?‖ His patience was near its end. All he wanted was to be upstairs with Marc. Rick paced the length of the kitchen once, then again. Reba and Karen watched, Karen with anxious eyes and Reba with the narroweyed gaze of hers that always sent Sawyer fleeing. That woman was dangerous. Rick better know what was at stake. Tim gestured Sawyer closer, then handed him a piece of chicken. Rachel‘s chicken. Sawyer smiled as he took a bite. It tasted better than he remembered. ―Rick?‖ Sawyer prompted after he‘d savored the first bite. Rick paced some more. ―I‘m thinking.‖ Reba slapped a hand over her heart. ―Miracles do happen.‖ ―Oh, you know what? Fuck you, Reba. Fuck all of you.‖ He stopped in front of the window, hands on his hips. ―I need some time.‖ Reba smacked her hand on the counter. Everybody jumped except Rick. He was a statue in front of the window. ―You wouldn‘t,‖ she said. ―You wouldn‘t do that to Marc.‖ ―Don‘t tell me how I feel.‖ His even tone made Sawyer pause, chicken halfway to his mouth. ―Just… give me some time.‖ No one else seemed inclined to speak, so Sawyer did. ―That sounds fair to me.‖ ―I‘m so glad you approve,‖ Rick drawled, sarcasm back in spades. ―Gotta go.‖ He pushed through the screen door and into the backyard. Sawyer watched the door swing back into place. He tossed his chicken bone into the garbage can. ―That didn‘t go so badly.‖ The only one to appreciate his flippancy, Tim laughed. ―We should go talk to him,‖ Karen suggested. ―No.‖ Enough was enough, and Sawyer hadn‘t forgotten his mission. ―Give the man time. He asked for it, so give it to him. In the meantime, help me clear these people out of the house, please.‖

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Karen gaped, scandalized. ―Sawyer, these people are here to pay respect to the dead.‖ Biting back the unkind retort that sprang to his lips, Sawyer turned to Reba for help. ―You saw him, right? He‘s a mess.‖ ―I know,‖ came Reba‘s quiet reply. ―I‘m not trying to be disrespectful. I‘m just worried about Marc.‖ ―So am I,‖ she said, voice strained. She took hold of Karen‘s elbow. ―It‘s been a few hours. There are one or two people I know who can pass the word discreetly. I think Sawyer has a point. I got a good look at Marc earlier, and he‘s barely holding it together.‖ Karen pursed her lips. ―Where is he now?‖ ―I sent him upstairs to lie down. He looked like he was about to fall over.‖ Sawyer rinsed his hands in the sink, then began collecting abandoned paper plates from the counter. ―I‘m not really dressed to mingle. I‘ll stay here and clean up. And guys,‖ he said as Reba and Karen turned to go, ―I, uh….‖ He tossed the stack of plates into the garbage with more force than necessary. ―I should have been here this week. Thanks for taking care of him.‖ Reba gave a little nod, but Karen shook her head. ―He didn‘t ask to be taken care of. Mostly he dealt with it himself.‖ Sawyer‘s stomach flipped. He rubbed his hand over it, regretting the few bites of chicken he‘d taken. There wasn‘t much to say to that. Just, ―Okay. Well, thanks anyway.‖ They slipped through the door, Reba first and Karen on her heels. Wordlessly, Tim fished out two fresh trash liners from beneath the kitchen sink and began to collect garbage. He didn‘t speak, and the beauty of his personality was that Sawyer felt no pressure to fill the silence. Out of all Marc‘s friends, Tim was the biggest question mark. His demeanor might lead one to believe he hadn‘t a care in the world, but Sawyer was beginning to wonder. Call it intuition. They worked efficiently. Sawyer kept one ear tuned to the quiet conversations drifting in from the other room. Slowly, things began to quiet as one by one the guests departed. ―So,‖ he said to Tim after nearly twenty minutes of silence, ―you knew about me and Marc?‖

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―Suspected.‖ Tim stretched a piece of cling wrap over a plate of deviled eggs. Sawyer waited, then pursed his lips against his desire to smile. Tim was a man of few words. ―So you had no idea about Marc before now.‖ ―Didn‘t say that.‖ ―You don‘t say much of anything.‖ Sawyer blew out an exasperated breath. Tim threw him one of his trademark smirks. ―The more you say, the more people start expecting you to say. First it‘s trading off opinions of American Idol, then deep discussions on politics.‖ He opened the fridge and began stacking covered dishes on the shelves. ―Next thing you know,‖ he said, head still in the fridge, ―they want to know when you‘re getting married and what you plan to do with the rest of your life. If you keep to yourself, the most they can say is that you‘re shy. Maybe ignorant.‖ Sawyer began sponging off the countertop. ―You don‘t strike me as either of those things.‖ ―No?‖ ―No. In fact‖—their eyes met across the kitchen island—―I‘m pretty sure you knew Marc was gay.‖ Tim slung his hands into the pockets of his jeans. ―Maybe.‖ ―And‖—Sawyer waited a beat, making an effort to keep his voice steady—―I think you‘ve been waiting for him to figure things out.‖ The smile began on the left side of Tim‘s lips, twitching upward until he dipped his head, grinning openly. It was an easy expression, nonthreatening. Which was why Sawyer beat back the possessiveness that surged into his chest. ―You‘re not denying it, I see.‖ ―Nope.‖ Tim‘s eyes strayed to the door that led to the living room, but it wasn‘t a furtive glance. His brows drew together and his lips pursed into a thoughtful expression. ―But you can brush your jealousy aside, Sawyer. See, you‘re looking at things like they began a couple of months ago.‖ Sawyer frowned. ―They did.‖

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―Not for me.‖ Tim reached into the tub of ice by the back door and snagged two bottles of beer. He offered one to Sawyer. ―Marc and I have been working together for four years. I‘ve had lots of time to both develop and get over my feelings for him. He‘s a good friend. Hell, he‘s my best friend. And that‘s a more important relationship to me, by far, than lover.‖ ―He never knew how you felt,‖ Sawyer said quietly. ―And never will,‖ Tim replied, pointing his bottle in Sawyer‘s direction. Sawyer tipped his beer in return, then cleared his throat. ―So you‘re gay?‖ ―I hate labels,‖ Tim said, pulling his ponytail tighter. ―Let‘s just say I‘m a free spirit. All genders welcome.‖ Sawyer snorted. ―I know someone just like you. Did Marc ever tell you about Bruce?‖ They finished their beers while Sawyer sang Bruce‘s praises. As he was dropping the empty bottles into the trash on top of the paper plates, Karen pushed through the door. She made a show of swooning against the wall, and Tim snorted. ―Oh, please. I had the hard job, listening to Sawyer go on and on about Marc‘s dreamy eyes.‖ ―What?‖ Sawyer shot Tim a dirty look. ―Liar.‖ Karen straightened with a sniff. ―So you don‘t think his eyes are dreamy?‖ ―I—wait.‖ ―I‘m going to tell him you said that.‖ She winked at Tim. Sawyer rolled his eyes. ―Since when did this become like the fifth grade?‖ ―Since Rick left.‖ Tim patted Sawyer‘s shoulder. ―Usually it‘s like the third grade. But since our esteemed colleague is off dealing with a sudden pressing threat to his manhood, we‘re able to raise the bar.‖ Karen stepped out of her heels and padded over, untwisting her chignon. She shook out her hair and tossed it over her left shoulder. ―I‘m going to have one of those Amstels. If anybody has any objections to seeing a lady chug a beer, you better leave now.‖

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―Hell, girl.‖ Tim screwed off the metal cap. It went with a hiss, and he handed it over. ―I used to pay money in college to see such things. And you‘re going to give it away for free?‖ ―Watch and learn, Tonto,‖ Karen said, tipping the bottle to her lips. Reba crashed through the door halfway through Karen‘s show. ―Did you save one of those for me?‖ Sawyer handed her the last one. ―I can‘t thank you enough for taking care of that.‖ ―No problem.‖ Reba blew her bangs off her head. ―Now can I go home and get out of these fancy clothes? God, Karen, how can you bear to wear this crap every day?‖ Karen hiccupped. ―It‘s a living.‖ She set down the empty bottle. ―Okay, guys, let‘s clear out and let Sawyer do his thing.‖ Reba and Tim snickered. With a groan, Sawyer dropped his head into his hands.

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Chapter 11

MARC woke to a dark room, lit with the pale light of a crescent moon. The house was quiet, but something had awakened him. Not a noise. A presence. When a shadow in the doorway shifted, Marc smiled. ―I thought you‘d never get here.‖ ―Spare me,‖ Sawyer‘s voice replied from out of the dark. ―You were dead to the world. I checked on you twice.‖ Faint footsteps approached the bed. Marc waited for the telltale squeak of the loose floorboard by the nightstand, then reached out. His fingers connected with Sawyer‘s. They were captured and held tight. ―What time is it?‖ Marc groaned and stretched. His head still hurt, but the pain was a ghost of what it had been. Woozy and disoriented, he pulled himself up when Sawyer sat beside him. Sawyer pushed Marc‘s hair out of his eyes, and Marc leaned into the touch. The fingers lingered, brushing down Marc‘s cheek to his lips, then, with a sigh, Sawyer dropped his hand. His face looked unusually pale in the moonlight. ―It‘s eight o‘clock. You slept about seven hours. How do you feel?‖ ―Like I slept seven hours,‖ Marc grumbled. ―Kind of out of it.‖ ―Hungry?‖ ―Yeah,‖ Marc admitted after a moment. He was hungry. That was new. His stomach felt tight and just a little upset, like it did when he got caught up in work and forgot a meal. Maybe eating wouldn‘t be the impossible task it had been the past few days. ―Great,‖ Sawyer said. ―‘Cause there‘s enough food downstairs for us to eat like kings for a year.‖ He pulled back the covers as he stood. ―Grab a shower and come down.‖ ―Is it just us?‖ ―For hours now,‖ Sawyer confirmed.

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He‘d have to get the story on that, Marc thought idly as he stumbled to the bathroom. The shower was an inspired idea. It cleared away the last of the vague confused feeling that he got every time he slept during the day. Sawyer had said they were alone, so he didn‘t bother with anything but an old pair of sweatpants before padding down the stairs to the kitchen. Wrist-deep in a container of potato salad, Sawyer glanced up when Marc entered the kitchen, then promptly dropped the spoon on the counter. ―Jesus, give a little warning if you‘re going to walk around half naked.‖ Marc hid a smirk. Hooking a stool with his foot, he took a seat on the opposite side of the work island and watched while Sawyer scooped food onto two plates. ―I‘m not half naked, I‘m half dressed.‖ ―Technicality,‖ Sawyer sang under his breath, but he did meet Marc‘s eyes. ―You look a little better.‖ ―I feel better. The sleep helped.‖ With a nod, Sawyer slid one of the dinner plates across the granite, piled high with a mishmash of food: ham, pasta, and fruit salad. It looked delicious, reheated or no. Marc dug into the pile of baked ziti. He waved his fork at Sawyer. ―Are you going to come sit down?‖ Sawyer shook his head. With an arched eyebrow, Marc patted the stool next to him. Sawyer stabbed a piece of potato off his plate. ―I‘m fine here,‖ he said. ―What are you afraid of?‖ ―There‘s no need to threaten my masculinity.‖ Sawyer pushed his food around the plate. ―I just would rather you concentrate on your dinner instead of me.‖ Marc covered his mouth to laugh. ―I may have insulted your masculinity, but I certainly didn‘t harm your ego.‖ Sawyer glanced pointedly at him. ―But am I wrong?‖ Stuffing his mouth with food was the only way out of that one. Marc chewed and ignored Sawyer‘s knowing smirk. They ate in silence, although Marc spent several minutes weighing his next words. He wasn‘t sure how Sawyer would take them, all things considered. The subject of coming out hadn‘t exactly been an easy one for them. But the sooner they dealt with this newest development, the better.

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The irony was the timing. Instead of anxious and scared, he felt relieved. For the first time in a week, grief took a backseat to another emotion. As soon as Sawyer took his plate, Marc slid off the stool. ―Rachel saw us,‖ he blurted, gripping the counter tightly. Sawyer froze, half turned toward the sink, before sliding back into motion. He set the dishes carefully on the counter. ―I know.‖ That derailed what Marc had planned to say next. ―You do?‖ Stepping around the island, Sawyer took Marc‘s arm and steered him across the room. ―Where are we going?‖ Marc asked. ―Someplace more comfortable,‖ Sawyer said. He paused at the bottom of the stairs, then, mumbling something under his breath, continued past them into the living room. He sank onto the sofa, pulling Marc with him. There was an awkward moment, when Sawyer didn‘t seem to know what to do with his hands. Feeling more confident than usual, Marc scooted closer and ducked under his arm. ―So how did you know?‖ he asked, as if there hadn‘t been a lull in their conversation. ―She told me.‖ ―She told you?‖ Marc parroted. Sawyer opened and closed his mouth twice before answering. ―Yes.‖ He cleared his throat. ―And she said to tell you to call her. When you can.‖ Unreal. The world had turned upside down, yet nobody seemed very upset. Least of all him. ―Was she mad?‖ ―I think she was… sad,‖ Sawyer said. ―Not mad.‖ Sucking in a deep breath, Marc took the next running leap. ―Reba. I think she knows too.‖ A glance at Sawyer confirmed it. His foot was tapping on the floor, and he was staring across the room, expression blank. Marc swallowed a groan. ―She‘s not the only one, is she?‖ Sawyer took his time meeting Marc‘s eyes. He shook his head. ―You know what,‖ Marc blurted, ―I don‘t think I want to talk about this right now.‖

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―That‘s perfectly fair,‖ Sawyer said evenly. ―What do you want to talk about?‖ Marc thought about it for minute before it hit him. He wanted to talk about his aunt. For the first time in a week, his mind didn‘t scurry in the other direction when he remembered she was dead. ―Did you know,‖ he began, taking Sawyer‘s hand in his, ―that Aunt May could‘ve traveled the world. She had the chance to go with this guy who was totally in love with her. He wanted to marry her.‖ ―Go, May.‖ Sawyer propped his bare feet on the coffee table. ―So why didn‘t she?‖ ―Because of my mother.‖ He couldn‘t quite keep the bitterness out of his voice. Even after all this time. ―Her parents died, and May was her only relative, so she took her in.‖ Sawyer hummed his understanding. ―Hard to go continent hopping with a small child in tow.‖ The words, so similar to his aunt‘s, put a lump in Marc‘s throat. He nodded, then swiped at his eyes when Sawyer‘s fingers began to sift through his hair. ―She should‘ve done it. Chances like that don‘t come around every day.‖ He turned to Sawyer. ―He stopped writing after a while. Stopped sending the pictures and the postcards. I think she really thought that was the end. She used to tell me that he must have found another woman to love. Had a family. She said she was happy for him, even if I think the idea broke her heart a little. But you know what?‖ Marc turned to face Sawyer. ―He came back.‖ Sawyer blinked in surprise. ―He did?‖ ―Yeah. Years later. To see if she still wanted him.‖ ―Persistent,‖ Sawyer said with a chuckle. ―So did she go?‖ ―No.‖ Sawyer cocked his head. ―What stopped her that time?‖ Marc sighed, the familiar guilt washing over him. ―Me. She had me by then.‖ ―Wait, I‘m confused,‖ Sawyer said. ―Where were your parents?‖ ―That‘s the irony,‖ Marc said, thinking of a red leather photo album with gold embossed letters. ―Everywhere this guy went, he sent back letters and pictures, trying to convince Aunt May to join him. My

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mother spent her childhood hearing about his travels. She was obsessed with them. As soon as she was old enough, she took off to see the world. Two years later, she met my father teaching English to children in Kenya, and the rest is history.‖ A deep frown had settled over Sawyer‘s face. ―So what happened when you were born? Did they still travel all over the place?‖ ―They kept it up for a while, but it got to be too much, I guess. They came back here‖—Marc gestured around him—―and tried to settle down.‖ ―Tried,‖ Sawyer said. ―It didn‘t suit them, I guess.‖ He flashed Sawyer a wry smile. ―What didn‘t? Staying in one place?‖ ―Parenthood,‖ Marc clarified. Sawyer, apparently struck speechless, just stared at him. ―So, anyway,‖ Marc continued, ―they started traveling again. Just short trips at first. Then they‘d be gone for a month. Then longer. Finally, I just moved in with Aunt May.‖ ―Jesus, Marc.‖ Sawyer looked lost. ―I‘m sorry.‖ Tipping his head back onto the cushion, Marc shrugged. ―Don‘t be. Not every story‘s a fairy tale.‖ ―And your aunt never found love with anybody else?‖ ―If she did, I didn‘t know about it.‖

THEY stayed up until after two watching the Star Wars trilogy, during which Sawyer spilled the truth about his crush on Luke Skywalker and Marc confessed he still had all the trading cards, complete with bubble gum, and a toy lightsaber in a box in the attic. Sawyer yawned as they climbed the stairs, but Marc was a bundle of nervous energy. When Sawyer tried to detour to the guest room, Marc yanked him back. ―Stay.‖ ―Probably not a good idea,‖ Sawyer said, sounding honestly disappointed. ―Not tonight.‖ ―Don‘t leave me,‖ Marc said.

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And that marked the end of Sawyer‘s protests. He followed Marc down the hall and into his bedroom. Hesitantly, he shed his shirt. The jeans he left on. Marc pounced as soon as Sawyer settled between the sheets. ―Marc,‖ Sawyer moaned, making a halfhearted attempt to fend off the roving hands. ―Is this what you really want?‖ ―You didn‘t really just ask that, did you?‖ Marc surged forward and kissed him, swallowing Sawyer‘s soft exclamation of surprise. And in case that didn‘t get his point across, he reached down to palm Sawyer‘s cock through his jeans. ―Okay,‖ Sawyer rasped, pulling out of the kiss. ―Okay.‖ He caught Marc‘s hands in one of his own, fingers circling both wrists. ―Turn over.‖ Marc‘s heart missed a beat, and Sawyer‘s grip loosened, but the strained edge in his voice grew worse. ―Trust me.‖ Marc obeyed, rolling onto icy sheets, but the chill didn‘t last. Sawyer moved in behind him, tucking Marc into the curve of his body. Breath coming in short gasps, Marc wriggled, trying to get even closer, and Sawyer hissed. He clamped a hand over Marc‘s hip, scrunching his fingers around the fleece of his sweatpants. ―Stop that.‖ In the next instant, he was tugging the material down around Marc‘s thighs, cursing against the back of his neck while he caressed the freshly bared skin. He laid his hand flat on Marc‘s stomach, inches from his straining cock. ―God, I can‘t believe I finally have you like this,‖ he muttered thickly. He thrust his other arm under Marc‘s shoulder, then curled it around his chest, holding him tight ―Finally,‖ he repeated as he rolled backward, just a few inches, but far enough to steal all of Marc‘s leverage. It was a deeply intimate embrace, both tender and erotic, and pressed so tightly together that there was no way Marc could miss Sawyer‘s own arousal. ―Okay,‖ Sawyer said again, the word stretching out on a deep exhale. ―Shhh.‖ He pressed a line of kisses down the side of Marc‘s face. ―Relax.‖ ―Not going to happen,‖ Marc groaned. He arched his back, testing Sawyer‘s hold. Sawyer wrested him back into place.

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―It is going to happen,‖ Sawyer said. ―Or you won‘t get what you want.‖ His fingernails scratched through the patch of hair at the base of Marc‘s cock, tugging playfully, and Marc groaned and writhed, desperate for something other than cool cotton against his dick. ―Please, Sawyer.‖ ―Trust me. I‘ve got you.‖ Then, like Marc wasn‘t riding the edge of a sexual need intense enough to make him hyperventilate, Sawyer began to rock him. The motion was so subtle, so small, that by the time Marc noticed, he was already lulled into a daze, the sharp taste of lust his only concern. Everything else fell away. The remnants of his headache. His exposed secret. His heartache. Sawyer‘s other hand started to wander, caressing one of Marc‘s thighs, then the other. His breath washed over Marc‘s neck, as shallow and erratic as his movements were slow and calculated. Slowly, he eased Marc‘s legs open until Marc was sprawled on top of him. The rocking never stopped. The lighter-than-air bed sheet became a point of torture, a glaring counterpoint to the hot cock that ground against his ass with every to and fro. Marc bucked up against the cotton, but there was no friction to be had. Groaning, he kicked it off and reached for himself. ―No, you don‘t,‖ Sawyer said. He peeled Marc‘s hand away. Before Marc could protest, he replaced it with his own. Marc cried out, straining to pump his cock through Sawyer‘s fist, but even though Sawyer‘s grip was tight and possessive, he didn‘t move, just held Marc in his hand while he continued to rock him back and forth, planting soft, open-mouthed kisses across his throat. ―Do you have any idea how long I‘ve wanted to do this to you?‖ Mouth too dry to answer, Marc shook his head. ―Since that first morning I saw you standing on my porch. When you apologized for May. Wanted you so damn bad.‖ Marc huffed a laugh. ―You weren‘t the only one.‖ Finally Sawyer moved his hand. He kept his fist tight and his strokes slow and long. ―Watched you all day.‖ He jutted his hips against Marc‘s ass. ―Had hot, dirty fantasies about bending you over the back of your truck.‖

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―Jesus.‖ Marc‘s eyes rolled back, and he gave up trying to control Sawyer‘s rhythm. ―Tell me.‖ Sawyer‘s hand stuttered to a stop for a moment. ―Not tonight,‖ he said, speeding his strokes. ―Right now I just want you to come.‖ He nipped Marc‘s ear. ―In my arms. And all I want you thinking about is how good it feels.‖ Obeying was easier than Marc imagined. He stopped fighting Sawyer‘s maddening, teasing touch and let it carry him forward. His orgasm built slowly, his body tensing in increments that Sawyer surely felt. He groaned into Marc‘s hair. ―That‘s right,‖ he panted. ―Come on, Marc.‖ Sawyer‘s rocking had long since devolved into the steady thrust of his erection against Marc‘s willing body. His hand flew back and forth on Marc‘s cock at the same pace, his earlier finesse absent. And when he jolted and arched off the bed, carrying Marc with him, calling his name, Marc‘s release hit, pulsing out of his prick and up over his stomach. He thought it might never end, and when it did, he was almost glad. He was shaking all over, hypersensitive. Every touch threatened to set off more tremors, but Sawyer nursed him through them, his voice tender and soothing, until Marc fell into a light doze. An indeterminable amount of time later, Sawyer pulled away. ―Where are you going?‖ Marc asked, cracking one eye open. Sawyer gave a disgusted grunt. The bed shook as he shimmied his jeans over his hips. ―Getting out of these clothes. So much for my grand plan of self-control. Being around you is like being fifteen all over again.‖ Marc grinned. ―Don‘t be gone long.‖ ―Already done,‖ Sawyer said, crawling back under the blankets. ―Think you can sleep?‖ Surprised as he was to admit it, he thought he could. ―Yeah.‖ ―Sweet dreams.‖ Sawyer stretched out beside him. He slung a hand over Marc‘s stomach, and his breathing evened out immediately. Marc shifted closer ―Good night.‖

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MARC was awake, drifting drowsily, when he heard the front door open and close. Voices echoed through the foyer and up the stairs. He squinted at the clock. Barely seven a.m. Curled up beside him, Sawyer slept on, oblivious. Part of Marc wanted to ignore the intrusion. Not just anybody would invite themselves into his house, and despite everything, he wasn‘t sure he was ready to face Reba and whoever else now knew about him. But something niggled at his brain. The baritone was too deep to be Rick‘s or Tim‘s, and the woman‘s voice too high pitched to be Reba. Or even Karen. What the hell? Marc extracted himself from Sawyer‘s arms and found his discarded sweatpants tangled in the covers at the foot of the bed. He shot a look toward the dresser before deciding against a shirt. It was his damn home, after all. The voices had moved to the back of the house by the time he‘d reached the bottom of the main staircase. He followed them down the hall and into the kitchen. Two people, a man and a woman, were standing near the bay window that framed the breakfast nook, pointing at the yard beyond. The woman wore a long, flowing paisley skirt and peasant blouse. A thick mane of curly, blond hair fell halfway down her back. No, it couldn‘t be. The strength went out of Marc‘s knees. ―Excuse me,‖ Marc said, voice low and dangerous. ―What are you doing in my house?‖ Giving a startled yelp, the woman turned, wobbling on her thick clogs. The man steadied her, and then he, too, turned around. Marc‘s stomach twisted. ―What are you doing here?‖ he repeated. ―Oh, Marc, honestly,‖ the woman scolded, brushing off the man‘s hand. ―Is that any way to greet your parents?‖ ―And don‘t you mean, what are we doing in our house?‖ his father asked.

