“Micah, I haven’t been drunk in half a lifetime, okay?”
“Half ofyourlifetime, maybe.”
I blew out a breath. “Are you doing that thing where you wind me up on purpose?”
“Not my fault you’re stubborn as a mule and easy to rile. It’ll be worth it if I get you out of the house and, more importantly, out of your ownhead.”
I sighed but found myself smiling ruefully, too, because Micah’s shit-talk was laced with so much love and humor and comforting familiarity that I wondered for a second if I’d made the wrong choice, moving thirteen hundred miles from it.
But then the automatic doors to the parking lotwhooshedopen as someone left with their bag, and a wave of tropical air flooded in, so sticky-wet I couldsmellthe humidity and feel my hair start to curl despite the Kevlar-esque pomade I’d put in it this morning. And then I remembered why this was exactly the right choice.
Florida wasparadise. Coconut-scented, beach-in-my-backyard, fruity-drinks-with-umbrellas,should-we-take-your-yacht-or-mine?paradise.
And I might not be a passionate man, but I knew how to work hard. I knew how to make a plan, and how to bring it to fruition.
When my old friends and colleagues checked my Instagram stories or caught up with me on Facebook, they wouldnotremember the scrawny little kid in hand-me-downs who’d done anything for a dare, ortskin pity at the poor fool who’d had the beautiful fiancée and lost her—they’d see a man living the dream on an island with an exclusive, five-star resort.
And in three short years, I’d leave this place for whatever bigger and better opportunity presented itself, and not tied down by what anyone else wanted for me.
“Mason?” Micah prompted. “Are you even listening?”
“Yes, of course,” I lied. “You confessed that you’re a shit-stirrer who annoys people for fun. I don’t know how Constantine tolerates you.”
Micah snorted. “I got him young and trained him up!” he said, in a loud voice that meant he wanted his boyfriend to overhear. “Now he hardly notices that I’m old and annoying. Right, Connie?”
Predictably, I heard a muffled scuffle that I knew from months in their company was Constantine jokingly knocking his arm or shoulder or hip into some part of Micah, setting them both off-balance so they fell into a wall or piece of furniture, followed by laughter, and, sure as day follows night, the sound of kissing. And more laughing. And moaning. And more kissing.
Adorable, right?
Wrong.
“Jesus Christ, can you two control yourselves until we hang up,please?”
I wasn’t jealous of Micah and Con, I’d just never really understood public displays of affection. They were so very… public. And also… affectionate. They made me uncomfortable. If you wanted to be intimate, how hard was it to wait until you were alone?
There was a staticky noise, and then Micah was back.
“Sorry, sorry! Con just got home. You’re on speaker now.”
“Hey, Mase!” Constantine said cheerfully.
“Peachy,” I muttered. “The speaker will make it better. Gay pornin stereo.”
“No, no! No porn. This is an affection-free zone, starting now,” Constantine said solemnly. “I swear, I don’t even like this guy.”
“Same,” Micah agreed.
Constantine was sitting on his lap, I just knew it.
“Look, Con and I were talking, and we want you to come over and hang out with us tomorrow,” Micah began. “You can tell us your exciting news.”
“I can’t.”
“Aw, come on, Mase!” Constantine wheedled. “Don’t be like that. You don’t even know what we were planning!”
“No? On a springtime Saturday? Might there be a farmer’s market?”
They said nothing, but their silence wasguilty.
