Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 127991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
He turned toward me with an easy smile. “He caught that I was giving him attitude, and he gave it right back. You know I love a fighter.”
I’d known McGee since he, himself, had been a rough-and-tumble sixteen-year-old held together by pride and a bad attitude, so this statement earned him another eye roll.
“He was nice to me earlier today, too.” McGee shrugged. “Just saying, he might be a decent guy under the designer duds.”
I made a noncommittal noise and sank back in my seat. The band around my head was getting tighter by the minute. “Can we not talk about this anymore?”
McGee leaned against the wall, studying me. “You don’t like him?”
“I didn’t say that.” I kneaded the back of my neck. “I don’t feel any particular way about Reagan Wellbridge.” Just like I didn’t feel any particular way about him noticing McGee’s “hot-as-fuck” tattoos and then touching them. No discernible feelings at all. “He’s an employee. Moreover, he’s Trent and Patricia’s son,” I reminded both of us. “He and Brantleigh went to school together.”
“Yep.” McGee shrugged again. “But he’s pretty cute despite all that.”
“Did you not hear everything I just said?” I demanded. “Don’t get any bright ideas. He’s off limits.” To both of us.
“Come on, boss.” McGee shot me a wounded look. “I told you, I’m done with hookups for a while. And you know he’s not my type. I like ’em small enough to pick up with one hand.” He lifted an enormous paw in demonstration. “Like Alden, who runs the salon up in Honeybridge. Hot damn. That man has an ass like—”
“Way, way too much information.” I held up a hand to cut him off. “McGee, how long have you worked for me?”
“Hmm. Driver for eight years, odd jobs for a while before that…” He scratched his cheek thoughtfully with one tattooed finger. “About ten years altogether. Why?”
“In all that time, how often have I asked for the details of your sex life? How often have I shared the details of mine?”
He grinned, unrepentant. “Just showing you it’s okay to be open about what—and who—you want, that’s all.”
“I’m not closeted,” I reminded him for maybe the hundredth time in the years since he’d defiantly informed me that he was gay and I’d shared my own sexuality as a way to help him feel safe and comfortable. “I’m discreet. There’s a difference. I don’t broadcast my attractions, no matter who I’m attracted to, because the gossip and tabloid headlines would last longer than the attraction itself. But I have no problem being open about it with certain… friends.”
By friends, I primarily meant men I hooked up with, and McGee knew it.
Which was why I was shocked to hear him say, “You know, I think Reagan could be your friend. If you wanted him to be.”
“McGee,” I warned.
He mimed zipping his mouth shut.
Surprisingly, Reagan was true to his word. He emerged from his building—one high-end enough I had to imagine Trent and Patricia were subsidizing his rent—in just twelve minutes, carting a rolling suitcase, a duffel, an enormous pillow, and a reusable grocery bag bulging with food.
When McGee ran down to help with the luggage, Reagan thanked him profusely, and McGee gave him a “No problem, man. You were faster than I thought,” which might not have sounded like a compliment to the average person but was more respect than McGee usually gave people he barely knew.
“Fast packing’s my superpower,” Reagan explained with a grin. “I’ve been sent on last-minute trips for my dad’s campaigns a lot.” He stood by the sofa, pillow under his arm, and glanced down the narrow corridor of the bus, all the way to my bedroom at the back. “So. I guess I should have asked before, but… where am I sleeping?”
It was an innocent enough question, but it caused images of Reagan—naked, aroused, with his head thrown back on a very different pillow—to flash through my brain in time with the throbbing of my headache. Coupled with the easy, friendly smile he’d given McGee—McGee, who was nearly Reagan’s age and was not his boss—it was enough to make my temper flare.
“You’re looking at it.” I pointed at the racks of single beds that lined the hall between the kitchen area and the bedroom. There were four narrow bunks in total, two on either side of the hall, and each had a curtain to provide some level of privacy. “I’m sure it’s not the spacious accommodations you’re used to, but the only bedroom on this bus is mine.” My tone made it clear I wasn’t sharing. “You can store your stuff on one of the other bunks, or McGee can stow it in the cargo area. Your choice.”
I sounded far more surly than I should have, given that I was the one who’d called a “truce.” Knowing this didn’t improve my mood or my headache. Neither did the way Reagan’s lush mouth pursed and he instantly straightened his shoulders, matching my energy.