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Chapter 12

A CHILL swept through Marc. ―What are you talking about?‖ ―Not now, honey.‖ His mother tried to brush off the comment, but Marc refused to let it go. ―No. What did you mean?‖ He didn‘t wait for an answer. ―I‘m sorry, but this isn‘t your house anymore. I thought you knew that. In fact‖—he gave a shaky, humorless laugh—―I‘m sure you did.‖ Marc‘s father stepped forward, putting a hand on his mother‘s arm. She dropped her eyes, but then she always had let him take the lead. Jonathon Wynn liked things a certain way, even when he was slogging through sand dunes or sleeping in mud puddles. Marc understood that his parents had dedicated their lives to humanitarian causes, but their work had done nothing to temper his father‘s controlling nature. He didn‘t have a humble bone in his body. Jonathon‘s vision was everything. Maggie, Marc‘s mother, had always been a part of that vision. Marc had been quite young when he realized there was no place for him in his father‘s plan. ―This is not the time or place to discuss this,‖ Jonathon said. ―There‘s been a tragedy.‖ What gall. ―There was a tragedy‖—Marc‘s voice broke on the word—―nearly a week ago. Where were you then?‖ Not that he would have greeted them any differently. ―China,‖ Maggie answered. She slipped past Jonathon, shrugging him off when he tried to stop her. ―We just got word two days ago, when we were able to access the Internet.‖ She lifted her arms—a question. Grudgingly, Marc stepped into them, and Maggie folded him close. ―I‘ve missed you, darling,‖ she whispered against his shoulder.

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The sentiment bounced off Marc‘s heart, inflicting little damage. He‘d heard it one too many times. He returned the perfunctory embrace. ―And I‘m sorry about May,‖ she added. Now that did sting, but for all the wrong reasons. Marc stepped back so quickly that Maggie stumbled. ―Thank you. But as you probably know, the funeral was yesterday, so I‘m not really sure why you came.‖ His father‘s earlier statement tasted like ash in the back of Marc‘s mouth, and while it wasn‘t out of character for the man to be casually cruel, he didn‘t usually bluff. So what the hell had he meant? His father stroked his beard, and his mother suddenly found the floor fascinating. She withdrew to Jonathon‘s side. A pressure built at the base of Marc‘s skull, keeping in time with the rising foreboding. ―Well?‖ ―We found out about May when her lawyer contacted us,‖ Maggie said. ―About the estate.‖ ―What about it?‖ Marc asked, finding his footing. The subject of May‘s estate was one he was well versed in. ―I don‘t see how it affects you.‖ He tried not to be deliberately cruel. May had cut Maggie from her will when Marc had turned eighteen. She‘d brushed off his protests, but despite everything he‘d always felt a frisson of guilt about it. ―You‘re not a beneficiary. Neither of you are.‖ He was sure of it. So why was his heart racing in his chest? Jonathon‘s smug smile, maybe. ―According to her lawyer, Marc, the last will May gave him is dated the year you turned ten years old.‖ ―No.‖ Marc shook his head. His legs felt shaky, but he wouldn‘t sit and leave his father standing over him. ―That‘s wrong. She made a new will when I turned eighteen. I saw it. She gave me her medical power of attorney and made me executor of the estate.‖ She tried to give me this house, he wanted to yell, but didn‘t. Because he‘d refused her offer, determined to give her a fair price for the property. ―I‘m sorry, Marc,‖ Maggie said. ―But there‘s no record of that anywhere.‖

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―The hell there isn‘t,‖ Marc countered, and this time he did yell. His mother had the grace to wince. ―Lower your voice,‖ Jonathon growled. ―Show your mother a little more respect.‖ He stepped forward and for one glorious moment, Marc thought they might come to blows. It was scenario he‘d played in his mind hundreds of times. Jonathon had never struck him, but sometimes Marc had wanted him to, just to have the excuse to hit back, to show that he was furious the only way a child knew how. Furious and confused and hurt. But one step was all Jonathon took before he lurched to a stop. His eyes focused on something over Marc‘s shoulder. ―Who are you?‖ Maggie glided forward, long skirt swishing, her expression curious. Marc didn‘t even bother looking over his shoulder. ―This is Sawyer Calhoun. Sawyer,‖—he took a deep breath—―these are my parents, Jonathon and Maggie Wynn.‖ He heard Sawyer walk forward, the sound of his bare feet on the wood loud and distinct, and although he didn‘t touch Marc, he stopped close enough behind for Marc to feel the heat of his body. ―What a surprise,‖ Sawyer said, voice neutral. ―I don‘t believe Marc was expecting you.‖ ―I don‘t imagine he was,‖ Jonathon replied, doing a poor job of masking the confusion in his voice. Maggie bit her lip. ―What—pardon me, but what are you doing here so early?‖ ―What are you doing here so early?‖ Sawyer countered. ―That‘s none of your business, young man.‖ Contempt filled Jonathon‘s voice. ―However, I do believe it‘s my business to know what you‘re doing in my house at seven a.m. on a Sunday morning.‖ ―Your house?‖ Marc glanced over his shoulder. Only then did he notice that Sawyer was similarly shirtless. And from the way his jeans were riding on his hips, he hadn‘t bothered with underwear. Despite everything,

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Marc smiled. ―It‘s a misunderstanding,‖ he said, believing it completely. ―I asked you a question, Mr. Calhoun.‖ Jonathon tilted his head back and looked down his nose at the two of them. ―Do you often run around other people‘s houses half-dressed first thing in the morning?‖ ―No,‖ Sawyer said in a low voice, ―not usually.‖ ―So what are you doing here?‖ Sawyer didn‘t answer. Jonathon snorted. ―What are you, his boyfriend or something?‖ Marc tensed at the blatant disgust in Jonathon‘s voice. Rage crashed over him, followed by the overwhelming compulsion to defend Sawyer. The door he‘d cracked open last night, the one that he‘d hidden behind for so long, blew right off its hinges. ―Yes,‖ Marc said loudly, interrupting Sawyer‘s stuttered reply. ―Actually, he is.‖ Shock bombarded him from both sides. His father‘s eyes widened. Clearly, he‘d expected a denial. Maggie gave a clipped cry. Her hand flew to her mouth. ―Marc,‖ she whispered. At his back, Sawyer‘s surprise was just as acute. He‘d stiffened at Marc‘s words, but when Marc didn‘t recant the statement, he gave an amused huff. Then, very deliberately, he laid his hand on Marc‘s back. ―And now that that‘s out in the open,‖ he said, ―perhaps you can explain what the hell you‘re talking about. Since I came in late.‖ Jonathon sputtered. ―Marc.‖ Maggie‘s hands fisted in the folds of her skirt. ―Why didn‘t you ever tell me?‖ Me. Not us. At least his mother wasn‘t stupid. He‘d known that, small consolation that it had been over the years. ―Because it was none of your business,‖ he settled on. After all, it was more truth than not. Red-faced, Jonathon paced the floor. ―I don‘t approve.‖ Marc‘s first reaction was to laugh, but Sawyer beat him to it, his amusement loud and genuine. His hand on Marc‘s back slid around to his waist. He stepped closer, pressing into Marc‘s side. ―I‘m under the impression your approval means very little around here, Jonathon.‖ ―You treat me with some respect, son.‖

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―I‘m not your son.‖ Maggie intervened before Marc could. ―Jon.‖ She tugged him away from Sawyer. ―Please don‘t do this.‖ At Marc‘s side, Sawyer thrummed with tension. One glance at his face was enough to convince Marc that Sawyer would be quite happy if Jonathon took the confrontation to the next level. Marc wouldn‘t give his father the satisfaction. He stepped between them. There was a moment when Sawyer resisted, physically straining forward, then some of the anger left his eyes, and he backed down. Jonathon snorted. ―How sweet. Going to let Marc fight his own battle?‖ ―He‘s more than capable.‖ ―That‘s news to me.‖ Jonathon scooped his hat off the table. Marc glanced over his shoulder to find Sawyer tracking Jonathon‘s hands as he rolled the rim of his hat back and forth. ―We‘d like you to leave now,‖ Sawyer said, voice icy but polite. ―Would you? Mr. Calhoun, I haven‘t seen my son in five years. And there are obviously things we need to discuss. We‘re not leaving until they‘re sorted out.‖ There was an actual shake in Jonathon‘s voice. The situation had upset him, but as for which part had made him angry and unsure, Marc had no idea. He‘d bet it was the money. To the side, his mother watched and waited, but something on her face caught Marc‘s eye. Her cheeks were like chiseled stone, and her eyes flashed. She was angry, but at whom? It was altogether an unusual moment, as, according to Aunt May at least, Maggie didn‘t have a confrontational bone in her body. ―There‘s obviously plenty to discuss,‖ Sawyer said. ―But it‘s seven o‘clock on a Sunday morning. Some advance notice of your visit would have been appreciated.‖ Jonathon‘s control slipped a fraction. One hand twisted extra hard on the hat. Marc heard a distinct rip. ―So now I need an appointment to see my own son?‖ Bitterness flavored the air, all Jonathon‘s. Marc had let go of his regrets long ago. ―I don‘t think an appointment is too out of line,‖ he said. ―It seemed to work for you in the past.‖

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Jonathon‘s face went purple. ―Maggie!‖ he barked. ―We‘re leaving.‖ He took her by the arm roughly, and even though she‘d been little more than a face in a photograph all his life, Marc‘s body jerked in a primal reaction. ―Hey, take it easy,‖ Sawyer growled at Jonathon. Jonathon stalked across the kitchen, pulling Maggie behind him. ―You have no right to demand anything of me,‖ he spat, jarring Sawyer‘s shoulder as he passed. When Sawyer spun to follow, Marc grabbed his wrist. ―I wasn‘t sure what we‘d find here, Marc,‖ Jonathon said, ―but it wasn‘t this.‖ When he reached the kitchen door, he stopped and whispered something in Maggie‘s ear. She stiffened, but walked away without a parting word. Marc watched her go. Jonathon‘s nostrils flared as he pulled in a huge breath. ―I won‘t sugarcoat it. This money will take our current project farther than I ever imagined. It will bring medical care and education to kids who wouldn‘t have dared dream of such things a week ago. I‘m sorry. I truly am. I figured your Aunt would have left you something, but despite her oversight, your mother and I were prepared to be generous with you.‖ ―Prepared to be generous,‖ Marc murmured. Dizzy, head spinning, he shook his head at his father. ―None of this belongs to you.‖ ―I‘m afraid the law says differently.‖ Jonathon set his hat on his head. ―You can stay here. For now. But you aren‘t to come near your aunt‘s place, is that clear? Tomorrow, when the will gets read, we‘ll see what‘s what. And don‘t think your behavior,‖ he spat the word, looking at Sawyer with plain hatred, ―won‘t count for something when your mother and I discuss what portion, if any, of May‘s estate you‘ll be getting.‖ Before Marc could form a retort, he was gone, boots clomping heavily down the hall. The front door slammed hard enough to rattle the front windows. Marc‘s labored breathing was the only sound in the room. Shaking, he turned from Sawyer to stand at the same window his mother had been admiring a few minutes earlier. Sawyer sidled up and slid an arm around his waist. Marc leaned backward, relishing how

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solid Sawyer felt when everything else seemed to be crumbling around him. ―Okay, let‘s not panic,‖ Sawyer mumbled in his ear. ―All we know is what they said. Your father could be bluffing.‖ Marc placed a fist against the window. He had to swallow twice before he could work enough saliva to speak. ―Not his style. He‘s not a gambler, but he knows how to make the most of a situation. If what he says is true, he‘ll have both houses sold out from underneath me as soon as the estate clears probate.‖ Sawyer stiffened. ―He wouldn‘t.‖ There was little point in debate. Marc knew certain things about his father. Jonathon would sell both properties in a heartbeat and auction whatever else would bring a buck. No way would he let Marc keep his house; it was most valuable asset in the estate. Jonathon truly didn‘t see it as greed. It was necessary: he wanted to do certain things, and money paved the way for those things. Marc scrubbed his hands over his eyes, trying not to panic. ―This has got be a mistake. I‘d call May‘s lawyer now, but I doubt I‘d get anyone. Not on a Sunday.‖ ―You should think about getting your own lawyer.‖ After a gentle kiss to Marc‘s temple, Sawyer stepped away to make a pot of coffee. ―If any of this is true, you‘ll need representation. Someone whose involvement won‘t constitute a conflict of interest.‖ True. But who to call? Marc struggled to make sense of what information he needed. Of some action plan. Instead all he could think about was watching the remnants of his aunt‘s life being sold off without a care, and his house—a place he‘d made his own—being ripped away from him. No. Ridiculous. ―It‘s just a mistake,‖ he whispered. A big mistake. But repeating it in his head didn‘t help. ―I‘m sure it is,‖ Sawyer added, voice loud and sure. He scooped coffee into the filter, then slid it into the machine. Hearing such certainty in Sawyer‘s voice eased some of the dread. Marc took a deep breath for the first time since he‘d seen his parents standing in his kitchen.

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―There‘s not much we can do today. Maybe make a few calls. Other than that‖—Sawyer strode back to the window, taking up his place at Marc‘s back—―let‘s rest. We can watch movies and eat leftovers.‖ He pressed his nose into Marc‘s hair, and Marc shivered. ―All right. But there‘s something else I need to do first.‖ Sawyer protested when Marc shared his plan. ―Today? You have to do that today? On top of everything else?‖ Marc held firm. ―I don‘t want to put it off.‖ There was no sense, and both he and Rachel needed to move on. ―The sooner the better.‖

RACHEL had said to call. Maybe she‘d thought Marc would appreciate the easy way out. He couldn‘t say it hadn‘t crossed his mind, especially considering his fractured emotions, but a phone call would be cowardly. He‘d reconciled himself over the years to hiding his sexuality, considering it just one more personal detail the rest of the world had no right to know. Some considered it cowardly, he was sure. Even Sawyer. And Marc supposed it was, depending on one‘s perspective. There was no middle ground here. No gray area. He‘d misled Rachel for a year. Lied through omission. The least he could do was face her in person, even if it meant a slap in the face. He certainly deserved it. His plan to see her right away hadn‘t gone over well with Sawyer. ―Give it a little time,‖ he‘d said. ―You don‘t have to do this today.‖ ―The sooner the better,‖ Marc had replied, believing it. But now, standing at her door at barely nine in the morning, he was having second thoughts. The warm safety of Sawyer‘s arms was a near physical pull, urging him to turn around, get back in the truck, and run home. No. No more running. He rang the doorbell. Rachel answered promptly, one arm in her jacket, balancing her purse and travel mug in her free hand. She froze in place when she saw Marc, then relaxed. Her eyes went soft with fondness. ―I‘m impressed.‖

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―Thanks.‖ He ran a hand over his cheeks and chin. ―I didn‘t want to wait.‖ ―Like pulling off a bandage, right?‖ She laughed at his shock, waving off his stuttering protest. ―Have a seat,‖ she said, pointing at her front steps. ―It‘s too beautiful a morning to do this inside.‖ At one time, Marc would‘ve refused. He would‘ve scanned the neighboring lawns for snooping neighbors, protesting the public tête-àtête. Not anymore. Let them listen if they wanted. ―Sure. Whatever.‖ He took her coffee and slipped the purse off her shoulder. Rachel shrugged the rest of the way into her coat, then pulled her cell phone from her pocket. ―Just a minute, okay? Let me call the diner and tell them I‘m going to be late.‖ Marc nodded and stepped away to give her some privacy. It was a beautiful morning, brisk but brilliantly sunny. Red and orange leaves littered Rachel‘s small patch of lawn. The houses that bordered hers were close, joined by short picket fences. Small, but attractive and well-kept, they gave the neighborhood a homey feel. Here and there, pots of yellow mums decorated the landscape. Most of the other houses on the street were quiet, sleepy with Sunday morning lethargy. Marc turned up the collar of his jacket and lowered himself onto the top step, setting Rachel‘s bag and coffee beside him. ―Everything okay?‖ Rachel asked whoever was on the other end of the line. ―Good. I‘m going to be late. Call me if things start to get out of hand, but I should be there well before the after-church crowd. Okay. Bye.‖ She snapped the phone shut, and with a sigh, sank onto the porch beside Marc, pressing against his side. It felt natural to slip an arm around her waist when she laid her head on his shoulder. They probably made a pretty romantic picture. Yet another illusion. Rachel sighed again. ―Who starts?‖ Nearby, a child screamed, and Marc jumped. He pulled her closer. ―I‘m so fucking sorry, Rachel. I don‘t even really know what to say beyond that.‖ He shook his head. ―No, that‘s not true. I do, I guess.‖

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Everything sounded trite in his head. Too rehearsed. Not rehearsed enough. ―I‘ve been a real bastard.‖ ―Maybe.‖ She lifted her head, brushing the dark hair from her eyes. Again, Marc was struck by her beauty—how many times had he cursed himself for not being able to respond to it? On the hard days, the long ones, when all he had the energy for was to climb the stairs to his bed, when the fatigue was as emotional as it was physical, he‘d thought of how much easier things would be if he could imagine her as more than a friend. Those were the times when he‘d been at his weakest. When he‘d been the loneliest, he realized, even though he‘d never identified himself as so at the time. He wasn‘t lonely anymore. ―Maybe you‘ve been a real bastard.‖ Pensive, pressing her fingers to her lips, Rachel stared into the distance. ―But I‘ve been no better.‖ Marc was still processing that statement when she took his face gently in her grasp and turned him to face her. ―You know what I went through. With that guy.‖ ―Yeah.‖ He knew. The details had come out a few at a time, and after each story, Marc had needed to go home and hammer a box of nails into a spare piece of lumber until the urge to hunt the bastard down had passed. ―I didn‘t think I‘d ever be able to trust another man. I really didn‘t,‖ she said, swiping a tear from her cheek. She sniffed and blew out a breath. ―And I thought when I met you: wow, now here‘s what you need, Rachel. A guy who doesn‘t pressure you. Who doesn‘t demand anything. Who‘s content to go slow because you‘re just a little bit fucked up.‖ Her voice caught on a sob. Marc curled her against his chest. ―You‘re not fucked up.‖ ―Oh, stop lying through your teeth, Marc Wynn,‖ she groused, slipping her own arms around him. ―My point is, I was using you too. I didn‘t mean for it to go past one date. I just wanted to get these small town vultures off my back, you know?‖ With a laugh, Marc nodded. He knew. ―But you were so sweet and so nice. And easy to talk to. And undemanding.‖ She waved her hand in the air. ―And I kept dreading the

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night you decided we‘d talked enough and you wanted something more than a good-night kiss.‖ Cold fury rose in Marc. He‘d thought a lot in the past year about pushing her to press charges against the bastard. He mumbled something of the sort now, and Rachel snorted. ―It wouldn‘t have done any good. And I‘d be no less messed up, to be honest.‖ ―It would have made me feel better,‖ Marc volleyed. The tension cracked, then shattered. They both laughed. ―If there was harm done,‖ Rachel said, voice dreamy once more, ―then it‘s only fair to say it was done on both sides. But you know what?‖ She kissed his cheek, lips lingering near his ear. ―I‘d rather we didn‘t remember it as something so tainted. We each gave the other something important. Isn‘t that what relationships are all about?‖ Marc frowned. He knew what Rachel had given him. ―Doesn‘t seem like a fair trade. You just said I scared you.‖ ―No, Marc. No.‖ Rachel slid down a step. She clasped his hands in hers and squeezed. ―You never scared me. I scared myself. And that‘s the thing, don‘t you get it? I stopped being scared while I was with you. I think….‖ She sniffed. ―I think I‘m going to be okay now. Maybe not today or tomorrow. But eventually.‖ Tears leaked from her eyes and tracked down her cheeks, but she laughed. ―That‘s what you gave me. Time. Time to believe in myself again.‖ She cupped his cheek in her palm. ―Thank you.‖ ―Seems like I‘m getting off a bit too easy here,‖ Marc said, voice rough. Rachel rolled her eyes. She stood, retrieving her purse and mug. ―Why is it that people think life has to be so hard all the time?‖ She bent to kiss his cheek. ―See you ‘round, sweetie.‖ She threw a parting wave over her shoulder as she headed for her car. A minute later, she was behind the wheel, the engine on her old Volkswagen rattling the quiet morning air. A minute after that she was gone, leaving Marc alone on the steps to her house, filled with relief and wonder.

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Chapter 13

THE law offices of Strobler and Strobler occupied a corner building in downtown Edgewood, just two blocks from Rachel‘s diner. Yet another historic landmark in a town that already claimed too many, it towered above the other structures on Main Street. Sawyer bet the symbolism appealed to the tenants. Pretentious was the word that came to mind when he walked with Marc into the main reception area. A marble statue of Lady Justice adorned the center of the space, complete with sword and scales. Bushy ferns surrounded her, so that she appeared to be emerging from a primeval forest. Richly carved wooden chairs lined the perimeter of the room. Sawyer eyed the statue as Marc spoke quietly with the receptionist. ―Your parents aren‘t here yet. That‘s good,‖ Sawyer said as they sat, choosing two chairs tucked under a tall window. ―Yeah, well, I‘m sure they won‘t be late.‖ Marc leaned over his knees, scratching his chin as he stared into space. Sawyer spoke to fill the silence. ―This doesn‘t seem like the type of place May preferred.‖ ―No, you‘re right,‖ Marc said. ―She thought it was way too stuffy. But the bottom line is that there aren‘t that many lawyers around here, unless you go all the way into the city. I think she probably hated the thought of that more.‖ Somewhere down the thickly carpeted hallway that led into the bowels of the building, a phone rang. Other than that, everything was silent. ―Not exactly bustling,‖ Sawyer muttered. ―They‘ll probably still make us wait an eternity.‖ ―Hmmm.‖ Marc‘s eyes continued to scan the room. Blowing out a breath, Sawyer slouched back in his chair and crossed his legs. The minutes stretched, and to pass the time, he took to studying the stone

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sculptures carved into the walls and ceiling. The place reminded him of a church. ―You know,‖ he said, eyes straying to a pair of gargoyles high above the window, ―I realize it was short notice, but you really should‘ve tried to get a lawyer.‖ ―Who says I didn‘t?‖ Surprised, Sawyer tilted his head forward, and Marc arched an eyebrow. ―I made some calls while you were in the shower last night.‖ Sawyer blinked. ―And managed to get somebody for this afternoon? That‘s amazing.‖ Marc twitched. He shifted in his seat and fussed with his tie. ―Yeah.‖ ―Who‘d you call?‖ ―I actually called—‖ Something near the door caught Marc‘s eye. He cut off mid-sentence and stood. ―Don‘t go crazy, okay?‖ The bad feeling churning in the pit of Sawyer‘s stomach coalesced into full blown indigestion when he saw who was striding across the room toward them. He stood on unsteady legs, hoping he was mistaken, but realizing the chances were slim. His brother looked like he belonged at Strobler and Strobler. Sawyer bet his suit cost what most people made in a month, but it was more than his clothes and supple leather briefcase that gave that impression. Finn defined pretention. It bled from his pores. Every word that spilled from his mouth was pitched to make whoever he was talking to feel twelve inches tall. Sawyer grunted under his breath. Come to think of it, he was probably the perfect choice for the confrontation to come. ―Are you freaking out yet?‖ Marc asked out of the corner of his mouth. ―Nope,‖ Sawyer said. ―I‘m fine.‖ Something in his tone must have been off. Marc shot him a panicked look. ―Seriously, I‘m fine,‖ Sawyer assured him. ―Finn,‖ he said as his brother stopped in front of them. He stuck out his hand. ―Long time no see.‖

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Finn‘s eyes played over Sawyer before settling on Marc. ―You didn‘t tell him I was coming.‖ ―It‘s that obvious?‖ ―He looks ready to combust. But….‖ Finn sighed and finally took Sawyer‘s outstretched hand. They broke the contact immediately. ―That‘s about par for the course when I‘m around.‖ A hundred biting replies flew to Sawyer‘s lips. Swallowing them back took physical effort. As if privy to his brother‘s struggle, Finn got right down to business. ―We don‘t have a lot of time. Marc told me some of what was going on when we spoke yesterday, but I have some questions, if that‘s all right?‖ ―Perfectly all right.‖ Sawyer put a hand on Marc‘s shoulder and pushed. Obediently, Marc sank into his seat. ―Shall we?‖ Sawyer gestured for Finn to take one of the adjacent chairs, and, eyeing Sawyer with a narrowed gaze, he did. Sawyer collapsed into his own chair and forced a smile onto his face. ―So this is cozy. What made you rush to Marc‘s rescue? Having a slow week?‖ ―Sawyer.‖ Sawyer winced at Marc‘s warning tone, but couldn‘t help himself. Finn brought out the worst in him. ―Couldn‘t find anyone to sue? Now that I find hard to believe. You‘re usually so resourceful.‖ It irked to see that his barbs did little to wipe the knowing smirk from Finn‘s face. ―If there‘s one constant in the universe,‖ Finn said, ―it‘s your schoolboy insults.‖ Barking a laugh, Sawyer squared his shoulders, ready to deliver a few more schoolboy insults, just for good measure. But Marc leaned forward, filling his vision. ―Sawyer,‖ he said, and this time Sawyer held his tongue, because there was nothing of Marc‘s usual gentle tone in that one word. His voice trembled, and not with uncertainty. Gulping, Sawyer eased back against the wall. Finn took in the exchange silently. ―Thanks, Marc,‖ he said with a tilt of his head. ―Now that you‘ve muzzled your dog, maybe we can get somewhere.‖ Gleeful, Sawyer watched Marc turn his anger on Finn. He didn‘t need to speak. His glare was enough. Finn accepted the chastisement in

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silence. He cleared his throat and thumbed open his briefcase. ―Tell me everything that‘s happened. Even if you think you covered it yesterday.‖ ―Everything?‖ Marc asked. Finn nodded. ―Take it from the top.‖ ―It‘s pretty straightforward,‖ Sawyer blurted. He pointed at Marc. ―Marc‘s aunt passed away last week. She left everything to Marc in a new will that she drafted when he turned eighteen. The two bloodsucking leeches that call themselves his parents think the estate‘s theirs.‖ Finn‘s pen never moved. ―How frighteningly ironic.‖ Stroking a finger over his mustache, he swiveled to Marc. ―Can we take it from the top… with a little more objectivity.‖ Marc scrubbed his hands over his face. ―Sure.‖ They never got the chance. The great glass doors swung open, catching Finn‘s attention, and Sawyer followed his gaze. Jonathon entered the building first, the sight of him bringing Sawyer‘s anger to the surface. He took Marc‘s hand. They‘d held off from any intimacy the night before. One look at Marc‘s haggard face and Sawyer had put his foot down. But just before they‘d fallen asleep, in the dark with Sawyer‘s arms around him, Marc had made a quiet admission. ―The thing is,‖ he said, voice heavy with sleep and sadness, ―I still feel like I should love them, you know? They‘re my parents. Shouldn‘t that count for something?‖ All Sawyer had offered in return was a noncommittal grunt. By his reckoning, they didn‘t deserve any of Marc‘s love. Jonathon was dressed head to toe in white linen and sporting the same hat he‘d been wearing the previous morning. Behind him, trapped in her own fashion time warp—another print skirt and peasant blouse— Marc‘s mother hovered, flitting like a bird, hands twisting in the crocheted wrap she held shieldlike in front of her. Marc wasn‘t up to this. May‘s loss still hung on him, a heavy blanket of despair, and Sawyer hated that he couldn‘t ease his pain. As though he felt Sawyer‘s frustration, Jonathon‘s gaze alighted on them, his eyes twin shards of blue ice. The set of his jaw and pursed lips said it all: let the battle begin.

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Beside Sawyer, Marc nodded, interpreting the message exactly as Sawyer had. He took a deep breath and stood. Like a sentry, Sawyer rose to his feet beside him. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Finn join them, and flanking Marc, they crossed the lobby in a line. ―Take the high road, Sawyer,‖ Finn said out of the corner of his mouth. Now that was rich. ―Why?‖ ―Could you just trust me for once instead of questioning my advice? For Marc,‖ Finn added before Sawyer could push a reply past his lips. ―That was low, brother.‖ ―Whatever works,‖ Finn shot back, and then they were there, face to face with the devil and his wife. Sawyer bit his tongue before he could give Finn a reason to scold him. Maggie stepped back as they approached, hand fluttering at her mouth. ―Hello, sweetheart,‖ she said softly to Marc. Sawyer‘s stomach flipped unpleasantly. Even Marc flinched. He gave her a crisp nod, but nothing more. Jonathon ignored Marc and stared at Sawyer with open disdain. He opened his mouth to speak—Sawyer sensed a tirade in the works— but they were all saved an unpleasant scene by someone clearing their throat. Where the carpeted hall led away from the lobby, a petite middleaged woman in a dark blue suit and matching pumps stood waiting. Wire-rimmed glasses framed a sharp face with large, shrewd eyes. ―Mr. and Mrs. Wynn?‖ she called. She stepped onto the marble floor, clickety-clacking her way toward them. ―I‘m Heidi Strobler.‖ She shook Jonathon‘s hand, then took Maggie‘s limp one briefly before turning to Marc. ―And Marc. Thank you for coming.‖ Sawyer felt a pang of nervousness at the pity in her voice. ―And this must be Mr. Calhoun,‖ she said, turning to Finn. ―One of them,‖ Finn said, darting a glance at his brother. ―But undoubtedly the one who talked my ear off this morning on the phone regarding a disputed will.‖ She winked. ―You look like I imagined. Good morning to you all. Please follow me.‖

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She led them down the hall. Marc‘s parents took the lead, Jonathon striding impatiently behind Heidi while Maggie tagged along, nibbling on her lower lip, just as Marc did when he was troubled. It lent her a vulnerable look, and it was no stretch to imagine she was fragile, not that her weakness gained her any of Sawyer‘s sympathy. Marc, silent as Maggie and stoic as Jonathon, gave off a different vibe altogether: quiet confidence, unfettered by their dramatic air. Sawyer was impressed, and Finn‘s dancing eyes meant he also approved. The high road. Sawyer cracked his knuckles and burned a hole in Jonathon‘s back with his eyes. He could walk the high road. Unless the bastard gave him a reason to stray. They entered a cozy conference room. ―Please have a seat,‖ Heidi said, gesturing to the long table. Sawyer followed Finn and Marc around to the opposite side, as far from Jonathon and Maggie as possible. Finn took his seat like he owned the place, placed his briefcase on the table, and snapped it open. ―What,‖ Jonathon barked, pointing at Sawyer, ―is he doing here?‖ ―Don‘t feel the need to answer that, Sawyer,‖ Finn said, retrieving a pad of paper and pen. ―Please,‖ Heidi said in a cool voice. ―Let‘s keep this calm and reasonable.‖ She caught Finn‘s eye. ―It‘s a reasonable question.‖ ―What is he doing here?‖ Maggie‘s trembling voice cut into the silence. She pointed at Finn. Heidi cleared her throat. ―Mr. Calhoun contacted me this morning. Apparently there is some question about Ms. Schaeffer‘s will. Finn is here to represent Marc while we try to get our facts straight.‖ Jonathon huffed, then narrowed his eyes at Heidi. ―Do you know my son?‖ Heidi nodded. ―I‘ve known him since he was a child.‖ ―So much for getting a fair shake,‖ Jonathon grumbled. He tossed his hat onto the table. Unable to take measure of Heidi‘s expression, Sawyer darted a glance at his brother. Finn was hiding a smile behind his hand.

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―Mr. Wynn.‖ Heidi‘s clipped reply had all heads snapping to attention. ―Are you questioning my objectivity and integrity?‖ Sawyer felt his knees go watery at her tone. Heidi Strobler would have made an excellent high school principal. ―No,‖ Jonathon said after a long moment. ―Of course not.‖ Heidi accepted his reply in silence. She opened the leather bound notebook she‘d been carrying under her arm and took up her own gold pen. It looked remarkably like Finn‘s, Sawyer thought. ―Now,‖ she said, straightening her glasses. ―Is there some burning reason why this gentleman can‘t reveal the reason for his presence?‖ ―No,‖ Marc said when Finn hesitated. ―There‘s not.‖ He met Sawyer‘s eyes. ―This is Sawyer Calhoun. He‘s here for moral support.‖ ―So he‘s a friend,‖ Heidi said, making a note. ―More than a friend,‖ Marc qualified, voice steady, speaking over Finn‘s objection. Heidi‘s pen stalled for a moment, then took up its quiet scratch across the page. Her lips turned up in a small smile, but it was gone when she lifted her head. She ignored Jonathon‘s grunt of disgust. ―Let‘s get on with it, then, shall we?‖ She arched an eyebrow at Finn, and he acquiesced with a nod. ―I‘ll try to keep it as straightforward as possible. Our client, May Schaeffer, had this office prepare her last will and testament eighteen years ago. At that time‖— she flipped a page in her notebook—―her niece, Margaret Wynn, was named as sole beneficiary of the estate. At no time before her death did Ms. Schaeffer make us aware that she had drafted a new will that would have revoked her original will and its codicils. I‘m sorry, Marc,‖ she said, regret filling her voice. ―In the absence of any other evidence, the original will stands.‖ ―No,‖ Marc said, banging his fist on the table, his first open display of emotion since entering the room. ―Marc.‖ Finn pressed a hand to his arm, a warning. Marc slumped back in his chair, and Finn leaned forward. ―As I said on the phone this morning, Marc is positive that his aunt made a new will when he reached his majority, revoking the will that was made when he was ten years old.‖ Jonathon shook his head. Prove it, he mouthed across the table.

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Sawyer watched Heidi purse her lips into a thin line and tap her pen against her notes. ―But you can‘t produce this document?‖ ―Not at this time. Please understand that we‘re just as confused as you are by this. In Marc‘s mind, there is no question that this newer will exists. He‘s seen it.‖ ―But not recently, obviously,‖ Heidi said with a tired sigh. ―No,‖ Marc admitted. ―And I‘m guessing you‘re the primary beneficiary of this alleged will?‖ Heidi asked Marc. ―He‘s the sole beneficiary,‖ Finn said. He and Heidi shared a pointed look. ―This is quite the mess, isn‘t it?‖ Heidi reached under her glasses to rub her eyes. ―That was a rhetorical question, Mr. Wynn,‖ she cut in when Jonathon flushed with anger. She spread her hands, palms up. ―How would you like to proceed?‖ Finn shrugged. ―I‘d like Mr. and Mrs. Wynn to agree to give Marc some time to track this thing down. I think everyone will agree it‘s extremely unlikely Ms. Schaeffer would have failed to amend the details of her will when Marc turned eighteen. We simply have to locate the current will.‖ ―Absolutely not,‖ Jonathon cut in. Next to him, Maggie sniffed into a hankie. ―Why not?‖ Finn pressed. ―Because I don‘t have time to play these games,‖ Jonathon said, a distinct edge to his voice. ―I‘m due back in China in three days, and I want to put this to bed before I leave. I need to hire someone to handle the sale of the property. I can‘t manage things from halfway around the globe.‖ ―You mean to sell Marc‘s house out from underneath him?‖ It was the same condescending tone Finn liked to use with Sawyer. Sawyer had to admit he appreciated it far more when it was turned on someone else. Namely Jonathon. ―You can‘t be serious?‖ Jonathon raised his chin. ―I‘m truly sorry about that. I want to—‖ he paused and looked at Maggie. ―We want to make sure Marc gets something, of course. I‘m not a monster. But please try to understand

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what good this money will do where it‘s going. I can‘t, in good conscience, let it be wasted.‖ ―Wasted?‖ Sawyer asked, incredulous. Finn shot him a quelling look. He ignored it. Jonathon shifted in his chair. ―There are children to be considered.‖ ―What about your child?‖ Dark splotches appeared on Jonathon‘s cheeks. ―Marc is no longer a child. As you well know. We‘ve made our decision. Once they clear probate, both properties are going on the market.‖ ―How can you do that? In good conscience, how can you do that?‖ Sawyer asked, voice rising with every word. Jonathon‘s mouth turned up at the corner, reminding Sawyer of a snarling dog. ―Marc isn‘t the person I thought he was.‖ Because he‘d been honest and stood up for the truths in his life. For once. The implications of yesterday‘s early morning confrontation made Sawyer nauseous. Marc had gone pale. ―How long is probate?‖ ―A couple of months at least,‖ Heidi said kindly. Her eyes, at odds with her voice, shot daggers at Jonathon. ―Actually….‖ Finn looked pointedly across the table. ―Your wife is the beneficiary of the will, Mr. Wynn. Not you. I‘d like to hear her opinion on the matter.‖ ―Maggie and I have already spoken about her wishes,‖ Jonathon answered. ―She agrees with me.‖ Tension crackled in the air, yet nobody spoke. Beside Sawyer, Marc gave a quiet sigh. His shoulders sagged. No, Sawyer wanted to say. Don’t give up. Not yet. But even he recognized the inevitability of what was about to happen. Furious and afraid, he took Marc‘s hand under the table. ―Finn,‖ he said, choking on the name. Finn‘s fingers tightened on his pen, but he wouldn‘t look Sawyer in the eye. Sawyer‘s temper bubbled, gaining momentum, but before it could crest, Finn‘s voice rang out. He said, ―Mrs. Wynn,‖ and if

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Sawyer hadn‘t seen his lips moving, he wouldn‘t have believed it was his brother speaking. The cockiness had vanished. Finn leaned across the table, ignoring everyone, especially Jonathon, as he focused on Marc‘s mother. ―Maggie,‖ he said. ―One day. That‘s all Marc is asking for. Please.‖ No bargaining, no guilt trips, no wheedling of any kind. This must be the Finn who wins over juries. Unbelievable to see such quiet respect from a man who enjoyed proving he didn‘t believe in such a thing. Jonathon sputtered. ―We are not—‖ ―That sounds fair to me,‖ Maggie said, interrupting her husband. Her voice gained strength as she spoke. ―A day sounds more than fair.‖ While Jonathon sat gaping at his wife, Heidi closed her notebook with a sharp snap. ―These are the kinds of meetings my accountant loves. Lots of talk. Nothing resolved. All right everyone, how does Wednesday morning sound? Nine sharp? And I expect,‖ she said, looking over her glasses at Finn, ―we‘ll be able to put this matter to rest at that time.‖ Finn inclined his head and started repacking his briefcase, which wasn‘t the answer Heidi was looking for, Sawyer was sure. ―That‘s more than a day,‖ Jonathon groused. He hadn‘t quit glaring at Maggie. ―It‘s a fair request, Jon.‖ Maggie rose when Marc did, reaching for him across the table. ―Marc—‖ Marc brushed past Sawyer and out the door, moving fast. Maggie‘s hand wavered, then dropped. The stab of sympathy Sawyer expected to feel for her never materialized. ―Go on,‖ Finn prompted, waving him after Marc. Sawyer didn‘t need further prompting. Let Finn deal whatever polite goodbyes were necessary. He reached the lobby just as Marc shoved the heavy glass door open and stormed out onto the sidewalk. Sawyer caught the look of alarm on the receptionist‘s face and slowed to offer a placating smile. ―Sorry, he‘s a little upset.‖

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―So I see.‖ Her pinched frown followed him out the door and into the late day sunshine. Marc was already half a block away, sifting in and out of the crowd. Sawyer followed, taking care to keep a respectable distance. Marc needed space, and not just the physical kind. Sawyer‘s own thoughts were in a tangle, and he wasn‘t nearly as emotionally invested in what was happening. At the southern tip of Main Street, a wide creek flowed under the road. Sawyer watched Marc place both hands on the bridge railing and hang his head between his shoulders. Apparently he‘d outrun his demons, at least for the time being. No. He‘d spoken too soon. Sawyer‘s sigh of relief caught in his throat when Marc vaulted over the metal barrier and disappeared over the side of the hill. Cursing, Sawyer broke into a jog. He reached the railing just as Marc hit a flat shelf of earth halfway down the hill. Before Sawyer could call out, Marc dropped to the spongy moss, paying no attention to how the damp ground soiled his suit and shoes, and reclined back on his elbows. When Sawyer‘s heart had stopped racing, he swung his legs over the railing and followed Marc down. The bank was slick, and the tall reeds didn‘t slow his descent. He probably would have shot past the ledge and into the water if Marc hadn‘t grabbed his arm. ―Easy there, city boy.‖ ―Thanks.‖ Nowhere looked particularly clean. Sawyer reconciled himself to the dry cleaning bill and lowered himself onto the ground next to Marc. ―Sorry I didn‘t warn you about Finn,‖ Marc mumbled. ―Don‘t give that another thought,‖ Sawyer said, meaning it. ―Let‘s concentrate on what we need to do.‖ Marc‘s wrist flicked, and a stone skipped across a pool of water before landing in the faster moving current. ―I have no idea where to begin. Well‖—he gave a bitter laugh—―that‘s not exactly true. I‘d start at Aunt May‘s house, but there‘s no way my father will let me near it.‖ ―He can‘t keep you out forever.‖ Sawyer frowned. ―Can he?‖ ―He doesn‘t need to. He just needs to make sure there‘s nothing there for me to find once I get in the door.‖

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of it. ―If there‘s a copy there, there‘s a copy somewhere else.‖ He forced himself to hold Marc‘s stare. ―There has to be. We‘ll find it.‖ ―So sure?‖ The sun glinted off Marc‘s sad smile. ―Yeah. We just need to go about this logically. What about May‘s friends?‖ Laughing, Marc tossed another pebble into the creek. ―Okay, come on, Marc. I know she could be… abrasive. But she had to have had some friends.‖ ―Yeah,‖ Marc said, still chuckling, ―she did. But hardly any that she would‘ve trusted with this.‖ Brow furrowed in thought, he dug a few more flat stones from underneath the soil. ―There was Mary, but she moved away to be with her family in Florida years ago. I don‘t think they stayed in touch. And there was Simone. They were close, but she moved out to St. John‘s when I was still in college. I don‘t think they kept in touch either.‖ Sawyer filed all of this away. ―What‘s St. John‘s?‖ ―A huge retirement community about forty miles from here. It‘s pretty fancy, as those places go. Aunt May liked to call it adult day care. Yeah,‖ he said, catching sight of Sawyer‘s face, ―she wasn‘t the most politically correct person in the world.‖ ―I‘m sure she didn‘t relish the thought of giving up her independence.‖ Marc shook his head. ―I think—‖ He gulped and tossed another rock at the creek. ―I think I‘m going to head home.‖ Sawyer‘s jaw clenched at the way he tripped over the last word, as if it wouldn‘t be valid much longer. ―Is that okay?‖ ―You don‘t need my permission,‖ Sawyer replied, keeping his tone light. Marc nodded. ―I need some time to think.‖ That was fine. Sawyer needed some time to stew in his rage without worrying about how juvenile it was. ―Are you coming to work tomorrow?‖

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Marc nodded again. He stood, brushing the dirt from his pants. ―We‘ll all be there.‖ ―Yeah?‖ Sawyer asked as they trudged to the top of the embankment. ―Everyone?‖ ―Everyone,‖ Marc said, giving Sawyer a hand over the rail. Which was why he wanted the evening alone, probably. How would tomorrow play out? What kind of trouble would Rick cause? Would they find May‘s will? And how was Marc going to weather having everything in his life turned upside down? There were no answers to be had then, in the middle of the street at the busiest time of the afternoon. People brushed by them, some greeting Marc, and even a few waving at Sawyer. No matter what Sawyer longed to say—no matter what he longed to do—it wasn‘t the time. He settled for squeezing Marc‘s shoulder. ―I‘ll see you in the morning.‖ Marc smiled. ―In the morning.‖

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Chapter 14

MARC‘S plan was simple: get to Sawyer‘s before anyone else, make coffee, have at least three fortifying cups, and deal with the confrontations one person at a time. Not that he expected any problems from anyone but Rick, but he wasn‘t quite up to Reba‘s mothering and knowing smiles, either. Each member of his team was a separate personal minefield of expectations and explanations, and frankly, Marc wasn‘t sure he could handle it all at once. The best laid plans…. Sleep eluded him most of the night, and it was near dawn by the time he drifted off, his father‘s words still echoing in his ears: Not the person I thought he was. He woke to his cell phone ringing a few hours later and spent a frustrating few seconds trying to turn off the alarm before he realized his mistake. He pressed the phone to his ear. ―Yeah,‖ he said, the word thick and garbled. Silence followed. Marc squinted at the caller‘s number. Sawyer. ―Hello?‖ he tried again. ―Are you okay?‖ Marc‘s fuzzy brain couldn‘t even put together a pat response. ―What time is it?‖ ―Ten.‖ Marc collapsed onto his pillow with a groan. ―Are you okay?‖ Sawyer asked again. ―Yeah.‖ ―Yo!‖ he heard Rick yell in the background. ―Is that lazy ass still in bed?‖

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A headache started between Marc‘s eyes. ―I take it everyone‘s there.‖ ―And waiting.‖ Marc rolled out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom. ―I‘ll be there in half an hour.‖ ―Half an hour,‖ Sawyer confirmed, too much mirth in his voice for Marc‘s liking. ―Christ! Half an hour? What, are we working half days now?‖ Marc pressed end, cutting off Rick‘s voice, but he stepped into the shower with a smile on his face. At least they were talking to each other… after a fashion. He made the thirty-minute deadline with five minutes to spare and followed the voices back to Sawyer‘s kitchen. At least his luck was holding for some things—nobody saw him immediately—and he used the precious few seconds to his advantage, scanning their faces for clues to how the next few minutes would pan out. They all had full cups of coffee. Marc almost whimpered at the unfairness of it. ―There you are,‖ Karen said, catching sight of him. She rose, snatched a mug from the counter, and filled it to the brim. ―You look like you could use this,‖ she whispered when she got close enough to hand it over. ―Thanks.‖ He‘d prepared a special conversation for Karen. Hell, he‘d prepared to say certain things to all of them. But as she passed over the coffee, her fingers brushed his, and she winked. He‘d known her long enough to understand. It’s all good. A measure of the tension he‘d been carrying inside of him eased. ―Thanks,‖ he repeated, meaning something altogether different than before. She patted his arm and retreated to her seat. Marc took a few sips. ―Morning, everyone.‖ ―Morning.‖ Sawyer was the first to answer. He didn‘t come any closer. In fact, he moved away, putting an obvious and unmistakable distance between the team and himself, and leaned against the counter. ―It‘s not like you to be late.‖

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loud. ―Well‖—Reba raised her hand, ticking reasons off on her fingers one at a time—―let‘s see. Because the idea of you sleeping like anything but the dead is hard to fathom. Because being hung over isn‘t the same as ‗had trouble sleeping‘.‖ She set the last bit off with air quotes. ―And because staying up until three in the morning watching reruns of Home Improvement isn‘t something you should admit to anyone, let alone try to use as an excuse to be two hours late to work.‖ ―Hey! Home Improvement is classic television.‖ ―I hope it wasn‘t us that kept you awake,‖ Tim said, rather loudly. The cup of coffee froze halfway to Marc‘s mouth. He‘d entertained scenarios of how things would play out, but not once had he seen Tim taking an active role. ―No,‖ Marc said, stumbling over the word. ―Not really.‖ ―Are you sure?‖ Tim pressed, his voice rising further. He had everyone‘s attention now. ―Because that‘s not something you have to do any worrying about.‖ He panned his gaze across the table, settling on Rick. ―Is it? We‘re all live and let live around here.‖ So much for the one-on-one approach. And so much for Tim‘s laissez-faire attitude. He‘d shifted their entire group dynamic with a few short sentences. Rick crossed his eyes at Tim. ―Lay off the mystical shit.‖ He kicked back in his chair, scratching at his stomach. ―I think it‘s…. It‘s fine with me, okay? Just…. Jesus, do we need to talk about it? Like, in detail? I‘m not sure I‘m ready for that.‖ By some miracle, Marc‘s knees held out until he made it across the room to the table. ―No details,‖ he said in a rush of breath as he sat. ―No problem.‖ ―Dandy,‖ Rick said, grimacing. ―So business as usual?‖ The headache between Marc‘s eyes intensified. ―Not exactly.‖ To his surprise, the entire story took less than five minutes to relate. At the end of it, whatever easy mood Marc had managed to hold

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onto had vanished. Judging by the looks on everyone‘s faces, they were feeling the same. ―What. The. Fuck,‖ Rick bellowed, ever eloquent. ―They can‘t do that.‖ ―Oh for Christ‘s—were you even listening?‖ Reba shot back. ―They can and they will.‖ Karen stood and began to pace. ―We can‘t let this happen. It‘s like Marc says. We need to track down May‘s will.‖ ―But how?‖ Sawyer pressed. He‘d come to stand behind Marc. ―We can‘t get into her house.‖ ―You‘re all approaching this from the wrong direction,‖ Rick said with a snort. ―Marc‘s father is like Darth Vader. One evil dude. We‘re not going to get anywhere reasoning with him. We need another strategy.‖ Reba popped her gum. ―If you say ‗use the Force‘, I‘ll smack you.‖ ―Listen, this isn‘t rocket science.‖ Rick slammed his fist on the table. Coffee sloshed everywhere. ―We‘ve got the yellow pages for the city. Some law office, somewhere, knows something. Let‘s just get our asses on the phone and track this shit down.‖ Marc wasn‘t the only one shocked at the outburst. Nobody else moved. For the first time that morning, Rick met Marc‘s eyes across the table. He hadn‘t figured everything out—he‘d been honest about that. But he had a cause he believed in. And if Reba was the mother who turned them in the right direction, then Rick was the rebel who got them going. ―It‘s personal,‖ Rick mumbled, dropping his eyes to the floor. ―I spent fifteen hours hanging those fancy cabinets in Marc‘s kitchen. He‘s going to get to damn well appreciate them for another thirty years or so, if I have anything to say about it.‖ ―Jesus, Rick.‖ Reba wiped her eyes. ―You‘re going to make me bawl.‖ Everyone laughed but Rick, who turned away with a groan. ―As long as you don‘t hug me, then we‘re good.‖ Reba eased to her feet. ―Careful. I just might.‖

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―Bitch.‖ ―Ass,‖ she replied affectionately, coming up behind and throwing her arms around his shoulders. Rick grunted and patted her arm awkwardly. Karen sighed. ―And me without a camera. Looks like their love will have to remain an urban legend.‖ She scooted past Rick to grab Sawyer‘s phone book out of the cupboard. ―Let‘s get to work. Cell phones out. Everybody get a pen. Rick, do you need some guidance on what to say?‖ ―Eat me. I‘m not a complete idiot, you know.‖ The tap of Karen‘s pencil on the table and her eye roll was all the answer he received. Marc accepted two pens from Reba, but when he turned to hand one to Sawyer, found an empty chair. ―He went that way,‖ Reba supplied, nodding toward the living room. Marc slipped away from the table and followed. The living room window looked out on the front yard. Nearly bare, the trees swayed in a brisk wind. Leaves blew by in waves, swirling into tiny twisters at the corner of the house. Overcast and gray, the sky looked ready to open up any minute. Marc hoped the weather wasn‘t a harbinger of their failure. Would they get a miracle? Or were they hoping for something that simply didn‘t exist? Marc sighed, but lost in thought, Sawyer didn‘t turn. One hand rubbed his chin, while the other absently traced patterns on the window. ―Hey.‖ Marc ran his fingers down Sawyer‘s spine. Sawyer glanced over his shoulder, shivering at the touch. ―Hey.‖ ―What‘s on your mind?‖ Snatches of conversation drifted in from the kitchen. ―I think,‖ Sawyer said, turning, ―that you and I should let these guys take care of the phone calls.‖ Marc arched a brow. ―While we do what, exactly?‖ Sawyer‘s lopsided smile started a tingle in his chest. ―That‘s a tempting picture.‖ Two more steps and they were chest to chest. Marc reveled in the lust he saw bloom in Sawyer‘s gaze. ―How do you know what I was offering?‖

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Sawyer had him spun and back against the window so quickly, Marc gasped. ―You really need to stop that,‖ Sawyer said. Rubbing against Marc like a cat, he dipped to kiss his jaw. ―One day you‘re going to tease me in the wrong place, and then this whole damn town‘s going to know what I want to do to you.‖ The need arrived in a flood, sudden and uncontrollable. ―Okay,‖ Marc breathed. And it was, which Sawyer must have heard in his voice. He pulled back, eyes wide. ―Yeah?‖ ―Well, maybe not the whole town.‖ ―Yeah, okay,‖ Sawyer answered, looking dazed. ―Whatever you want.‖ Marc wiggled loose. ―What were you saying you wanted us to do?‖ ―Well.‖ Sawyer settled himself onto the windowsill. He shrugged. ―I was thinking we could go see this Simone person you told me about.‖ ―It‘s a shot in the dark.‖ ―So you‘ve said, but what have we got to lose?‖ It was a good point. Plus, the thought of sitting around and calling every lawyer in the yellow pages made his head hurt even more. He glanced out the window in time to see the sun break through the cloud cover. ―Okay,‖ he said. ―I‘m game.‖ The others didn‘t buy their excuse. Reba smirked and buried her head in the phone book. Karen rolled her eyes and made a shooing motion. Rick stared at them both, mouth hanging open until Sawyer laughed. Cheeks red, Rick snapped his head down and punched a series of numbers into his cell phone. ―Good luck,‖ he grumbled, barely enunciating the words. ―You too,‖ Marc said. ―We‘ll be back as soon as we can.‖ ―Uh-huh.‖ Reba snorted. ―Take as long as you want,‖ Karen added sweetly. Rick slumped even further over the table, and Marc laughed all the way out to his truck.

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FORTY minutes later, the expansive green lawns of St. John‘s Retirement Center came into view. The ―village,‖ as it was marketed, consisted of several levels of assistance, a shopping center, movie theater, golf course, and small lake with paddleboats. On both sides of the road, buildings sprang up, brick low-rises with mature fruit trees lining the drives and bushy hydrangeas blooming under the windows. Sawyer whistled. ―This place is huge. And,‖ he added as they passed a parking lot full of Cadillacs, ―swanky.‖ ―Yep. It employs a good portion of Edgewood, actually. Largest retirement community in the state.‖ Marc pointed out a small park, complete with white gazebo and kissing bridge. ―It‘s difficult to get a place here. Aunt May talked about it sometimes.‖ Nursing a healthy dose of surprise, Sawyer asked, ―She was considering a place like this?‖ ―Not seriously. But several of her friends did move here, including Simone, and I think she got sick and tired of hearing how wonderful it was. ‗Can‘t make your own jam,‘ she said to me once. ‗Why would anybody move anyplace where they couldn‘t make their own jam?‘‖ They both chuckled as Marc pulled the truck into a parking place in front of the main administration building. Sawyer caught his hand before he could get out. ―You okay?‖ Marc squeezed his fingers. ―Yeah. It feels good to talk about her.‖ Sawyer acknowledged the sentiment, and they both stepped down out of the cab. Sawyer stretched, hands in the air, while Marc flagged down a woman in a white coat. Ten minutes later, they were knocking on the door of an adorable brick cottage, situated on the other side of the small lake. Flowers spilled out of freshly painted window boxes and there wasn‘t a weed to be seen in the mulched planting beds that flanked the entry. ―Nice,‖ Sawyer said, admiring the pots of pansies that someone had arranged artfully on the front stoop. ―Who is it?‖ a strong, but elderly voice asked from behind the door. At Sawyer‘s nod, Marc answered. ―Simone Parks?‖

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―Yes?‖ The door opened and a petite woman with long silver hair eyed them from under the brim of her gardening hat. ―And you are?‖ ―Ms. Parks, it‘s Marc—‖ ―Marc!‖ Simone threw the door open and stepped onto the concrete stoop. She grasped Marc‘s forearms and peered up into his face. ―What a handsome young man you‘ve grown into. Where‘s your aunt?‖ Before Marc could answer, Simone was peering behind him at Sawyer. ―Hello, handsome number two.‖ Sawyer laughed and shook her small, wrinkled hand. ―Hello.‖ ―What‘s your name?‖ ―Sawyer.‖ Simone clucked her tongue and squinted up at him. ―Calhoun?‖ ―Uh… that‘s right.‖ ―Interesting,‖ Simone drawled, her blue eyes sparkling. With deft fingers, she twisted her long hair into a bun at the nape of her neck and secured it with a hairpin from her apron pocket. ―Where‘s your aunt, sweetheart? May!‖ she called, peering behind Marc. ―Ms. Parks.‖ Marc‘s smile faded. ―I‘m sorry. She‘s not here. She….‖ The rest wouldn‘t come. Simone‘s own grin faded. ―Oh, my poor boy. I‘m so sorry.‖ Tears filled her eyes, and she dabbed at them with the sleeve of her blouse. ―Now look. You‘ve made me messy. Come on. Come in.‖ She disappeared inside. Sawyer stepped into the shadow of the covered porch behind Marc, and, before they entered, pressed a quick, light kiss to his temple. He didn‘t speak, but the gesture washed away some of Marc‘s grief. With a sigh, he stepped inside, Sawyer behind him. Simone reappeared from the hallway, sniffling, and gestured them to the two facing loveseats. A low table separated them. She plunked a box of tissues onto it and leaned forward, resting her elbows on her mud-splattered slacks. ―What happened?‖ ―A stroke,‖ Marc said, steadier. ―It was quick, relatively. She only lingered a day.‖

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―God bless her,‖ Simone said. ―Oh my, I never thought she‘d go before me. What a pistol she was.‖ She grabbed another tissue and stood. ―Would anybody like an Ensure? I‘ve got all the best flavors,‖ she added. ―Chocolate? French vanilla? Strawberry?‖ ―Nooooo. But thank you,‖ Sawyer answered. ―Are you sure? I store them in the fridge. Keeps the chalky taste down.‖ Marc shook his head, and Simone shuffled into the kitchen. ―I‘d asked your aunt to come with me when I moved, Marc,‖ she called. ―But you know her. She wouldn‘t leave Edgewood.‖ ―She loved it there,‖ Marc agreed, smiling when Simone reappeared with a frothy glass of white liquid. ―Ms. Parks, I wanted to ask… do you remember my aunt ever talking about her will?‖ ―Oh sure. All the time.‖ She took a sip of the Ensure. It left a thin white moustache on her upper lip. ―She was counting the days until you turned eighteen, you know, so she could cut out that ingrate floozy niece of hers. Whoops!‖ Her hand fluttered to her lips. ―Did I say that out loud?‖ Marc shot a glance at Sawyer. Far from shocked, he was grinning at Simone. She toasted him with her Ensure before turning back to Marc. ―Why do you ask, sweetheart?‖ ―His parents are back,‖ Sawyer cut in. ―His mother claims she‘s the beneficiary of the entire estate.‖ ―Well, that was true at one time,‖ Simone admitted. ―But not anymore. May redid her will when Marc came of age. Left everything to him.‖ ―Are you sure?‖ Sawyer pressed. ―I witnessed the new will.‖ ―You did?‖ Marc leaned forward. ―Do you have a copy?‖ Simone‘s face fell. ―No, child. I‘m sorry.‖ ―Do you remember who drew it up?‖ Sawyer fished a pen and a piece of paper out of his jacket. Simone snickered into her vanilla Ensure.

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―Of course, but I doubt you‘ll need to write it down. After all, he‘s no stranger to you, my dear.‖ Sawyer clicked the pen open anyway. ―Oh?‖ Simone winked at Marc. ―It was her boyfriend who made up the new will.‖ Sawyer dropped the pen, while Marc beat back a sudden desire for an Ensure. ―I‘m sorry?‖ he stuttered. ―Her what?‖ ―Oh, can‘t we say ‗boyfriend‘ these days? Damn it,‖ she mumbled and took another swig of her drink. ―You know, her gentleman friend.‖ Words failed Marc. To his relief, Sawyer came to his rescue. ―And who might that have been?‖ An evil gleam entered Simone‘s eye. She leaned across the table and crooked a finger at Sawyer. Slowly, like he was being invited into the lion‘s cage, he edged forward. Simone downed the last of her drink and plunked the glass onto the table. ―Paul Steinbrick. Your grandpa.‖ Sawyer froze, half hunched over the table. ―Seriously?‖ Hand over her heart, Simone nodded, and Sawyer collapsed backward against the sofa cushions. ―Huh.‖ The idea caught up with him a minute later. He rolled his head in Marc‘s direction and grinned. Marc blanched. Sawyer‘s grin got wider. ―So they were‖—Marc swiped a hand over his lips,—―intimate?‖ ―Oh, please, Marc,‖ Simone drawled. ―Your aunt was old, not dead.‖ With a roll of her eyes, she sat back. ―They met late in life, yes, but that didn‘t make it any less passionate. At least at first.‖ She paused and bit her lip. What did that mean? Marc glanced at Sawyer to find a thoughtful frown on his face. Sawyer returned the look, eyes unreadable. ―You know, don‘t you,‖ Simone asked Marc, ―about her gentleman friend? The one who traveled?‖ Marc nodded. ―Of course.‖

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―I don‘t think she ever really got over him,‖ Simone admitted, ―but that didn‘t mean she loved Paul any less.‖ Her gaze grew pointed. ―And he wasn‘t an easy man to love.‖ Sawyer snorted. His eyes were fixed on some faraway point. Simone winked at him. ―She thought she could change him, Sawyer. And I‘m sure you have some idea of how that went.‖ ―I have some inkling,‖ Sawyer answered in a soft voice. ―He was set in his ways, that‘s for sure.‖ ―He was,‖ Simone agreed. She refocused on Marc. ―May thought she could take away his bitterness, make him more caring, more loving.‖ ―And she couldn‘t?‖ Marc guessed. It was hard to believe. Very little had ever survived May‘s willful disposition. ―Oh sweetheart.‖ Leaning forward, Simone took his hands. ―Some things just aren‘t meant to be.‖ ―Aunt May said that all the time.‖ ―It was one of her favorite expressions. Ah.‖ Simone waved a hand through the air, dismissing the somber feeling that had settled over the room. ―They parted as friends, but when they parted, that was the end.‖ ―How long ago was that?‖ Sawyer asked. ―Oh, some five years now, I would expect.‖ A melancholy tone entered her voice, but she recovered a moment later, adding, ―It was while they were together that Paul drafted the new will with all the updated provisions May wanted. And that was that.‖ ―Except that wasn‘t that,‖ Marc countered, recovering slightly. ―I mean, I know that‘s what she did. She told me. But there‘s no record of it anywhere.‖ ―Isn‘t there?‖ Simone wrung her hands. ―Nowhere?‖ Oh, there was one somewhere, Marc was sure. Filed away in one of his aunt‘s desks at her house, more than likely. Not that his parents would ever let him in to search for it. But maybe…. He swiveled to Sawyer, who made the connection at the same time. As one, they stood. ―Thank you,‖ Marc said. ―You‘ve been a tremendous help.‖

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―I‘m glad.‖ Simone stood up. ―Now go kick those two to the curb.‖ Sawyer rocked back on his heels and laughed long and hard, then slid an arm around her tiny waist and planted a kiss on her cheek. ―When this is all over, I‘m coming back to take you to dinner.‖ ―See that you do.‖ They walked together to the door. At the edge of the porch, Simone stopped to clip a bouquet of pansies. ―Put those on your aunt‘s grave for me, dear, will you?‖ She handed the bundle of flowers to Marc. ―She‘s watching you now, so make her proud. Stand up for what‘s yours. And don‘t let anybody tell you how to live.‖

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Chapter 15

SAWYER didn‘t believe in fate or coincidence. But events like this… how anyone could believe they weren‘t somehow connected was beyond him. ―My grandfather and your aunt.‖ He stopped there, not sure what else to say. The child in him wanted to laugh, maybe tease, but Marc had looked dazed when they‘d left Simone‘s, so Sawyer stifled his amusement. It wasn‘t every day that you got the details of your parents‘ sex life, and that Marc had looked on May as his mother was obvious. Marc chewed his lip as he walked, stumbling over the uneven sidewalk like he‘d had a few too many beers. The distraction almost cost him. He stepped off the curb without looking, and Sawyer caught his arm just as a car swept by, missing them both by inches. ―Okay,‖ Sawyer said over the blare of horns, his heart tripping along at twice its normal speed. He swiped the truck keys from Marc‘s hand. ―What do you say I drive?‖ ―Sure,‖ Marc answered, voice faraway. He folded himself into the passenger seat and crossed his arms over his chest as he stared out the window. Sawyer let him go until they were nearly back to Edgewood, then reached over the back of the bench seat and threaded his fingers through the hair at the nape of Marc‘s neck. Marc leaned into the touch, but continued staring out the window, drumming his fingers on his thigh. ―You okay?‖ Sawyer ventured. The question broke Marc‘s trance. He sighed and turned from the window, putting his back against the door to stare unabashedly at Sawyer. In turn, Sawyer took his eyes off the road more often than was

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safe. ―Stop that,‖ he said, feeling warmth seep into his stomach. ―I‘m trying to drive.‖ Marc‘s answering smile was slow and pensive. He‘d obviously worked through some of the shock of Simone‘s announcement. ―It‘s hard to get my brain around this thing, you know?‖ ―What? May and my grandfather?‖ ―Yeah.‖ Marc‘s eyes lost their focus. ―Do you remember the day we met?‖ Was he kidding? ―Vividly,‖ Sawyer said. ―On the drive over to your place that morning, she said something about how close they had been. Her and Paul. It didn‘t even register then, but… how long do you think they were together? Why did they keep it a secret?‖ ―Marc, come on.‖ Sawyer exited the interstate onto the two-lane road that led to Edgewood. ―What makes you think it was a secret? I have a feeling if you‘d asked her, she would have said something. It‘s possible they were just both discreet and preferred their privacy. You can relate to that, can‘t you?‖ Marc digested this in silence. ―Are you angry?‖ Sawyer ventured, unable to pin down the look in Marc‘s eye. ―No. It‘s not like that.‖ With a huff, Marc hit the button for his window and fresh air filled the cab. ―I‘m just—‖ Sawyer had an idea where the conversation was leading, but didn‘t interrupt. Marc needed to make the connection himself. Which he did a minute later, judging by his wry laugh. ―You‘re loving how this all relates back to us, aren‘t you?‖ Marc asked, nudging Sawyer‘s leg with his. ―I don‘t love anything that upsets you.‖ Marc took a deep breath. ―I don‘t like that she felt the need to hide it from me. I would‘ve understood.‖ ―And?‖ ―And that‘s it. I‘m upset I didn‘t know about this….‖ He tripped over his next words. ―Love affair?‖

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Marc cringed. ―Yeah. That.‖ ―I know it wasn‘t her intention to hurt you.‖ It hadn‘t been anyone‘s intention to cause pain by omission. What Sawyer wanted to convey, but couldn‘t, was that he believed that May had known, or at least suspected, about Marc‘s sexuality. The woman had been sharp as a whip up until very near the end. But Marc would never believe it, and the more Sawyer considered the idea, the more he believed that it should be left alone. Or perhaps just left for a later time. Marc had been moving toward this transformation for weeks. Reworking his priorities, rethinking his truths. That it had taken a tragedy to bring events to a head was a shame. Still, Marc showed no inclination to retreat, to revert back to a life that was safe and easy. A lesser man might have, and this was the truth that Sawyer needed Marc to see. He had strength in abundance, more than enough to face what was to come. But to push for more right now didn‘t seem prudent. Sawyer let the subject of secrets drop, his mind turning to the stack of boxes waiting back at his house. Before the work on the house had started, he‘d carried each one into his office, resigned to having to sort them at some point and not even dreading the task. He‘d loved his grandfather and relished whatever task kept that love alive—like the renovation. But neither had he expected the project to be so invasive, with materials, tools, and dust everywhere. Each time he walked into his office, his eyes strayed to the pile, but his mind turned the idea aside. Why rush into it while the chaos was so thick? He had all the time in the world, or so he‘d thought. ―There are a hell of a lot of boxes to go through.‖ Marc‘s haunted look had seeped away as they‘d driven through town. Bright-eyed, tone clipped and efficient, he said, ―We‘ll manage. Are they labeled at all?‖ Sawyer wracked his brain. ―I want to say yes, but I‘ve got a bad feeling in my gut that says no.‖ Marc‘s eyes glittered, and Sawyer grinned. The boy did like a challenge. And this one had the proverbial gold at the end of the rainbow. One document. One piece of paper was all they needed.

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Marc straightened as they turned onto Sawyer‘s driveway, hand already on the door handle. ―No big deal. We might get a feel for what we‘re going to find once we open a few. From there it should be easier.‖ Sawyer pulled up behind Rick‘s truck and cut the engine. ―You always do that.‖ Halfway out the door, Marc paused. ―Do what?‖ he asked, puzzled. ―Look at everything like it‘s a puzzle to be solved. Examine all angles. Come at it like you know you‘re going to win.‖ Marc slid far enough back inside the cab to cover Sawyer‘s hand with his own. ―We are going to win.‖ Utterly charmed, Sawyer stroked a finger over Marc‘s jaw. ―Okay.‖ ―What? You don‘t think I have it in me to beat this?‖ I think you’re strong enough to do whatever you want. I think you’re pure and perfect and a better man than I’ll ever be. Sawyer shook himself and pressed his lips closed against the words. No, it wasn‘t time. He tore his eyes away from Marc‘s. ―I believe in you.‖ Marc‘s answering grin lit up his face, crumbling Sawyer‘s willpower like dry plaster. One mighty yank did the trick, and with a grunt, Marc spilled across his lap. Sawyer eased his hold on Marc‘s Tshirt and slid his arms around him. ―That‘s better.‖ Such a move a week ago would have ended in disaster. Today, Marc laughed. ―What are you going to do with me?‖ ―What level of detail works for you?‖ Sawyer replied, more breathless than he should have been. He dipped the hand resting on Marc‘s back beneath the waistband of his jeans, relishing how the material had ridden low over his hips. One of his fingers brushed the crease of Marc‘s ass, and they both jerked in reaction. Marc whimpered in his ear. ―Fuck,‖ Sawyer whispered. He ached to strip Marc bare. Touch him everywhere that would pull that small, desperate noise from his throat. Marc‘s breath rushed over Sawyer‘s neck. His body vibrated with tension, the amusement that had been flying between them a moment

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ago transformed. Desperate and clumsy, he pulled at the buttons on Sawyer‘s shirt. Testing, Sawyer stretched his finger lower, and Marc‘s lips parted on a quiet gasp. ―More?‖ Sawyer said under his breath. Marc shifted in Sawyer‘s lap. He rested their foreheads together. ―Was that a request?‖ ―Hell yeah,‖ Sawyer said with a hoarse laugh. A thump thump thump on the hood of the truck made them both jump. ―Hey there,‖ Tim‘s muffled voice called, all innocence. ―Everything okay?‖ ―Fine,‖ Sawyer snapped. Marc didn‘t speak; he‘d buried his face in the crook of Sawyer‘s shoulder. Heat poured from his body, enough to burn Sawyer‘s skin where they touched, and his hips twitched against Sawyer‘s thigh, the movement restless and uncoordinated. When Sawyer reached to cup the back of his neck, he moaned. Jesus. Sawyer struggled to beat back his need. It went with all the passivity and ease of a hungry tiger. Arms shaking, he lifted Marc off and away. ―Tim wants you,‖ he said through clenched teeth, the double meaning hitting a bit too close to home and going right over Marc‘s head, of course. ―Yeah. Okay.‖ Clearing his throat, Marc scooted to the passenger side door. He took two deep breaths, and Sawyer followed suit, relieved when the fog of lust started to clear. Then Marc reached to cup his cock through his jeans, shifting it with a slight grimace… and Sawyer was right back where he started, mouth dry and heart thumping wildly. ―Get out of the car,‖ he pleaded. Marc did, but he left the cab ringing with his laughter. Sawyer resisted the childish desire to stick his tongue out at him. Marc wasn‘t such a good boy after all. Tim met Marc around the side of the truck bed, and they turned as one to head up to the house. Marc threw Sawyer a sidelong glance as they passed, and Tim offered a grin and a thumbs-up. Sawyer thunked his head back against the window. He needed a distraction. Something to calm his body and mind, or he‘d be hiding out in this truck all day. Deep breathing was useless. The smell of Marc‘s arousal still swirled around him.

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―Well, shit,‖ Sawyer muttered. Like it had a mind of its own, his fingers stroked over the bulge in his jeans. It wouldn‘t take much. One minute, maybe two. His cell phone buzzed on the dash. Sawyer grabbed it like the drowning man he was and clutched it tight. ―Hello?‖ ―Hello, sunshine.‖ ―Distract me,‖ Sawyer demanded. ―Make it good.‖ ―Okay,‖ Bruce said without missing a beat. ―Can I sing Billy Joel songs?‖ ―I don‘t know. Can you?‖ ―Wrong question.‖ Bruce launched into ―Only the Good Die Young.‖ Sawyer listened, watching shadows move on the other side of the living room window, cursing himself for knowing exactly which one belonged to Marc. Not healthy. He needed to get a handle on this obsession. Bruce‘s voice rose and fell in Sawyer‘s ear. ―Sooner or later it comes down to fate. I might as well be the onnnnnne.‖ Sawyer took a deep breath, welcoming the return of higher brain function. ―That‘s enough.‖ ―Are you sure? I was just getting warmed up.‖ ―I‘m sure.‖ ―That tune not to your taste? I can do ‗Piano Man‘, but do you really need any more angst in your life right now?‖ ―How about ‗Scenes from an Italian Restaurant‘?‖ ―That one needs props. I‘ll do it in person tonight.‖ ―You and I won‘t be together tonight.‖ Sawyer said it slowly, enunciating so there was no mistake. Bruce grumbled something under his breath. ―Okay, listen. Remember how I said I needed to talk to Marc? I need to talk to Marc. It‘s grown-up business stuff. You wouldn‘t understand.‖ ―Call him on the phone.‖ ―Nope. Need to see him in person. Trust me. This‘ll cheer him up.‖ ―We‘re kind of in the middle of some things, Bruce.‖

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―What kind of things?‖ ―Things that have nothing to do with you?‖ ―Okay, now that‘s funny. Are you finally getting laid? Your humor‘s improved.‖ ―Thanks for the song,‖ Sawyer said. ―Gotta go.‖ He hit end before Bruce could throw any more protests his way and climbed out of the cab. He waved as he came in the front door, and Marc broke off his conversation with Reba to follow him down the hall to his office. Sawyer couldn‘t help a small groan when he saw the boxes. They‘d been sitting on the floor for so many weeks that he‘d stopped seeing them. There were more than he remembered. Many more. Good thing they had motivation in abundance. ―Wow.‖ Marc toed the edge of the nearest stack. ―You weren‘t kidding.‖ ―No.‖ Unfortunately, he hadn‘t been. Some distant part of him had known his grandfather had been a lawyer, but his stories of the war had always superseded that. The battles and the planes and the uniforms, and, to be honest, the guns and the fighting. Exactly what fascinated most boys. But these were the leavings of a whole different life altogether. One of paper and trials and courts. Sawyer gathered his determination around him. ―Better get started.‖ ―Yeah.‖ Marc circled the pile, tracing his fingers through the layers of dust. ―But where? You were right. There aren‘t any labels or markings of any kind.‖ Sawyer pursed his lips. He‘d been trying not to notice the same thing. He eyed up the pile and did the math quickly in his head. There were maybe thirty boxes altogether. Hopefully, once they cracked them open, they‘d find some semblance of order, just as Marc had suggested. He rolled up his sleeves and hoisted the nearest one down and to the floor. ―Here, I guess.‖ Marc grabbed one for himself, spreading enough dust to make himself sneeze, then maneuvered another box over to sit on while he worked. They sliced the seal on the first two and got started. About an hour later, Reba appeared in the doorway. ―Need some help?‖ she asked. Karen peered over her shoulder, eyes going wide at

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the disaster they‘d created. Boxes covered every square inch of the floor. Sawyer considered the offer. Another set of hands or two would ease the burden. They‘d certainly move more quickly. But something held him back. He couldn‘t put a name to it, but suddenly spending the evening sorting through his grandfather‘s life didn‘t sound so bad. As long as Marc was there to help. But how to articulate that without sounding rude? In the end, he didn‘t need to. Marc brushed the dust off his hands and laid another file folder to the side. ―Thanks, but we got it.‖ ―Okay, well in light of your recent detective work, we‘ve left off the phone calls to the law firms.‖ ―That makes sense,‖ Marc agreed. He lifted a thick manila folder from the box. ―Why don‘t you guys take off. It‘s not like we‘re going to get any work on the house done today.‖ ―If you‘re sure.‖ Reba coordinated a wink with the snap of her gum. To Marc‘s credit, he pretended not to see it. ―I am.‖ They left without comment. No doubt about it, Sawyer thought. Marc was the uncontested leader of his outfit. Sawyer left off the box he‘d been sorting and picked his way over the debris to watch them drive away, Reba in her pickup and Karen in her Lexus. Rick and Tim followed soon after. When the last vehicle had disappeared down the driveway, he turned back to Marc. It felt unusual to have the house silent so early in the afternoon. Sawyer hadn‘t even realized, until he saw Marc slouched against the stack of boxes, frowning at a piece of paper, that they‘d scored some rare privacy. ―I‘m used to sharing you with them this time of day.‖ Sawyer jerked his head over his shoulder at the line of disappearing vehicles. Marc set the paper aside and picked up the next. ―They are like a bunch of rowdy kids, aren‘t they?‖ Even with a smudge of dust across one cheek, tousled and tired, he still gave Sawyer‘s system a jolt. This time he crossed the room with no care for the piles of paper and crouched by Marc‘s side. He didn‘t speak.

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Marc stroked one grubby hand through Sawyer‘s hair, and the contact set off a series of shivers Sawyer couldn‘t control. Original mission forgotten, he pulled Marc from his perch, sending the papers on his lap cascading to the floor. They tumbled together, laughing. Sawyer ended up on top, shaking his head at Marc‘s perfunctory struggles. ―Is that the best you can do?‖ ―Am I supposed to want to get you off?‖ Marc lifted his hips. ―In that case, yes. That‘s all I got.‖ Sawyer swallowed his corny retort. ―Should we take a break?‖ ―Is that rhetorical?‖ Marc wriggled, his arousal an enticing press against Sawyer‘s thigh. ―Do you need a break?‖ ―Maybe a quick one.‖ And Sawyer knew exactly what he wanted too. ―Relax.‖ He pushed Marc back and flicked open the snap on his jeans. Marc‘s breath caught. Despite Sawyer‘s words, he curled his head up to watch, muscles taut under Sawyer‘s hands. ―Relax,‖ Sawyer repeated, punctuating his order with a gentle shove to Marc‘s chest. Marc‘s head hit the rug with a thump. His parted lips and wide, dilated eyes sent a thrill through Sawyer. ―What are you going to do?‖ Marc asked. Sawyer played with the zipper, sliding it up and down. Beneath his fingers, Marc‘s cock waited, full and needy. Sawyer curled his fingers over the length. Marc groaned, and Sawyer‘s mouth watered. ―Taste you,‖ he answered gruffly. Marc‘s chest rose and fell in a staccato rhythm. Eyes fixed on the ceiling, he managed a clipped nod. ―Okay.‖ ―Yeah,‖ Sawyer repeated. ―Okay.‖ He planned for quick and dirty. A sawdust-ridden floor was no place to introduce Marc to the real beauty of what they could do to each other. They‘d both been bending under the tension, and sooner or later something was going to break. Better this than anything else. A flimsy excuse, but Sawyer‘s rational mind couldn‘t find fault with its simplicity.

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He leaned in and pressed his mouth to the head of Marc‘s clothed erection, grinning at the tortured sound that spilled from his lips. Reminding himself not to tease wasn‘t helping. After so long, it felt like the worst kind of sin to rush through this part—introducing himself in one of the most intimate ways possible. Breath hissing through his teeth and eyes screwed shut, Marc rolled his head back and forth on the floor. He fisted his shaking hands in Sawyer‘s hair. ―Please,‖ he whispered. ―No need to beg,‖ Sawyer said, working Marc‘s underwear over his cock and down his thighs. The first real taste sent a jolt all the way to his toes, and Sawyer‘s own breathing stuttered. Marc‘s cock, damp from Sawyer‘s tongue, jutted from a patch of pale curls and strained over his stomach. The skin on his thighs had taken on a patchy flush of arousal, and his hips hovered inches off the floor, muscles quivering. Sawyer took the opportunity to crawl between Marc‘s legs and slip his hands underneath to cup his ass. No more waiting. He swirled his tongue around the tip, then sank low, taking Marc deep right from the start. He got a surprised shout for his efforts, and Marc‘s hands fell from Sawyer‘s head and smacked against the floor. His body thrummed with tension, but Sawyer sensed a difference. Marc had suddenly reversed course, doing everything he could to hold back. Curb the sensations. That wouldn‘t do. Sawyer curled his fingers into the skin at Marc‘s hips and sent them exploring, fingernails scratching lightly. He set a fast pace, a ruthless pull and suck that was going to rip Marc‘s orgasm from him long before he was ready, if his whispered, ―No, no, Sawyer, wait,‖ was any indication. Sawyer ignored the frantic, ineffectual tugs on his head, and soon Marc succumbed, thrusting upward, matching Sawyer‘s rhythm, giving up control and finesse and everything else he had, crying out as each pulse left his body. The sounds. The smell. The taste. It overwhelmed him. Sawyer‘s brain fired off a warning a moment before he realized what was going

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to happen. With a cry, he pulled off Marc‘s softening cock and climbed up his body, ripping at the buttons on his own jeans. Clumsy and sated, Marc did his best to help, and then Sawyer had himself in hand. ―Loved that,‖ he panted. He set their foreheads together, desperate to see himself lay claim to what was his. He pumped himself hard and fast, knuckles brushing Marc‘s stomach, grip tighter than he liked, but the sensations tottered on the cusp of something white hot and bright, and he couldn‘t stop. Marc toppled him with a kiss. He licked at the corner of Sawyer‘s mouth, then tilted his head and sealed their lips together. Gasping, Sawyer came, thinking all manner of things, like finally and mine, but only managing a choked, ―Marc,‖ before the ability to think left him altogether. They lay among the boxes and papers and tools, Sawyer half sprawled over Marc, until the hard floor became impossible to ignore. Sawyer struggled to a standing position, helped Marc achieve the same, and then stripped him of his soiled shirt. ―Sorry about that,‖ he said, nuzzling Marc‘s neck. Marc tossed it into the far corner. ―No problem. I figure you‘ve got one I can borrow.‖ The thought of Marc wearing his clothes was so appealing, Sawyer rushed to make it happen, then stood watching, biting down on his goofy smile while Marc pulled the fresh white T-shirt over his head. ―Back to work?‖ Marc asked. The stack of boxes looked even more intimidating than before, but Sawyer didn‘t have it in him to be discouraged. ―Back to work,‖ he agreed.

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Chapter 16

SAWYER‘S trepidation increased as the pile got smaller. They‘d come across all manner of professional records one might imagine, but nothing personal. And nothing pertaining to May or her affairs. Marc grew quieter as they worked, probably nursing the same worries as Sawyer. They split the contents of the last box, and when they‘d finished, Marc set the papers aside and laid his head in his hands. Sawyer sighed. ―I‘m sorry.‖ ―It‘s not your fault,‖ Marc said from behind his palms. ―It was a good plan, but there were no guarantees.‖ The room overflowed with papers and folders and smelled musty, like the basement of a library. Outside, dusk was giving way to full dark. They‘d taken a small break earlier. Sawyer had called Finn with the news and Marc had grabbed whatever he could find in the kitchen—chips and a couple of apples. Four hours later, Sawyer‘s stomach was feeling the lack of real sustenance. He laid his hand on Marc‘s shoulder. ―Let‘s get some dinner. It‘ll help us refine Plan B.‖ ―Plan B?‖ Marc stood, swiping his hands on his jeans. ―And what would that be?‖ ―We‘ll think of something.‖ Sawyer took his hand and led him out of the room and down the hall. As they entered the foyer, a giant shadow rose up on the other side of the new glass-front door. Sawyer stopped in his tracks. Marc bumped into him, then peered over his shoulder. ―What is that, a bear?‖ ―Helloooo!‖ The shadow pounded on the door with one paw.

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Sawyer snorted. ―Yep.‖ He swung the door open and the shadow materialized into Bruce, dressed in his usual Edgewood attire. Minus the boots this time, Sawyer was relieved to see. Bruce spread his arms. ―I‘m here!‖ He charged across the threshold. ―Give us a hug!‖ He caught Sawyer up, lifting him clear off the ground. ―Ahh!‖ Sawyer kicked out, grunting when Bruce dropped him. Marc caught him before he stumbled, but backed away when Bruce advanced on him, arms out and fingers wagging. Bruce grinned. ―Oh look! Marc wants one too.‖ ―No, I don‘t,‖ Marc protested, stepping behind Sawyer. ―I value my ribs too much, thanks.‖ ―Baby.‖ Bruce tossed his garment bag at Sawyer. It caught him in the chest, but he grabbed it before it fell. ―Where‘s the beer? The drive was hell.‖ Sawyer deposited the bag on the floor, trying not to be distracted by Marc‘s soft laughter. ―Didn‘t you hear me on the phone? Not right now, we‘re in the middle of some important things, I said.‖ Bruce slapped his forehead. ―Oh! I thought you said, ‗Come right now. We want you in the middle of some things.‘‖ He slapped Sawyer on the arm. ―Look, he‘s blushing.‖ Marc was doing exactly that. ―He‘s kidding,‖ Sawyer assured Marc. ―No, I‘m not.‖ He probably wasn‘t, actually, not that Sawyer was about to admit it. ―Seriously, Bruce,‖ he said, frowning at the thick garment bag. ―We‘re dealing with some pretty screwed-up shit right now.‖ ―Which is always the best time for friends, right?‖ Bruce reached around Sawyer with one of his huge hands and snagged Marc‘s arm. ―Why, yes, thanks! I‘d love a beer. Lead the way, Marc.‖ Sawyer‘s dark look only made Bruce laugh. ―Come on, Calhoun. It‘s not a party unless everyone gets sloppy.‖ Marc accepted the dubious honor of spilling the story. One sixpack and two frozen pizzas later, Bruce was as angry and indignant as

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Sawyer had been the morning he walked in on Marc talking to his parents. ―How can they get away with that?‖ ―They‘re not going to,‖ Marc promised. ―I‘ll fight it every step of the way, even after tomorrow.‖ Sawyer‘s head snapped up. For all of Marc‘s easygoing demeanor and quiet personality, he had unmovable fortitude when it came to things he cared about. ―I don‘t care about the money,‖ Marc said. ―Christ, I‘d gladly give it to them, and Aunt May‘s stuff too, I suppose, if they‘d just leave me the house. It didn‘t used to matter, you know? The house. It was just wood and plaster. In fact‖—he took a long swig of his beer—―for a long time I hated it.‖ Sawyer opened his mouth, comforting platitude on the tip of his tongue, but Bruce set a hand on his knee. ―They can‘t touch the business,‖ Marc continued, the words coming faster, almost frantically, ―it‘s mine, but every penny I‘ve squeezed out of it these past four years went into making something I hated into something I—‖ He dropped his head, hand fisted tight around his bottle. Sawyer ached to comfort him, but Bruce‘s hand was a vise on his leg. ―Why are they doing this?‖ Marc whispered. Bruce had a soft side to his voice, he just rarely employed it. He did now. ―Don‘t waste your time trying to figure that out. Concentrate on keeping what‘s important to you. Isn‘t that what life is all about?‖ One corner of Marc‘s mouth turned up. He tilted his head just enough to meet Sawyer‘s eyes. Bruce cleared his throat. ―I think it‘s time to lighten the mood.‖ He pushed back from the table. ―Stay put. I brought something for you.‖ He disappeared down the hall, leaving Marc some time to pull himself together. Vulnerable wasn‘t a word Sawyer associated with Marc, despite the fear that had kept him closeted all this time. Instead, terms like competent, hardworking, and loyal came to mind. His was a quiet

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strength, but May‘s death had tested it sorely. And this current betrayal had pushed him right to the edge. ―We‘ll figure it out,‖ Sawyer said, hating how inadequate it sounded. Marc nodded, but didn‘t meet his eyes. ―Here it is!‖ Bruce slapped a thick, expandable binder onto the table. Sawyer moved a few of the empty bottles away so Marc could open it. Inside on the facing cover was a picture of the city‘s waterfront. It was an artist‘s rendition, Sawyer knew, because he recognized that particular patch of property, and there was no building on it like there was in the drawing. Then Marc said, ―Oh,‖ with a healthy amount of reverence in his voice, and Sawyer leaned in for a better look. It was the mill. Marc‘s mill. The more Sawyer looked, the more differences jumped out at him, but they were subtle, changes made for the sake of efficiency that did nothing to lessen the aesthetic value of the building. Giant boulders arced out into the river, creating a small path of whitewater above the giant wheel. The stone and mortar foundation had the same weathered look, and the dark wood of the building itself looked artfully aged. Care had been taken to extend the aura of peace and seclusion past the footprint of the building: tall trees flanked the property with more boulders placed here and there. A gurgling stream of water ran through the parking lot and around the front of the structure before spilling over a waterway to pool below the wheel. ―You did it.‖ Marc traced the spokes of the wheel with his finger. ―I didn‘t think you could.‖ ―Yeah, that‘ll teach you to doubt me,‖ Bruce said, smug. ―We‘ve yet to break ground and already property values on both sides are going through the roof. The city has agreed to fund two parks, one at the north shore and one at the south shore, if we build. This is exactly what we needed to reinvent the waterfront. We‘re going to make it as beautiful as it used to be.‖ ―I‘m getting the impression you‘re not just ‗an architect‘,‖ Marc said, still bent over the drawing.

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―Meh.‖ Bruce waved him off. ―I do okay. Now let me show you the inside, ‘cause I have some questions.‖ He flipped to the next page and they all leaned in. The doorbell rang. Marc looked up, distracted, but Sawyer waved him off and pushed back from the table. Bruce folded back another section of the blueprints and continued to rattle off questions, each of which Marc answered with quiet confidence. Sawyer could have kissed his friend. This was exactly what Marc needed to take his mind off the meeting tomorrow. He was still smiling when he opened the door, but his good mood died the moment he set eyes on their late-night visitor. ―Finn.‖ For a change, Finn looked ragged. His suit coat was nowhere to be seen, his tie was loose, the knot crooked, and his sleeves were rolled to his elbow. Skipping the niceties, he looked Sawyer up and down and asked, ―Any luck?‖ Being reminded of their failure didn‘t help Sawyer‘s mood. He shook his head. ―Nope. Came up empty.‖ ―Damn!‖ Finn ran a hand through his hair. Half-turned away, hands on his hips, he stared across the yard. ―I was hoping.‖ ―Yeah, you weren‘t the only one. Now what?‖ ―There isn‘t much more I can do, Sawyer. But I‘ll try to think of something before tomorrow.‖ A silence followed. Sawyer couldn‘t call it comfortable, but neither was it charged with the usual tension. Before he could examine why, Finn turned, offering a half-hearted wave as he trudged down the porch steps. ―Wait. Finn.‖ Swallowing the compulsion to slam the door, Sawyer gestured weakly with his hand. ―Want to come in and have a beer?‖ Even if Finn refused, Sawyer decided the look on his brother‘s face was priceless enough to have made the gesture worthwhile. Never one to jump without looking, Finn hesitated, two fingers stroking over his mustache. Sawyer waited. ―A beer,‖ Finn said, drawing the words out, ―would taste good right about now.‖ ―Good.‖ Sawyer stepped aside, holding the door open.

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Still Finn didn‘t move. ―Are you sure Marc won‘t mind?‖ ―Are you kidding?‖ Sawyer pulled Finn inside and led him back to the kitchen. ―Marc loves you. It‘s Bruce you have to worry about.‖ He‘d gone several steps before he realized Finn was no longer behind him. Rolling his eyes, he turned. ―He won‘t bite.‖ Finn‘s face was twisted into a grimace, like he‘d bitten into something sour. ―He might sit on me, though.‖ That was true. ―It‘s nothing personal, really. It‘s just that he‘s spent years listening to me complain about you. He only dislikes you because I do.‖ As soon as the words were out, Sawyer wanted them back. But it was too late. Finn‘s face went blank. ―Nothing personal. Good to know.‖ ―I‘ll protect you,‖ Sawyer said, trying to snatch back the lighthearted mood. ―Will you?‖ It must be the night for loaded questions. They were still far enough away from the kitchen that a private talk would stay private. Sawyer pointed to the darkened living room. Looking wary, Finn stepped through the arch, and Sawyer followed. They stared at each other in the gloom. Sawyer took a deep, cleansing breath. He could do this. ―Thank you,‖ he said. To Finn‘s credit, he hid most of his shock. ―You‘re welcome.‖ ―I know you didn‘t have to do this for me.‖ ―I‘m doing it for Marc.‖ Jealousy reared up. Sawyer squashed it. ―I realize that,‖ he replied, voice even. ―What you might not know is what it means to me.‖ Finn‘s face was lost in the shadows. ―I know what it means to you,‖ he said, an odd lilt to his voice. Sawyer blinked. ―Oh.‖ A sound that might have been a laugh floated out of the dark. ―I figured that would be your reaction.‖ Finn sighed. ―That‘s quite enough brotherly love for one night, wouldn‘t you agree? Let‘s go get that beer. I know you‘re dying to watch Bruce tear into me.‖

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It was probably a fair prediction of events to come. Sawyer cocked his head. ―You must really need a drink.‖ ―I must.‖ Again with the strange tone. Sawyer couldn‘t put his finger on it, and he felt too tired to try. ―Come on.‖ They continued down the hall, side by side this time. Sawyer entered the kitchen, Finn on his heels. ―I‘m back.‖ ―Who was at the door?‖ Bruce had his finger on a section of the blueprint, nose buried in the page. ―Tell me it was a Girl Scout. I‘ve got me a craving for some Thin Mints.‖ Marc glanced up, smiled at Finn, and some of Sawyer‘s tension bled away. Beside him, Finn‘s shoulders sagged a fraction. He nodded in Marc‘s direction. ―Sorry,‖ Sawyer answered. ―No Thin Mints.‖ That got Bruce‘s attention. He looked up over his reading glasses and met Finn‘s eyes across the room. ―Nope, definitely not a Girl Scout.‖ Finn shifted his jaw back and forth. ―I‘ve sued them. Does that count?‖ Sawyer held his breath. Next to Bruce, Marc stayed quiet. Bruce cracked open another beer and leaned back. The chair protested with a loud squeak. ―Shameful. I bet you‘re part of the reason I can‘t get my Do-si-dos for less than four dollars a box.‖ Finn nodded. ―Guilty.‖ ―You lawyer dudes sure like that word.‖ Bruce held the bottle out. ―Beer?‖ Sawyer thought he knew his brother better than most people, despite their history, so while Finn might have thought his shrug looked nonchalant and his gait relaxed, Sawyer recognized that he was uncomfortable. He‘d kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Finn to show his hand and reveal what he wanted in return for his role as knight in shining armor, but it didn‘t seem like he expected the ―favor‖—and it was so much more than that, truly—to be repaid. Sawyer felt a flush rise on his face, and he pressed his bottle of beer to his cheek.

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He was ashamed. It wasn‘t a comfortable realization. ―I‘m glad you‘re here,‖ he blurted just as Finn took the beer from Bruce‘s hand. The bottle slid precariously in Finn‘s grip, but he recovered in time. ―Thanks. I‘m… glad to be here.‖ He cleared his throat in the awkward silence that followed and pointed to Bruce‘s drawings. ―What have you got there?‖ Marc swung the drawing around to show him. ―Oh, hey,‖ Finn said, ―I remember that place. The mill at the bottom of the gorge.‖ Bruce pumped his fist in the air. ―Yeah, baby! Am I good or am I good?‖ Sawyer smacked the back of his head. ―I think I know where you got your size. You needed a body to fit your ego.‖ ―It‘s not the mill, but it looks just like it, doesn‘t it?‖ Marc asked. ―I have to admit I‘m impressed.‖ ―Yeah.‖ Finn‘s voice took on a wistful tone. ―I‘ll never forget that trip. My grandfather took Sawyer and me there when we were boys. Fishing.‖ He said the word like it left a bad taste in his mouth, and Marc laughed. ―Not a big fan of fishing?‖ ―Not really. Not since that day, anyway.‖ ―Aw. Did your granddaddy make you touch the worms?‖ Bruce asked. ―No,‖ Finn pulled out a chair and straddled it backward, cradling his bottle between his fingers. ―No worms. We used marshmallows.‖ Bruce rolled his eyes. Finn took a sip of his beer. ―Back me up on this, Sawyer.‖ ―My brother is telling the whole truth and nothing but the truth,‖ Sawyer recited obediently. ―So help me God,‖ Finn finished, smirking. ―Trout love marshmallows.‖ Bruce belched. ―There‘s a really good joke in there somewhere. I just need to flesh it out.‖

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Marc pulled his chair close to Sawyer‘s. ―So what happened?‖ ―I fell in the river.‖ I fell in the river. Sawyer had forgotten about that day. The panic had clenched his heart so tightly that he hadn‘t been able to scream at first. An echo of that fear took him now. He covered his shudder with a sip of beer. Finn held his hand out over the table, then tipped it over. ―Right over the spillway.‖ Marc went a little pale. ―Jesus. Did you get hurt?‖ ―By some miracle, I missed the rocks at the bottom, but the current grabbed me and had me twenty yards downstream before I could catch my breath.‖ Marc cursed. ―That‘s one of the most dangerous stretches of water in the state. Even with all the warnings posted everywhere, they lose a couple of kayakers each year.‖ Bruce pursed his lips. ―What happened?‖ ―Sawyer pulled me out.‖ Sawyer was so busy reliving the scene in his head, he nearly missed Finn‘s reply. ―What? The hell I did!‖ ―You did,‖ Finn insisted. ―I remember.‖ ―Christ, Finn, I was eight years old. I screamed like a banshee. I think I might‘ve even pissed myself. I sure as hell didn‘t go diving in after you.‖ He gawked at Finn‘s puzzled look. ―Are you serious?‖ ―I don‘t remember much,‖ Finn admitted. ―But I do remember someone grabbing me and pulling me out and then you were there, hugging me and sobbing like a baby.‖ Sawyer remembered that part too. The sharp taste of having his brother snatched back from death… it had been coppery on his tongue, like blood. ―It wasn‘t me,‖ he said firmly. ―I ran down the bank and climbed over the boulders to the water. Granddad pulled you out. Jumped over the spillway right after you. He was in the water before I even understood what had happened. He’s the one who pulled you out, not me.‖

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His words lingered in the air. Across the table, Finn looked as close to horrified as Sawyer had ever seen him. Eyes wide, he swallowed convulsively before answering. ―I never knew.‖ It was Bruce who broke the tension. ―Hey, Sawyer?‖ he asked in a somber voice. He stretched a hand across the table and squeezed Sawyer‘s arm. ―What?‖ ―Did you really cry like a baby?‖ Sawyer gave him the finger, but answered anyway. ―Yes.‖ ―That‘s so sweet. And you.‖ Bruce mock glowered at Finn. ―Way to be clumsy. Almost killing your grandpappy and making your brother pee his Underoos. Not cool.‖ Finn laughed. To Sawyer it sounded full and honest. He‘d regained some of his equilibrium. ―And that,‖ Finn said, draining his bottle, ―is the story behind why I hate to fish.‖ Pensive, he stared at his hands for a few seconds before standing. ―Thanks for the drink,‖ he said, and though he nodded at both Marc and Bruce, Sawyer knew the words were for him. ―It‘s time I headed back to Danielle‘s Delightful Bed and Breakfast.‖ Bruce began rolling up his blueprints. ―Is it really delightful?‖ ―The bed is comfortable, but the coffee‘s horrendous. I hope she doesn‘t take it the wrong way when I ask for tea tomorrow.‖ He patted Marc‘s shoulder. ―I‘ll see you in the morning. Get some sleep.‖ ―I will,‖ Marc promised, but Sawyer had a feeling it wouldn‘t be as easy as it sounded.

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Chapter 17

THEY‘D fallen asleep on opposite sides of the bed, Sawyer on his back and Marc on his side facing him, but he woke to the weight of Sawyer‘s arm slung over his waist, and the warmth of his body pressed close. ―Courier the restaurant spread to Donald,‖ Sawyer said, clear as a bell in Marc‘s ear, then he snored and rolled onto his stomach. Marc laughed silently. What other juicy tidbits would Sawyer‘s subconscious reveal? Marc planned to find out. Sleep eluded him, even though the clock told him it was barely two in the morning. Marc listened for a long time while the house settled with creaks and moans. He‘d come to learn that each structure, each building, had its own personality, behaving differently in the wind and rain, complaining at different times of the night and day, and sometimes even speaking its own language. Not many people appreciated it. Most didn‘t even understand. Sawyer threw a hand over his face, mumbled something else that sounded like ―Be careful,‖ then, quite clearly, ―Don‘t fall,‖ and the memory slammed into Marc with enough force that he shot up in bed. He threw a look over his shoulder, but Sawyer hadn‘t awakened. Marc waffled for a moment before creeping out of bed, grabbing his shirt and jeans and slipping into the hall. All was quiet behind Bruce‘s door. Marc crept past and climbed to the third floor. Tim had helped him set the panel back in place a few weeks ago, and with everything else that had happened, the hidden passage and room at the bottom had slipped his mind. Now he couldn‘t stop thinking about it. Pinning his hopes on what might be there was crazy,

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especially with the recent disappointments, but he also knew that he wouldn‘t sleep until he found out one way or the other. The panel detached with a loud squeak. Marc cringed, listening. No sound from Sawyer or Bruce. Good. He hoped to be in and out before Sawyer knew he was gone. The lantern he‘d slung over the beam was still there. Spider webs dangled between it and the walls. Marc brushed them away and hit the button. White light filled the space, angling downward. Marc leaned over to look. Creepy as ever. More so because of the hour. Dust spun through the light beam, which didn‘t quite reach the bottom of the shaft. If he didn‘t know better, he might have believed the stairs went on forever. The illusion was so complete that Marc hesitated. Should he wake Sawyer? It was the responsible thing to do, but if the search yielded nothing, they‘d both be disappointed. No sense in that. Marc plucked a small flashlight out of the bucket of tools at the top of the stairs and swung into the space, bracing himself on the first riser. The damp chill raised goose bumps on his skin. Keeping his back to the wall, he descended one step at a time, round and round, until the light grew so dim he had to fish the flashlight out of his pocket. Sounds echoed in the passageway, sinister instead of the comforting as they‘d been a few minutes before while in bed. He heard a bang, craned his neck, but couldn‘t pinpoint its origin. ―Hello?‖ he called softly. Nothing. The air moved against his face on a sudden draft, swinging the hanging lantern to and fro in a gentle arc. Shadows circled above him, dancing like specters. Marc swiped a hand over his mouth. ―Hello?‖ he called again. No answer. More cautious than ever, he shone his flashlight into the dark and stepped down onto the next riser. It gave under his weight like a piece of soggy cardboard.

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Marc cried out in surprise, even though he‘d been half expecting it—the stairs had grown spongier near the bottom of the shaft. He threw himself backward, taking a knock to the head from a support beam, but it was better than breaking his neck. His ankle twisted, sending a twinge of pain up his leg. Warmth and a trickle of moisture on his calf was all the evidence he needed to know he‘d cut himself. He should go back. What he was doing gave new meaning to the term irresponsible. High above him, the lantern swung, as if agreeing. Marc shook his head. ―I‘ve come this far.‖ And for some things, there was no going back. The flashlight had more than enough power to show the bottom now. The steps ended on a plywood platform that opened onto a wider space. He was too turned around to know where in the house he might be. Behind the kitchen? Off the office? Or lower? He hadn‘t been counting the steps. Wherever he was, a narrow wood door wedged between two beams let him know there was another entrance besides the one he‘d used. Far in the rear of the makeshift room, another set of stairs, even more narrow than the first, led straight down into inky blackness. Marc ignored them for now. There was too much to see where he was. This had been someone‘s hideaway at some point. Two stacks of crates supported a slab of wood, creating a makeshift desk. Marc squinted. The desktop had once been an old door. He squatted next to it and chuckled under his breath at the ingenuity. The round hole where the knob used to be held a flared glass, filled with dusty pens and the two recessed panels at the top cradled filing bins. Everything was filthy now, but he could see where it had once been pristine. A Tiffany lamp stood next to the desk. Marc traced the path of the cord to a hole in the wall. He found a sixty-watt lightbulb, black with grime, beneath the glass shade, but didn‘t try to turn it on. The last thing he needed was an electrical fire. He found no clutter, no disorganization of any kind. Each of the supporting crates, turned on their sides, held files and folders, but Marc ignored them for the moment. He pulled out the sturdy chair tucked beneath the desk and sat.

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Photographs lined the back edge of the surface, most in brass frames, dark with tarnish, others in simple rectangles of rough wood. Marc picked them up one at a time. The first few showed a beautiful young woman with upswept hair, a fondness for hats, and a beautiful smile. In two of the pictures, she held a baby dressed in gingham and petticoats and stood in front of Sawyer‘s house. The next two were of a different woman, this one far less cheerful. She wore a slim, straight skirt and a plain blouse. A mass of flowing, curly hair belied the idea that she was as proper as she seemed. She took up most of the next picture as well, and the next. In the last, her long hair had been cropped short at the chin, and in each hand she clasped the fingers of a young boy. The child on her left flashed a bright smile, while the other frowned at his brother. Marc grinned. He‘d recognize those two anywhere. ―Hello, Sawyer,‖ he said, tracing the smiling boy‘s face with his fingertip. ―Hello.‖ Marc jumped to his feet. The chair toppled over behind him, throwing up a cloud of dust. ―Jesus.‖ He pressed a fist to his racing heart. ―What are you doing here?‖ Rigid lines etched Sawyer‘s face. ―What are you doing here?‖ He pointed at the stairs. ―Alone.‖ Knowing that concern had given rise to Sawyer‘s anger, Marc let it wash over and past him. ―I didn‘t want to wake you.‖ ―So you came down here alone? In the fucking dark? Are you trying to kill yourself?‖ A prickle of indignation gave Marc pause. ―I‘m fine.‖ Sawyer worked his jaw back and forth. Unlike Marc, he hadn‘t stopped to grab a shirt. Small bits of cobwebs clung to his chest and arms. Too furious to notice, he jabbed a finger in the direction of the rotting stairs. ―What, one fall wasn‘t enough? You wanted—‖ Marc cut him off with a kiss. ―Don‘t be angry,‖ he whispered against Sawyer‘s mouth. His impulsive move made an effective diversion. Sawyer sucked in a surprised breath, then followed Marc when he tried to retreat, pressing his tongue between his parted lips, extending the brief contact.

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His anger hadn‘t left him, though. He dominated the kiss, digging his fingers into Marc‘s biceps. ―Stop being so reckless,‖ he growled, tracing the line of Marc‘s cheek with his lips. ―I‘m sorry,‖ Marc conceded. ―But you said something in your sleep—‖ ―I don‘t talk in my sleep.‖ ―Yeah, you do.‖ ―Do not.‖ ―Courier the restaurant spread to Donald,‖ Marc recited. Sawyer paused, tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek. ―Okay, so maybe I talk in my sleep a little. But what does Donald have to do with you climbing down here by yourself?‖ ―It wasn‘t that.‖ Marc took his hand and led him over to the desk. ―Then you said, ‗Be careful. Don‘t fall.‘ That‘s what made me think of this place. Look at these.‖ He pointed at the line of photographs, but Sawyer was still busy taking in the small room. He ran a finger over a dust-covered ledge. ―This is amazing. Was this my grandfather‘s?‖ ―Not originally, I don‘t think.‖ Marc shone his flashlight around the perimeter of the space. Built-in bookcases, framed out in rough lumber, took up a whole wall. Books and magazines filled half of them. ―But it looks like he took advantage of it.‖ ―Where are we? In the house, I mean?‖ Marc shrugged, embarrassed. ―Sorry. I wasn‘t paying attention when I got close to the bottom.‖ ―I‘m sure falling through the step had something to do with that.‖ Anger was leaking back into Sawyer‘s voice. Time for a distraction. ―Come here,‖ Marc said. He gestured Sawyer closer with the flashlight, then shone it on the row of framed photographs. ―Cool, huh?‖ Sawyer‘s reaction wasn‘t what Marc expected. He went still, eyes taking in the pictures one at a time. ―I don‘t believe it,‖ he whispered. Confused, Marc glanced back and forth between the desk and Sawyer‘s face. ―What do you mean? Aren‘t these pictures of your

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family?‖ He pointed at the first. ―That‘s your grandmother, right? What‘s so shocking about that?‖ ―Not those.‖ Sawyer swiped a hand over his face, then pointed. ―Those.‖ Marc looked. ―The pictures of your mom?‖ ―And me and Finn.‖ Sawyer gripped the chair‘s armrests and lowered himself into the seat. ―Do you know,‖ he began, words graveled, ―about my grandfather and my mother?‖ Marc scooted onto the edge of the desk, close but not touching. ―No.‖ He bit his lip. ―Aunt May said something once about your grandmother leaving him, when your mom was just a baby.‖ Sawyer gave a slow nod. Before he could speak, the flashlight flickered. Marc held his breath. The beam steadied, though the light came back weaker. ―That‘s right.‖ Sawyer‘s voice grew shakier. ―She did leave him, and she took my mother with her. But then she died when my mom was still pretty young, about eighteen. It‘s….‖ He paused, pinching the bridge of his nose. ―This is a pretty boring story. Are you sure you want to hear it?‖ Hear something that put so much emotion in Sawyer‘s voice? Damn right he did. ―Yes, of course,‖ Marc replied. He flipped his hand over on his knee, palm up. An offer. Sighing, Sawyer accepted the comfort, threading their fingers together. ―Okay. Here goes. The condensed version. I think.‖ Sawyer frowned, then shook himself and cleared his throat. ―So my grandmother died. She got sick, if I remember. My mom was already married to my dad, but they were still newlyweds.‖ ―You don‘t talk about your parents much.‖ Marc stroked Sawyer‘s knuckles. ―Why not?‖ ―Don‘t I?‖ He lifted one shoulder in a loose shrug. ―We live separate lives, but we‘re still pretty close, if that makes any sense. My mom‘s a writer too.‖ ―What‘s your dad do?‖ Sawyer‘s sardonic grin flashed in the dark. ―He‘s a lawyer.‖

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Marc chuckled under his breath. ―At least the odds are even at the dinner table.‖ There was no rush to pick up the narrative, and Marc didn‘t push it. Together, they sat absorbing the flavor of the moment and listening to the quiet settling of the house. No longer did it feel threatening to Marc. He glanced back at Sawyer to find him studying the line of picture frames, open wonder in his eyes. ―What is it about those pictures that‘s getting to you?‖ Sawyer shook his head. ―Let me finish. Then you‘ll understand.‖ After a final squeeze to Marc‘s fingers, Sawyer let them go. ―Okay, so my grandmother passed away. But even though my mother was an adult in her own right and married, she was struggling. She was pregnant with Finn, and the doctors had told her she couldn‘t work. My dad was in law school, but without my mother‘s income, he wouldn‘t be able to stay. They were barely getting by as it was.‖ ―Let me guess.‖ Marc glanced at the unsmiling woman with the wild hair. ―She asked your grandfather to help.‖ Sawyer nodded. ―She always talked about it like it was some unholy bargain—that‘s how she portrayed things to me and Finn, anyway—but the truth is, he gave them all the money they needed, all in exchange for one simple thing.‖ He focused on Marc for the first time. ―He just wanted to see her every once in a while.‖ Marc waited for the rest. It never came. ―That was it?‖ ―Yeah. He just wanted to see his daughter, and later me and Finn. He wanted to be in her life so badly that he bribed his way in.‖ Sawyer fell silent, frowning at the pictures, while Marc tried to fathom the idea of a father loving his daughter that much. In theory, he knew about the strong bond that existed between parent and child, but in reality he hadn‘t an ounce of practical experience to rely on. ―So,‖ he began, then he cleared his throat. Sawyer‘s attention wavered from the photographs for the first time since he‘d sat down. ―You okay?‖ Marc nodded. ―So I‘m guessing she resented the visits.‖

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―You guess right.‖ Reaching to touch a picture of his mother, he sighed. ―Over the years, my grandmother had convinced my mom that Granddad was a monster, and she believed it for a long time.‖ Marc cocked his head. ―Not anymore?‖ ―No. Not for a while now.‖ He drew back and slumped in his seat. ―Too late for it to make a difference, though.‖ ―That‘s how you ended up spending all that time here when you were a kid,‖ Marc said as the pieces fell into place. Shaking himself out of his reverie, Sawyer nodded. ―My grandfather was a stoic man, Marc. A proud man. When I got old enough to understand, and when he was having a weak moment, he‘d tell me how much he loved us: Finn and Mom and me. But coming into this house‖—he spread his hands—―you‘d never know. There wasn‘t a single picture of anybody. And he wasn‘t big on public displays of affection either. All in all, I can see what drove my grandmother off, what made my mother so resentful, and what put Finn off from visiting once he had a choice. The truth is,‖ he said, closing his eyes, ―he wasn‘t an easy man to like, unless you put a little effort into it.‖ ―That‘s… incredibly sad.‖ ―No.‖ Sawyer shook his finger at the pictures. ―You know what the sad part is? He‘s gone, and my mother and Finn… they‘ll never have the chance to know him like I did.‖ ―That‘s their loss.‖ ―But it‘s his fault!‖ Sawyer shouted, loud enough to drive Marc off the desk. He stood next to it, hand hovering over Sawyer‘s shoulder. ―What do you mean?‖ ―Look at this, Marc. Look!‖ Sawyer jabbed a finger at the photos. ―Maybe he was too proud to admit he cared. Or maybe he was just a coward. But instead of putting these somewhere where we could all see them, he had to hide them away between the walls of his house. Like he was ashamed!‖ ―He couldn‘t have been ashamed of you.‖ ―Not of me.‖ Sawyer looked up at him, eyes shining. ―Of himself. Ashamed for caring.‖ He gave a shaky sigh. ―What‘s so hard about admitting you love someone? What could possibly be more important than sharing that? I just don‘t understand.‖

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And he never would. That was the part of him that Marc was drawn to. He stepped between Sawyer‘s legs, and Sawyer pulled him close, locking his arms around Marc‘s back and burying his face in his stomach. ―I swear,‖ he said, voice muffled, ―I‘m not usually this dramatic.‖ ―That‘s not what Bruce told me.‖ ―Bruce needs to keep his mouth shut.‖ Another musty breeze brushed over Marc‘s face. He felt Sawyer shiver. ―We should probably get out of here and come back later with some more reliable lighting.‖ As if cued, the flashlight flickered again. Marc‘s eyes cut to the Tiffany lamp, and Sawyer followed his gaze. ―What about that? Does it work?‖ ―Not sure.‖ The dust on the shade was thick enough to obscure the colored glass beneath. Marc ran a tentative finger across the top of the bulb. ―Probably shouldn‘t risk it. I don‘t want to burn your house down.‖ ―No, that would be adding insult to injury after the past week.‖ He nudged the crates with his shoe. ―But let‘s look through some of these files first.‖ ―Now who‘s being reckless?‖ They squatted by the first stack of crates, and Marc held the flashlight while Sawyer flipped through the folders. He‘d barely made it through half of the first crate when he stopped. Marc heard him catch his breath. ―No,‖ he murmured. ―It couldn‘t be that easy.‖ By craning his neck, Marc could make out some writing on the folder‘s tab, but not much else. ―What?‖ Sawyer sat back on his heels, the folder in hand. A cloud of dust followed him. Sawyer sneezed, then waved the folder in front of Marc‘s face, triumphant. ―Look what I found.‖ Marc caught his wagging hand. ―I‘m trying.‖ He shone the light directly on the folder. ―MAY/MARC‖ it said in bold capitals. ―Holy shit.‖ ―I know. The first half of the box is M, the last part N.‖ He waved his hand at the other stack of crates. ―It probably starts with A over there. Tell me how fucking lucky we are.‖

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―I‘ll tell you that if we actually find something.‖ He hauled Sawyer up. ―You‘re filthy and freezing, and the flashlight‘s going out. Bring the file. We‘ll look at it once we get out of here.‖ Sawyer hesitated, obviously reluctant, but went when Marc pushed him toward the stairs. ―I guess we can come back if we need to.‖ ―It‘ll all still be here tomorrow,‖ Marc agreed. ―Yeah, but tomorrow might be too late.‖ Marc tried not to think about that. He tested the door he‘d seen earlier, but it was nailed shut. Resigned to the long climb, he was surprised when it went quickly and without incident. Sawyer crawled through the opening first, then turned to help Marc. Just like the last time they‘d left the hidden staircase, someone was waiting for them. ―Guys,‖ Bruce said. He stood a few feet away, arms crossed over his ―Architects Do It On Drafting Tables‖ T-shirt. ―You don‘t have to go crawling around inside the walls to get some booty. I brought earplugs.‖ ―Is that so?‖ Sawyer asked, still clutching the file. ―It is. Stop sneaking around like the Hardy Boys, okay? Screw around in your bed like normal people.‖ Marc brushed dust and cobwebs from his clothes. ―You‘ll never guess what we found in there.‖ ―The White Witch?‖ Sawyer grinned as he got to his feet. ―Try again.‖ He waved the folder in Bruce‘s face. ―The lost research on how many licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop?‖ ―You‘re getting closer, actually.‖ ―Actually‖—Marc felt compelled to interrupt—―we have no idea what we found. It could be nothing.‖ Bruce snatched the folder from Sawyer‘s hand, straightening the few papers that had slid loose. ―I‘ll take that. You can‘t be trusted with nice things.‖ He trotted down the stairs, reaching the second floor landing before Marc and Sawyer had gathered themselves to follow. ―How the hell does he move so fast?‖ Marc grumbled.

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Sawyer started down after him. ―I‘m convinced he‘s part ninja. Come on.‖ They found Bruce in the kitchen, bent over the table in nothing but his T-shirt and boxers, the contents of the folder spread in front of him. He hadn‘t bothered with any lights besides the cheap fixture above his head. Mumbling under his breath, he pushed his glasses higher over the bridge of his nose and shuffled through the mess with an efficiency Marc envied. ―Find anything?‖ Sawyer asked. ―Maybe one or two things of interest,‖ Bruce said over his shoulder. He scooped up a sheaf of papers and turned, pulling his reading glasses low on his nose. ―Like this little ditty.‖ Fighting a wave of vertigo, Marc stepped forward. ―What does it say?‖ ―It says, ‗Last Will and Testament of May Schaeffer‘.‖

FINN did not appreciate the three a.m. phone call. ―This better be good,‖ he barked at Sawyer, loud enough for Marc to catch the angry words. ―Nice,‖ Sawyer replied. ―Did you stay up too late watching Law and Order again?‖ Marc grabbed the phone before the conversation deteriorated, erasing whatever progress the two had made earlier in the evening. ―You realize that it‘s three in the morning,‖ Finn snapped, not a question. ―Yeah,‖ Marc said. ―Sorry.‖ ―Sawyer, you coward,‖ Finn shouted in his ear. ―Get back on this phone. You know I won‘t yell at Marc.‖ His words carried through the receiver and across the kitchen. Marc winced. ―I think you just did,‖ Sawyer shouted back. On the other end of the line, things clattered, a drawer slammed, then Finn was back. ―What‘s happened?‖

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Marc shared a grin with Sawyer and Bruce before answering. ―We found it.‖ Even in the middle of the night, half asleep, Finn‘s mind was two steps ahead. ―Is it signed and witnessed?‖ ―And notarized,‖ Marc confirmed. ―I‘ll be there in twenty minutes.‖ The line went dead before Marc could say thank you or goodbye. ―He‘s coming,‖ he told the others. Bruce snorted. ―Such an eager puppy.‖ Eager about said it. Finn turned into the driveway a few minutes later, headlights bouncing over ruts as he roared up to the front of the house. Bruce met him at the door. ―We gave at the office.‖ Finn brushed by, the sweatshirt and running pants looking so out of character on his frame that Marc found himself staring. ―All right. Let‘s see it.‖ He snatched the papers from Sawyer‘s hands and started to read right in the middle of the foyer. Marc tried not to hover. Finn stroked his mustache as he recited silently, lips moving. He nodded, turned to the second page, and Marc felt like he‘d finished the first leg of a long-distance race. Even Bruce didn‘t interrupt. He kept his pithy comments to himself, choosing to recline at the bottom of the staircase, although he watched Finn like a hawk. When Finn finally did speak, Marc jumped. ―Do you know either of these two witnesses?‖ Weak with relief, Marc nodded. ―Yes. I know both. They were friends of my aunt. One lives in Florida, I think—‖ Finn‘s head snapped up. ―—but I know the whereabouts of Simone Bradford, for sure. She lives in a retirement community about an hour away.‖ Finn shuffled the papers back into their original order. ―That‘s helpful information,‖ he said, trying for seriousness, but the glee leaked through. ―In case we need her to testify, which, after having met your father, is a possibility. You said she was in a retirement community. Assisted living?‖

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―I don‘t think so. She has a private cottage. I think she lives alone.‖ ―Is she lucid?‖ Sawyer snorted. ―Sharp as a tack. We just saw her today. I mean, yesterday.‖ ―In that case‖—Finn broke down and grinned—―I‘d say your parents are going to have an extremely bad morning.‖ Bruce let out a whoop, and Finn tucked the papers under his arm. ―I‘ll just keep this, then, okay?‖ ―It‘s all yours,‖ Marc said. Bruce levered himself off the stairs. Yawning, he stretched, then scratched idly at his stomach. ―That‘s enough excitement for one night. I‘m headed back to bed.‖ He caught Finn staring at his shirt and pulled the fabric taut so the words were readable. ―Frankly, I‘ve never met a drafting table I‘d risk taking a ride on, but whatever.‖ He snapped his fingers. ―Hey! You want one? They have a special one for you lawyer people. I don‘t remember what it says, offhand, but there are a lot of big words. Which means you‘d probably love it.‖ By Marc‘s reckoning, it took Finn several seconds to process whether he‘d been insulted or complimented. ―No thanks.‖ He nodded at Sawyer and Marc. ―See you two in a few hours.‖ He left as hastily as he‘d come, sucking all the energy with him. There were no last-minute congratulations, no backslapping, and no jokes. Neither was the silence brooding, but Marc felt his fatigue pressing on every joint and muscle. He lowered himself to the steps where Bruce had been sitting a moment before. Bruce watched him carefully. ―You okay?‖ Marc nodded, thinking that from this angle, Bruce looked ten feet tall. ―Just….‖ Just what? Tired fit the bill, but so did a dozen other things. ―Tired‖ was safe, but Marc had had his fill of hiding behind what was safe. ―I think this might be the end,‖ he admitted. ―Before now, I could always say they were just traveling. Busy. Even if I knew that wasn‘t really true.‖ He set his hand against the wall, pressing his palm to the textured plaster. ―They won‘t be coming back after this.‖

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―And this is bad?‖ Sawyer asked from where he was leaning against the front door. ―It‘s… sad.‖ He rubbed his face. ―That‘s stupid, right?‖ ―No,‖ Bruce replied quietly. ―It‘s not stupid.‖ For a moment, he looked poised to say something else, but instead shook his head and, throwing a wave over his shoulder, trudged up the stairs. ―I‘ll be right back.‖ Sawyer pushed off the front door and backtracked to the kitchen, flicking light switches as he went. Marc watched Finn‘s taillights disappear down the drive. It was over, and almost as quickly as it had begun. As wars went, not too shabby. Now there was just the final battle to survive. Marc prayed it would be as easy as Finn had led them to believe.

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Chapter 18

BY THE time Sawyer tromped down the stairs, it was five after nine. From his seat in the corner, Marc watched him stumble into the kitchen and squint at the clock above the stove. ―Damn it!‖ ―It‘s no big deal,‖ Marc said, hiding his smirk when Sawyer jumped at the sound of his voice. ―I kind of expected we‘d oversleep. I told Finn to go ahead.‖ ―I thought you‘d gone without me.‖ Sawyer turned in a circle, searching for a clean coffee mug. In deference to Bruce, he‘d donned shorts and a T-shirt before coming downstairs. When Marc had left him curled around his pillow an hour ago, he‘d been wearing nothing. Marc had been curiously reticent with Sawyer after they‘d finally sent Finn home. The tension should have been broken, the worry gone, but Marc‘s brain hadn‘t been able to let go of it. He kept to his side of the bed, and Sawyer, after gracing him with a curious but accepting smile, kept his hands to himself. Within minutes he was snoring, and Marc spent another hour watching him—jealous of his ability to sleep, but loving that he found peace in Marc‘s presence. Finn‘s phone call had come at eight o‘clock. ―Will you be there?‖ he asked without preamble. Accustomed by then to Finn‘s abruptness, Marc‘s answer was just as direct. He slipped out of the bedroom, pulling the door closed behind him. ―Do I have to be?‖ ―No. Not really. You‘ll have to deal with it eventually, of course, but that can be saved for after your parents leave town.‖ ―And you‘re sure they‘ll go? They won‘t try to prolong things?‖ That was Marc‘s worst fear; it had been from the beginning. He‘d fight if he had to, but God, he was drained. Please just let it end today.

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As if he‘d read Marc‘s mind, Finn said, ―They don‘t have a leg to stand on. Trust me.‖ And that was another potential problem. He did trust Finn. And liked him. But he had no idea if the fragile peace between the brothers would last. Choosing sides after what Finn had done for him… Marc simply couldn‘t. Sawyer would have to understand. ―Then I‘d rather skip it,‖ he told Finn, ―if it‘s all the same.‖ ―I kind of thought you‘d say that. Want to meet for breakfast after? I have to get back today, but I‘d like to see you before I go, if you have the time.‖ ―I‘ll make the time,‖ Marc said. ―And so will he.‖ Stunned silence filled the line, then Finn chuckled. ―Thanks. Rachel‘s? Ten o‘clock?‖ ―See you there.‖ An hour later, Marc was still sitting at the kitchen table, nursing his fourth cup of coffee and trying to quiet his thoughts. ―You look troubled,‖ Sawyer remarked as he poured his own cup. He was keeping his distance, Marc noticed with a frown. Had he been too standoffish last night? Testing the waters, he pulled out the chair next to him in invitation. Sawyer fell into it with a yawn, and suddenly Marc felt it a little easier to breathe. ―So Finn‘s gone to spread the bad news, huh?‖ Marc waited for the insult that usually followed any remark by Sawyer about his brother. It never came. Sawyer arched an eyebrow and slid a hand onto Marc‘s knee. ―You with me?‖ ―Um, yeah. He said I didn‘t need to be there. I told him we‘d meet him at Rachel‘s for breakfast at ten.‖ He‘d meant to ease into the subject, but maybe straightforward was best. Sawyer licked his lips, but nodded. ―Okay. I better grab a shower, then.‖ Imagining Sawyer under the hot spray, water sluicing off his body, set Marc‘s stomach fluttering. He stood when Sawyer did and followed him to the base of the staircase. ―Is there room for two?‖

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Sawyer put a steadying hand on the newel post. His voice went low and scratchy. ―If you want to be on time for breakfast, then… no. There isn‘t.‖ With the promise of so much to come, Marc didn‘t have it in him to be disappointed. He shrugged. ―Can I take a rain check?‖ ―You can take a book of them.‖ Sawyer hugged his coffee to his chest. ―And now I think I better go stand under some cold water.‖ ―Hey, Calhoun!‖ They both looked up. Bruce stared down at them from the second floor landing, wearing the shortest robe Marc had ever seen. It covered what it needed to… barely, though it looked wide enough for two people. Bruce snapped his fingers. ―Towels?‖ ―Closet outside the bathroom,‖ Sawyer answered. ―Anything else, your highness?‖ Bruce leaned so far over the banister, Marc held his breath. ―Yeah. Stop looking up my skirt, you pervert.‖

WAS it his imagination, or was Rachel‘s more crowded than usual? Marc scanned the room as they stepped in the door, surprised to see nearly every table occupied. ―Yo, Marc!‖ Rick‘s beefy arm appeared above the sea of heads, waving from a table in the center of the room. ―Over here.‖ They made their way over in a line, Sawyer behind Marc and Bruce bringing up the rear. Until he saw Rachel. ―There she is!‖ he bellowed, striding over to the line of stools that ringed the counter. ―I‘m back, beautiful! Better light a fire under those cooks.‖ Rachel slapped a hand over her heart. ―Prince Charming in the flesh. Where‘ve you been, darling?‖ ―Pining for you. But now all that heartache is a thing of the past. What‘s the special?‖ ―Greek omelet.‖ Bruce swooned against the counter. ―Marry me.‖

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―Well, I don‘t know.‖ Rachel tightened her ponytail and leaned over, inspecting Bruce head to toe. ―Are you prepared to support me in the manner to which I‘m accustomed?‖ ―Sweetheart, I‘d turn to a life of crime for you.‖ ―All right.‖ Sawyer called, motioning him over. ―Let the lady do her thing.‖ Somehow Marc scored a table next to Rick, Reba, Karen, and Tim. As soon as Sawyer and Bruce joined him, Marissa appeared bearing coffee and a handful of mugs. ―Do they know?‖ Sawyer asked, tipping his head toward the next table. ―Marc called this morning and told us.‖ Reba‘s grin was infectious, and Marc found himself returning it. Reba slapped Rick on the back. ―We‘re celebrating.‖ ―And then we‘re getting back to work,‖ Karen cut in. ―Our schedule is days out of whack.‖ Sawyer waved her off. ―It‘s no problem.‖ ―No, we promised completion by Christmas. We can do it. Right, guys?‖ Nods all around the table made the sentiment unanimous. Tim led a coffee mug toast, and after that, Marc relaxed back in his chair while Karen introduced Bruce. There was a flurry of handshakes. Oddly, Tim held Bruce‘s hand the longest, and his, ―I‘ve heard great things about you,‖ made Marc turn to Sawyer, curious. ―When did you talk to Tim about Bruce?‖ he whispered. Sawyer shrugged. ―At the wake. I said I thought they had a lot in common.‖ Was he serious? ―Tim and Bruce,‖ Marc clarified. Sawyer smirked, but his answer got lost in a commotion near the front door. Marc swung around to look, but he couldn‘t see through all the people. ―What the hell,‖ Marc heard Sawyer say, and then another voice rose above the confusion. Jonathon‘s. ―Where is he?‖ Jonathon shouted above the din. ―I know he‘s here.‖

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A chill went down Marc‘s spine. He could see better now; the crowd near the door had parted. Finn stood behind Jonathon and had one hand on his arm, restraining him. Rachel had planted her petite frame in his path. Hands on her hips, she challenged him silently. There was no sign of Maggie. ―Let me through!‖ Jonathon struggled out of Finn‘s grip. ―I want to see Marc.‖ Marc swept his eyes over the room. The usual hum of conversation had died, casting an eerie silence over the normally bustling restaurant. It had been a mistake to avoid this confrontation. He understood that now. Selfishly, he‘d wanted to relish his good humor, to keep himself clean of his father‘s vitriol and hang on to that last shrinking thought that maybe… one day, maybe… they could grow beyond the animosity. He‘d been fooling himself. He rose to his feet. Beside him, Sawyer made to stand, but Marc clamped a hand onto his shoulder and urged him back into his seat. ―I‘m right here,‖ he called. Rachel threw him a glance. At Marc‘s nod, she stepped aside. Jonathon straightened his jacket, throwing a dirty look at Finn, then began weaving his way through the tables. He shook his finger at Marc, like he was scolding a child. ―I suppose you‘re happy now.‖ Marc waited until Jonathon reached their table. His dove gray suit was wrinkled and mussed, and his thinning hair stood up in tufts where his hat hadn‘t flattened it. He looked nothing like the civilized man he purported himself to be. ―Did you hear me?‖ he asked. Again, Marc had to push Sawyer down. ―I heard you,‖ he said. ―And you really have no right to know how I feel, but I‘ll tell you. Yes, I‘m happy.‖ Jonathon planted his hands on his hips. ―You‘re not the man I thought you were. Do you have any idea what your greediness is going to cost? Marc—‖ ―It‘s not going to cost him anything,‖ Sawyer said, shifting restlessly in Marc‘s grip. ―Which is exactly how it should be.‖

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―Marc, please,‖ Jonathon said, dismissing Sawyer. His shaking finger softened to a more imploring gesture. ―I‘ve already made plans. Promises. This money will let your mother and me to do things for these people that we never thought possible. Schools. Books. Immunizations. God, I can‘t—‖ His hand tightened into a fist as some of his anger broke through. ―How can you be so selfish?‖ Marc‘s chest filled with something. It put a buzz in his head and sent goose bumps down his arms. Anticipation. He could taste it. ―Leave me a way to get in contact with you,‖ Marc heard himself say, the words echoing in his ears like he was standing outside his own body, watching. ―I‘ll give you half.‖ ―Half?‖ It was Finn‘s turn to sputter. ―Marc, think about what you‘re saying.‖ ―I want them to have it,‖ Marc assured him, catching Finn‘s eye over Jonathon‘s shoulder. It would mean selling Aunt May‘s house and most everything in it, but he could live with that. All in all, a fair compromise, considering twelve hours ago he‘d had nothing. ―You have no idea if he‘s telling the truth,‖ Sawyer said. ―How the hell do you know if he‘s going to use the money for what he claims?‖ ―I don‘t,‖ Marc admitted. It didn‘t matter. No more decisions for Aunt May. No more for Finn, or even Sawyer. He‘d do what he‘d been raised to do. He‘d take the high road. ―Leave me your number,‖ he told Jonathon. ―I‘ll call you when I‘m ready to send it.‖ ―And when exactly is that going to be?‖ Jonathon spat. ―A week? A year?‖ ―I‘ll send it by Christmas.‖ No matter what. It would be his present to himself. A debt paid. A promise kept. A rising tide of murmurs filled the room. Jonathon drew himself up, and Marc steeled himself for the worst. He should have known his father would want the final word. ―How generous of you, son.‖ He jerked his chin at Sawyer. ―But I‘m not sure your lover agrees.‖

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Marc ignored the quiet gasps that floated up around him. ―No,‖ he said, running his tongue along the inside of his cheek, fighting the urge—of all things—to smile. ―I‘m pretty sure he doesn‘t.‖ He thought that when he tried to lift his arm its weight would be unbearable. Instead, it felt lighter than air. Deliberately, he set his hand on Sawyer‘s shoulder, and Sawyer reached up to clasp their fingers together. They shared a smile—an unmistakable smile. Marc cut his eyes back to his father. ―I‘m sure he doesn‘t agree at all, as a matter of fact. But I think he‘ll get over it.‖ The enormity of the moment stayed private. Jonathon was too busy basking in the sea of shocked faces. ―They didn‘t know?‖ he asked, turning in a circle. ―At least I can take some comfort that your mother and I weren‘t the very last to find out. Not that it makes the truth any less painful.‖ The words cut through the air like a knife. Nobody spoke. Nobody moved. The silence was so total that Marc could hear his pulse pounding in his ears. He counted ten frantic heartbeats, and then a sound came from the back of the room: chair legs scraping on the floor. ―Okay, mister,‖ a high-pitched voice said. Sasha, from the Trade-It Horn, Marc realized as he turned. She stood in the aisle, hands on her hips, glaring at Jonathon. ―You might be Marc‘s dad, but you are also a horse‘s ass. That kind of stuff is private. It‘s none of my business, and it‘s none of yours, either.‖ ―I‘m his father,‖ Jonathon said, derision dripping from his voice. More chairs squeaked across the linoleum. In all corners of the room, people began to rise, but it was Frank Jones who spoke. Marc hadn‘t seen him since the day of Sawyer‘s estate sale. He scooted from his booth, setting aside the paper napkin that had been spread in his lap. ―You see things the way they suit you, Jon,‖ he said. ―You always did.‖ He looked down at his wife, smiled, and caught her fingers in his. Her hand was shaking, Marc saw, but her grip was firm. ―As for me and Betty,‖ Frank added, ―we may stick our noses in where they don‘t belong sometimes, but we don‘t punish people for the way God made them.‖ He motioned at the door. ―Now you‘ve done enough damage for today. Go on. Get out of here.‖

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―I am not finished speaking with my son,‖ Jonathon said, enunciating each word. ―Oh, I think you are.‖ Bruce kicked his own chair back and stalked around the table. ―Let me help you find the door.‖ He cracked his knuckles. Jonathon took one step back before holding his ground. ―And who are you?‖ ―That‘s Bruce Banner,‖ Karen piped up. ―And I think you just made him angry.‖ Sawyer‘s muscles rippled under Marc‘s hand. Marc held firm. ―Bruce, don‘t. Let it go.‖ Rick stood as well, coming to his feet with none of Bruce‘s grace, but every ounce of his wrath. He didn‘t speak, but the set of his jaw and his clenched fists said it all. It was Rachel who finally broke the stalemate, ducking in front of Bruce and standing on her tiptoes to glare at Jonathon. ―How dare you call Marc selfish? You‘re the selfish one. Selfish and hateful. I can‘t believe you‘re Marc‘s father. Now get out of my diner before I call the cops.‖ Her words tipped the scales. His father backed away, whispering under his breath. Silently, the crowd parted for him, and Finn, still standing near the entrance, helpfully pushed the door open. Throwing one more unreadable glance at Marc, Jonathon stalked out. It could have turned awkward then. That it didn‘t was fifty percent miracle and fifty percent Bruce. ―How annoying,‖ he said, addressing nobody in particular. ―It really is insane what some people will do for a little attention.‖ He folded himself back into his seat. ―Didn‘t I hear something about a Greek omelet?‖ ―You did,‖ Rachel affirmed, brushing a few stray hairs out of her face. Bruce rubbed his stomach. ―Feed me.‖ He scooped his mug off the table, then waved at the two women standing at a neighboring table. ―Have a seat, ladies,‖ he chastised. ―Your food‘s getting cold.‖ Sawyer tugged on Marc‘s hand, urging him to sit. He did, and like a switch had been flipped, everyone else did, too, breaking into quiet conversations that soon escalated to their usual volume. Waitresses

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bustled about. Food got ordered. Food got delivered. The world drank coffee. Business as usual. Marc wasn‘t sure he believed it. The meal passed in a blur, and soon they were outside on the sidewalk, saying goodbye to Finn and Bruce. Bruce squinted at his parking meter. ―I should have run out a half hour ago. It says I have another forty minutes.‖ ―You‘re lucky.‖ Marc pointed out a meter maid less than a dozen cars away, shoving a ticket under someone‘s wiper. ―They watch these things like hawks. It‘s a fifty-dollar fine.‖ Bruce whistled. ―Thank you, mystery benefactor.‖ ―You‘re welcome,‖ Finn said, buttoning his suit coat. He tossed his briefcase into the backseat of his BMW. Marc thought he might have been the only one to notice how Finn ran his palms over his pant legs before turning to Sawyer. ―Give me a call sometime, little brother.‖ He held out his hand. ―Don‘t be a stranger.‖ Sawyer grasped it. ―I will. Call, I mean. Thanks again, Finn. For everything.‖ ―Anytime.‖ He turned to Marc. ―I should be the one thanking you, though. I haven‘t had so much fun in years.‖ When they shook, Finn leaned close. ―Good luck,‖ he whispered. Bruce drove away shortly after, beeping and blowing kisses at Rachel, who‘d come to stand at the diner‘s entrance. The rest of the team spilled out the door a minute later. Rick was holding his stomach and groaning about too many blueberry pancakes, and Karen was yawning. Marc made an executive decision, and not a particularly unselfish one, he had to admit. ―That‘s enough drama for one day, you think? And it‘s almost noon. Why don‘t we just call it the last day of our vacation and start fresh tomorrow?‖ ―Oh, but—‖ Karen began. Rick slapped a hand over her mouth. ―Quiet, Barbie. No arguing with the boss.‖ He yelped when she slapped it away. ―If you insist,‖ she said, sounding lost. ―I do.‖ Marc shooed her toward her car. ―See you in the morning. And Karen, do something fun with the rest of your day, all right?‖

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They separated, Marc and Sawyer walking down the block to Sawyer‘s Explorer, and the rest filing into the small parking lot behind the building. ―So,‖ Sawyer said. They walked close enough that their fingers brushed with every step. ―Any big plans for the rest of the day?‖ ―Oh, yeah.‖ They split in front of the car, Marc sliding around to the passenger side door. ―How quickly can you get us home?‖ Sawyer fired up the engine. ―Which one?‖ he asked. He put the car in drive and eased away from the curb into traffic. Marc examined the question from all sides, wondering what about it made him so giddy. ―Mine. How quickly can you get us to mine?‖ As it happened, Sawyer got them there in eight minutes.

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Chapter 19

HIS homecoming didn‘t exactly go as planned. For one, Marc‘s phone beeped as they turned into the driveway, the display flashing a 911 text message from Rick. Call me. Secondly, his mother was sitting on the front steps, skirt tucked around her legs, hands folded in her lap. Her hair had been tied back with a dark purple scarf, though several long strands had come free to blow in the wind. Sawyer didn‘t say a word as he pulled in, but his mouth thinned into a tight line. Marc kept his eyes on Maggie as he dialed Rick‘s number. ―What‘s wrong?‖ Rick‘s voice held the same edge of anger it had during the confrontation at breakfast. ―I‘m at your aunt‘s house,‖ Rick said. The conversation spun out in front of him, and Marc suddenly knew, without asking, the reason for the phone call. ―Don‘t make me have to bail you out of jail later.‖ ―Would I do that to you? Just wanted to let you know he‘s leaving with his suitcases, but without the boxes he was trying to load into his car.‖ Marc rubbed his eyes, trying to soothe the headache blooming behind them. ―Any idea what he was trying to take?‖ ―No idea. You can check later. I stacked them in the foyer.‖ Marc drew a deep breath, sensing another small part of his life put to peace. ―Thanks, Rick.‖ ―It was my pleasure, boss.‖ Marc had known Rick long enough to hear the evil pleasure in his voice. He was enjoying himself, perhaps a little too much.

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―I think he‘s harmless, but just in case, don‘t turn your back on him,‖ Marc warned. ―I almost want to, you know? Maybe he‘ll give me an excuse to beat the crap out of him.‖ ―Yeah.‖ Marc‘s attention had wandered during the call. Now it returned to Maggie. ―But I‘m asking you nicely. Let it go.‖ Rick‘s answering silence meant he was at least considering it. His subsequent put-upon sigh meant Marc had won. ―Fine. But I‘m hanging out for a while. Just in case he comes back.‖ ―If you want.‖ ―I do.‖ Marc flipped his phone closed and tossed it on the seat. ―Everything‘s fine,‖ he said to Sawyer‘s unspoken concern. ―Rick took it upon himself to make sure my father didn‘t take any souvenirs with him. Sawyer grunted. ―Rick‘s one step ahead of me.‖ ―Me too.‖ Which made him uncomfortable. Anticipating Jonathon‘s next move hadn‘t occurred to him. He‘d been too busy savoring his victory, such as it was. On the porch steps, Maggie rose to her feet. The late autumn breeze whipped at her skirt and hair. Marc frowned when he saw her wrap her arms around herself. ―Be right back,‖ he said. ―I‘ll be here,‖ Sawyer assured him. He trailed a finger over Marc‘s cheek. ―Take your time.‖ It was physically painful to climb out of the car. His joints ached and fatigue had taken hold again. How unfair, yet predictable, that facing his mother made him feel like an old man. Her sad, tentative smile did little to alleviate the nervousness that was making his stomach roll. Why wouldn‘t these cravings leave him? Time after time, his mother had hurt him. His longing for her had been painful, and his resentment peppered with hope for too long. He needed to let go. Get angry, if that‘s what it took to banish her. But was it really productive, or even fair, to be angry? The truth was, he didn‘t even know his mother. Whatever motivations or reasons

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or even regrets she kept close to her heart were a mystery to him. His was still a child‘s anger, a child‘s hope. But he hadn‘t been a child for a long time. It was past time to let go. He stepped away from the truck, strength flowing back with every step. Maggie stepped down onto the grass to meet him, and Marc‘s pace faltered for one heart-wrenching moment when he saw her swollen, bloodshot eyes. She noticed his frown. ―Oh, don‘t mind me,‖ she said with a nervous laugh. ―I‘ve always been a weepy sort of girl. I have trouble… well, that‘s not important, is it?‖ She pressed both palms to her cheeks, then pushed back her loose locks of hair. The move accentuated her gauntness, and for the first time Marc didn‘t let emotion color his vision. He reached out. Surprise flickered through his mother‘s pale eyes, but she took his hand. ―You‘re so thin.‖ He‘d wanted to say it differently, or maybe he‘d wanted it to mean something he couldn‘t verbalize, but Maggie tilted her head, acknowledging his words, and after that, it didn‘t seem necessary. ―I lead a very active life, Marc. Sometimes I think it might be time to slow down, but then there are other things that need to be done, more people who need me, and I‘m off and running again.‖ She laughed, the same soft, lilting sound that Marc remembered from his childhood. ―It suits me, this thing your father and I do.‖ A gust of wind rushed past, and she lifted her face to it, inhaling deeply. ―I didn‘t want to presume anything,‖ she said, ―so I waited, hoping you‘d come.‖ Puzzled, Marc cocked his head, and Maggie inclined hers toward the house. ―I‘d love to have a look around inside, if you don‘t mind. I know you think I‘m crazy, and probably not entitled, but‖—she sifted her hand through the wildflowers blooming by the steps—―I‘d just like to see it one more time.‖ Curiously comfortable with the request, Marc led her up the steps to the door.

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―Oh, my!‖ Maggie laughed and turned a circle in the foyer. ―It‘s fancier than I remember.‖ Marc looked, too, trying to see what she did. ―I‘ve been working on it.‖ A thorough understatement, but the situation called for one. Maggie pointed to the set of stairs curling up the wall to the second floor. ―I remember when you tumbled down those. One second you were playing quietly, and the next you were gone off the blanket and climbing the steps. Oh!‖ She covered her face. ―I screamed so loud I think the neighbors down the road heard me.‖ Having no idea what to say, Marc shrugged. Maggie didn‘t speak again for another few minutes. Marc considered filling the silence, but the tears falling down his mother‘s face kept him quiet. ―I made a mistake,‖ Maggie whispered. ―Leaving you.‖ The tears spilled faster. ―I made so many mistakes. Oh, Marc. I‘m so sorry.‖ Marc waited. Surely he‘d feel something soon. If not forgiveness, then at least pity. This is the scene he used to dream about, the one he‘d convinced himself he wanted. But he felt nothing, not even a hitch in his heartbeat, and he realized… I’ve won. He‘d beaten it. He wasn‘t the needy boy she‘d left behind. He was no longer lost or alone. He was free. ―Can you forgive me?‖ Maggie sobbed, reaching to touch his face. ―Can you ever forgive me?‖ ―I don‘t know.‖ He covered her hand, then gave her fingers a brief squeeze before stepping back. ―I‘ll try.‖ That, at least, he could promise. A horn sounded outside. Maggie drew back, brushing at her tears. ―You‘ve done well for yourself, sweetheart. I want you to know that I am very, very proud of you.‖ His throat closed. Apparently his walls weren‘t as thick as he thought. ―Thanks,‖ he choked. Maggie smiled, but she didn‘t try to touch him again. ―Goodbye, Marc. I hope we see each other again someday. Soon.‖ ―Me too,‖ he whispered.

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She walked to the front door, and he followed a few steps behind. A dark car he didn‘t recognize idled in front of the house, green rental sticker affixed to the rear windshield. Jonathon sat behind the wheel. On the other side of the driveway, Sawyer was leaning against the front of his SUV, glaring at him. Perhaps sensing the volatility of the situation, Maggie hurried down the steps and got in. Jonathon slammed the car into gear and it jumped forward, spitting gravel. Maggie turned to wave as they drove away. Transfixed by the sight, Marc jumped when a pair of arms circled him. Sawyer pulled him close, cradling him tight to his chest, and pressed a kiss to his temple. ―You okay?‖ ―Yeah. I‘m okay.‖ ―Ready to go in?‖ The somber moment was fading as quickly as the dust kicked up by Jonathon‘s car. Marc couldn‘t say he felt as carefree as he had when they‘d left the diner, but his mind seemed determined to shake off the painful scene with his mother. ―Yeah.‖ He took Sawyer‘s hand. ―More than ready.‖ The door was still standing open. Marc closed it behind them, then led the way toward the stairs. Sawyer wanted to speak—Marc could tell by the way he hung back, biting his lip. Marc shook his head and pulled. A brief, silent tug of war ensued, and then Sawyer gave in. Marc was grateful he didn‘t put up more of a fight. The time had come to put an end to the waiting and the uncertainty. He was positive of his course and didn‘t want to have to defend it. It boosted his confidence that Sawyer sensed that. Sawyer paused at the door to the bedroom while Marc walked inside. ―Expecting any more visitors today?‖ ―I sure as hell hope not.‖ ―So—‖ Sawyer clasped the doorknob. ―Open or closed?‖ Marc didn‘t even have to think about it. ―Open.‖ He kicked his shoes off. That put a smile on Sawyer‘s face. He swung the door wide, then crossed the room in three strides and grabbed Marc by the waist. ―Let me help you with that.‖ A moment later, Marc‘s shirt landed next to his shoes. Poised for the next attack, Marc couldn‘t hide his surprise when

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Sawyer dropped his hands to his sides. ―It‘s been a crazy couple of days,‖ he said. ―There‘s no rush.‖ Marc‘s answer was to reach between them and work Sawyer‘s jeans open. ―Yeah,‖ he said, pushing them over Sawyer‘s hips. ―I know.‖ Still, Sawyer hesitated. Endearing, but Marc‘s need had progressed far beyond handholding. Boldly, he slipped his hands into the front of Sawyer‘s briefs. His fingers brushed hard heat, and Sawyer tipped his head back with a groan. Just to show that expectations were dangerous things, Sawyer didn‘t proceed as Marc expected. Accepting rather than aggressive, he stepped back and stripped off the rest of his clothes, not once breaking eye contact. Naked, he lowered himself to the bed, then scooted backward and spread out across the sheets. Marc drank him in, forgetting for the moment he could do so much more than look. Until Sawyer beckoned him closer. It took three tries, but Marc‘s fingers finally managed the button on his pants. He didn‘t waste any time; he pushed them down and off in one movement. ―Jesus,‖ Sawyer said, moving restlessly on the bed, one hand straying to his cock. ―Look at you. Come here.‖ This time when Sawyer held out his hand, Marc didn‘t hesitate. He climbed up and over the mattress, throwing one leg over Sawyer‘s thighs. His hands shook at the feel of warm skin under his fingertips. It felt right, having Sawyer beneath him like this, waiting to be touched. Sawyer‘s chest rose and fell with sharp breaths, but he waited, arms crossed behind his head while Marc took the lead. When Marc moved his fingers lower to play over Sawyer‘s cock for the first time, Sawyer squeezed his eyes shut and tipped his head back. ―Is this okay?‖ Marc asked, only half kidding. Sawyer‘s throat bobbed as he nodded. Marc didn‘t feel like being gentle, and there was nothing tender about the way he closed his fist around Sawyer. They‘d done their share of slow and explorative, and there‘d be more of that to come. What he needed now was something more visceral. He released Sawyer‘s cock, ignoring his huff of disappointment, and curled over his chest. ―Sawyer?‖

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―Yeah?‖ Sawyer asked, eyes screwed shut. ―Fuck me.‖ Sawyer‘s eyes flew open. ―Uh… I think maybe—‖ Marc thumped his chest. ―Stop treating me like a china doll and do what I ask. Unless you‘re not capable or you don‘t want to.‖ All the warning he got was a flash in Sawyer‘s eyes, then he was tumbling over onto the pile of blankets. The laughter bubbling up his throat never made it past his lips. Sawyer stretched over him, pressing down with all his weight, squeezing the air from Marc‘s lungs in more ways than one. ―Okay,‖ was all he said before he attacked. Sawyer‘s mouth crashed across Marc‘s, clumsy and sloppy. He retreated when Marc twisted away to grab shallow breaths but returned each time with the same unrelenting passion. Through it all, he rolled his hips in tight, maddening circles until Marc quivered beneath him. The pressure in Marc‘s cock had turned into a throbbing ache. ―Come on,‖ he urged when the kisses grew gentler. He wiggled until his legs were sprawled open with Sawyer‘s trapped between them. ―I‘m waiting.‖ Sawyer took the words to heart. The feral look in his eyes sent a chill down Marc‘s spine. ―Yeah, I bet you are,‖ Sawyer growled. His eyes strayed to the nightstand, then back to Marc, and Marc nodded. ―Yeah. In there.‖ Sawyer was in the drawer before Marc had finished speaking. He emerged with the lube, frowned, then tossed it on the bed and rolled away. Marc grabbed for him, but missed. ―Where are you going?‖ ―Don‘t move.‖ Stumbling to where he‘d left his jeans, Sawyer extracted his wallet from the pocket. Credit cards and cash spilled to the floor as he fumbled it open. He ignored them, pulled a condom from somewhere deep inside, and stalked back to the bed. Marc blinked at it. ―Do we—?‖ ―Yes. We do.‖ Sawyer tempered his harsh response with a kiss. ―For now,‖ he added, stretching out beside Marc. He held the condom up between them, the question plain on his face.

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Marc plucked it from his fingers and ripped it open. ―It‘s for you,‖ he whispered. A pleased smile teased at Sawyer‘s lips. He nodded once. ―Okay.‖ Not Are you sure? which did more to put Marc at ease than the confident way Sawyer placed the packet aside and slid close, pulling one of Marc‘s legs between his. He started with more slow, deep kisses, leeching away the tension that had crept back during the interlude, and stroked one hand through Marc‘s hair while the other wandered over his chest. Marc barely noticed when the hand moved to his thigh and pulled his legs wider, but when Sawyer‘s fingers pressed in, slippery and cool, he had to turn away from the kiss to suck in a breath. Sawyer nuzzled his ear. ―You okay?‖ ―Yeah,‖ Marc answered. It wasn‘t a new sensation. Marc had done the same to himself many times. But it had never been like this, with every touch a surprise, fingers delving deeper than he‘d ever managed himself. And he‘d never had Sawyer curled against him, whispering dirty things into his ear about how tight he was and how hot and how he couldn‘t wait to be inside. This was the gritty reality he‘d craved, but that his own hands and mind had never given him. ―Sawyer.‖ Marc fumbled around on the bed until his fingers brushed the condom. He scooped it up and slapped it to Sawyer‘s chest. ―Now,‖ he said between Sawyer‘s nipping kisses. Having Sawyer obey so readily was as intoxicating as the feel of his fingers in his body and the heated press of his cock against Marc‘s hip. Sawyer grabbed the condom and sat up, dragging one of the pillows with him. ―Here,‖ he said, pushing helpfully behind Marc‘s knees until his ass lifted off the mattress. He shoved the pillow beneath Marc‘s hips. ―Better.‖ He freed the condom from its wrapper. Marc watched him roll it on, entranced at how his face screwed up in concentration and his hands trembled just a little. ―Don‘t hold back, okay?‖

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―Don‘t tell me what to do,‖ Sawyer barked, voice harsh. He pushed Marc‘s legs up and apart. ―But don‘t worry. I don‘t think I have it in me to be gentle right now.‖ But he didn‘t move, only stared downward at where they were about to be joined. The seconds ticked by, and a tendril of selfconsciousness worked its way into Marc‘s lust-fogged brain. He shifted his hips, and Sawyer caught his breath, then raised his head. Despite his words, his eyes were wide with wonder, his gaze tender. ―Come on,‖ Marc whispered, raising a hand to Sawyer‘s cheek. Sawyer ducked his head to swallow, whispering ―Jesus Christ,‖ so softly that Marc nearly didn‘t make out the words. He remained frozen. Enough was enough. Marc dropped his hands from Sawyer‘s shoulders, slung an arm behind each knee and pulled, stretching himself wide. It was all the encouragement Sawyer needed. Breath coming in uneven pants, he guided himself in. Marc gritted his teeth. He‘d expected some discomfort, but the spike of pain made him arch off the bed. His hands fell from his legs to fist in the sheets. Sawyer‘s hand sank into his hair. ―Easy, Marc. Breathe,‖ he said in a wavering voice. Overwhelmed, Marc tried, falling back to the pillow and consciously unclenching muscles that had gone tight and unyielding. To his surprise, his body responded, and Sawyer groaned as he slid in. Panting, he wrapped his arms around Marc‘s thighs and pushed deeper. ―Fucking Christ,‖ were his last words before he began to move. Marc‘s eyes drifted closed. Drawing a deep breath was impossible, not that he had any intention of complaining. He felt Sawyer everywhere, inside and out. His toes tingled and his ears rang, but nothing compared to the delicious sensations shooting through his cock with each of Sawyer‘s thrusts. He tightened his hands around the sheets when the urge to touch himself took hold. The hell if he‘d bring an end to this so soon. But the pleasure crawled under his skin, too intense to ignore, and his hand crept to his cock. He needed something. Some pressure. He held on

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tight, determined not to stroke himself, knowing it would be over as soon as he started. Sawyer foiled him. He shifted slightly and slammed back in, having the nerve to laugh when Marc cried out at the spike of pleasure. ―Don‘t hold back,‖ he echoed. ―Because, Christ—‖ He thrust again, then again, picking up a punishing rhythm, ―I don‘t think I can.‖ At least Marc wouldn‘t be alone in his embarrassing lack of selfcontrol. He didn‘t bother answering, even to nod. All that mattered was getting where he wanted and taking Sawyer with him. The pleasure tottered on the edge of pain, as intense as Marc had ever felt. He couldn‘t wait any longer. His thighs were slippery with lube. Marc let go of his cock long enough to swipe a hand through the mess, then began the short, tight strokes he preferred, pumping fast. His balls tightened immediately. Fuck. He wasn‘t going to even last a minute. ―Sawyer,‖ he breathed. Sawyer understood the warning. Gasping, he leaned over Marc‘s chest, bracing himself on the bed and snapping his hips even faster, nearly matching Marc‘s speed. In the end, Sawyer succumbed first, but only by a few seconds. He came with a roar, straining against Marc, pushing him deeper into the mattress, and Marc followed, his own orgasm rising and cresting with little warning to pulse between their sweat-soaked stomachs. Dazed, he felt Sawyer release his legs and lower them carefully to the bed, and though he made a valiant effort to roll away, Marc didn‘t allow it. Sawyer acquiesced with a groan. After a few minutes, he pressed a kiss to Marc‘s damp brow and slid to the side, though he didn‘t wander any farther. Marc waited for his heart to slow and his limbs to stop tingling. ―Worth the wait?‖ he asked in a drowsy voice. Sawyer bit his shoulder. ―That‘s my line.‖ ―What‘s my line, then?‖ ―I think it goes… ‗That was incredible. Let‘s take a nap‘,‖ Sawyer mumbled, eyes closed.

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Marc shook with carefree laughter. He placed a kiss at the corner of Sawyer‘s mouth. ―That was fucking incredible,‖ he whispered, laughing again when Sawyer grinned. ―Let‘s take a nap.‖ Sawyer made a blind grab for the blanket, coming up lucky on his first try. He tucked it around them. ―I do love an idea man.‖ He curved an arm over Marc‘s chest. ―Now go to sleep.‖ Marc closed his eyes.

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Epilogue

IF ANYBODY was made for the spotlight, it was Bruce. Watching him work the crowd was something Marc would remember. His jokes skirted the edge of sexy—innuendo delivered with such slick precision that Marc couldn‘t help but admire it. Bruce didn‘t need the microphone to help carry his voice across the vast banquet hall, but he took advantage of it when necessary. The large, decorative podium did little to diminish his presence. ―People ask me all the time where I get my ideas,‖ he said after the audience‘s laughter had faded. ―Everybody in a creative profession gets that question, right? What inspires us?‖ He glanced up over the top of his glasses. ―I‘d tell you my secret, but I promised to keep my speech PG-13.‖ ―Impressive, isn‘t he?‖ Sawyer whispered in Marc‘s ear. Marc shot him a look. What was impressive was Sawyer in a tux. The black tie against that pristine white shirt, not to mention the tailored dinner jacket that hugged his frame in all the right places, had already distracted Marc several times that evening. The first had been when Sawyer came sauntering out of their hotel suite‘s bathroom sporting suspenders and a pair of dress pants that made Marc‘s mouth go dry. He‘d sunk onto the bed and just looked. Sawyer‘s predatory grin hadn‘t helped. He‘d jerked his chin at the cummerbund hanging limply in Marc‘s hands. ―Need help with that?‖ ―Um.‖ Arching an eyebrow, Sawyer smoothed his shirt over his stomach in playful challenge. ―How do I look?‖ ―I‘d tell you, but I have a feeling you already know,‖ Marc answered, breathless.

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―Come on, feed my ego.‖ Laughing, Sawyer approached the bed and slid between Marc‘s knees. ―Gladly.‖ Leaning forward, Marc nuzzled the smooth, black trousers, smiling when he felt Sawyer‘s body stir against his mouth. Catching Marc‘s face in his hands, Sawyer groaned. ―That‘s not exactly what I meant.‖ ―Liar. Do you want it or not?‖ ―We‘ll be late.‖ Not that that fact stopped Sawyer from fumbling with his belt and unzipping his fly. When he moved to ease the suspenders off his shoulders, Marc stopped him. ―Leave those,‖ he said. ―I like them.‖ Despite Sawyer‘s dire predictions, they made it to the gala on time. Hours later, the event was still going strong, but Marc barely remembered how he‘d passed the time. Sawyer had been glued to his side all night, looking like a god in that damn tuxedo, while Marc had spent most of the evening with his suit coat buttoned, doing his best to hide his erection. A nudge to his ribs brought him back to the present. ―This is it,‖ Sawyer said. He sprawled casually in his chair, one leg crossed over the opposite knee. ―Your big moment.‖ Nervousness fluttered in his stomach. It was Bruce‘s moment more than his, honestly, but to see the mill project finally brought to life… it had become his symbol. A rebirth of something vanquished, then brought back to life, infused with pride and hope and fresh perspective. ―You‘ll be happy to know the story behind this one is rated G,‖ Bruce continued. ―This time I found my inspiration in a person. Someone who noticed a spark in a place where there hadn‘t been one before. He breathed life into something long dead. He made it useful. He made it beautiful. But most of all, he kept the spirit of its history alive.‖ Bruce spread his hands. ―Is that not what we‘ve been striving to do here for years? Rebuild our image? As well as something far more difficult: stay true to who we are.‖ He paused for a sip of water, winking when his eyes locked with Marc‘s across the room. ―We aren‘t the flashiest city. Nor the wealthiest. Nor the most popular. But we

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have a history that defines us, one that‘s shaped our neighborhoods and communities, grounded our economy, influenced our children‘s education, and made us famous in our own right. Ladies and gentlemen, we need to stop reaching for what we aren‘t and embrace what we are… because it‘s something to be proud of.‖ Sawyer clapped wildly along with the crowd. Feeling selfconscious, a sensation that hadn‘t plagued him in months, Marc sipped his wine. Bruce scooped a remote off the podium and pressed a button. The lights dimmed, and on the stage behind him a large screen lit up, filling Marc‘s vision with a view of the city‘s waterfront. Abandoned, boarded up warehouses lined a shore littered with rusting barges. ―Our riverfront today,‖ Bruce said. He clicked to the next screen. A detailed drawing, similar to the one Bruce had shown Marc all those months ago, appeared. The audience gasped, then broke into more vigorous applause. The mill stood front and center, more beautiful than Marc remembered and just as perfect. More details had been added to the depiction: two parks, one at the north shore and one at the south, as well as monuments, museums, and restaurants. Bruce pointed out the locations of tasteful shopping squares, topped with premium apartments and lofts. ―Our roots are still here, buried under one and a half centuries of waste and misuse. But‖—Bruce held up a finger, then pointed behind him to the screen—―they‘re still alive. Sleeping. Not dead. Waiting to come back to life. That is what the Riverfront Revitalization Project will do. Now….‖ He pushed his glasses higher on his nose and turned to the next page of his speech. Marc felt a tug on his arm and turned to find Sawyer watching him. He leaned close when Sawyer crooked a finger. ―Let‘s go get some air,‖ Sawyer said. ―We‘ve heard this part.‖ That was true. Bruce had spent the past two weekends in Edgewood, perfecting the details of his presentation in front of whoever would listen. Several times a day. ―This is it, kittens,‖ he‘d said. ―Time

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to impress the moneybags. Now stop yawning. You‘re giving me a complex.‖ Not that this gave them an excuse to be rude. Marc frowned as Sawyer continued to pull on his sleeve. He shook his head. Please? Sawyer mouthed, eyes wide and imploring. Marc‘s protests crumbled. They waited until Bruce advanced to the next slide to make their escape. Although they‘d been seated near the front of the banquet hall, their table hugged the perimeter, feeding Marc‘s hope that few people noticed when they slipped away. Sawyer waited until they found each other in the shadows near the rear of the room, then led Marc through a set of glass doors onto the rooftop veranda. Thunderstorms had moved through earlier, killing some of the midsummer heat and humidity. Marc took a deep breath, relishing the fresh, cool air. Sawyer walked ahead to the railing and stared off toward the river. Marc joined him, sliding an arm inside Sawyer‘s jacket and around his back. ―Gorgeous night.‖ ―Not as gorgeous as it‘s going to be. I think this one‘s in the bag. Did you hear that applause?‖ Downtown glittered, its thousands of lights reflecting off rain damp streets. The whole city looked like it was covered in diamonds. To the east, the waterfront stood dark and empty. Waiting. ―I think you‘re right,‖ Marc said. ―This time next year, the view will look a whole lot different.‖ ―It‘s already changed a lot, I think.‘ Puzzled, Marc turned his attention from the skyline. ―What has? The view from here?‖ ―No. The view from here,‖ Sawyer said, using a finger to trace Marc‘s eyelids. ―Oh.‖ Marc hummed when Sawyer‘s fingertips wandered over the shell of his ear, then across his neck. ―That‘s putting it mildly,‖ he said, turning his face into Sawyer‘s cheek. The lingering scent of his aftershave sent his heart beating faster, as usual. ―Are you happy?‖ Sawyer whispered.

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As questions went, the answer was easy, even if the journey hadn‘t been. Business was still good. His relationships were all intact. If some people didn‘t look him in the eye when they passed him on the street, then it was a small price to pay. He had Sawyer by his side, most days and every night. ―Yes,‖ he said. ―I‘m very happy.‖ Sawyer stepped behind to wrap Marc in a snug embrace. He laid his chin on Marc‘s shoulder, and they stared across the city together. ―Any big plans for tomorrow?‖ he asked. ―Of course. It‘s Saturday.‖ Sawyer‘s hands were warm and heavy across his chest. Marc covered them with his own. ―That‘s right,‖ Sawyer murmured. ―Estate sale day. Where should we start?‖ Marc fixed his eyes on the strip of riverfront beyond the press of bright buildings. ―Wherever we want.‖

About the Author

LIBBY DREW glimpsed her true calling when her first story, a Winniethe-Pooh/Shakespeare crossover, won the grand prize in her elementary school‘s fiction contest. Her parents explained that writers were quirky, poor, and often talked to themselves in supermarket checkout lines. They implored her to be practical, a request she took to heart for twenty years, earning two degrees, a white-collar job, and an ulcer before realizing that practical was absolutely no fun. Today she lives with her husband and four children in a very old, impractical house and writes stories about redemption, the paranormal, and love at first sight, all of which do exist. She happens to know from experience. Visit Libby‘s blog at http://libby-drew.livejournal.com/ and her web site at http://www.libbydrew.com/.

Also by LIBBY DREW

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Also by LIBBY DREW

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com

Contemporary Romance from DREAMSPINNER PRESS

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com