Sky chuckled, and I suspected he thought it was funny to make the straight guy uncomfortable. I knew he meant nothing by it, though, so I ignored the nerves in my stomach and lowered myself to the bench. Ouch.
Every ounce of humor fled Skylar’s face, which meant I hadn’t done nearly enough to hide how much pain I was in.
“Are you sure I can’t take you to the hospital?” he asked, worry marking his pretty features.
I can call a man pretty, can’t I?
Reed called him pretty, so I think I’m in the clear.
“I don’t have the time,” I said, mildly annoyed by Skylar’s disbelieving expression.
Lots of people thought owning one’s own businesses meant they could take off whenever they wanted to, and I’d grown tired of explaining the many and varied reasons that was not the case.
“Don’t you have an office manageranda land manager who can handle things for you?”
“I would never dump my entire workload onto them.”
He put his hand on his hip, kinda like I’d seen Cynthia do a million times. She never wore her nails quite that long, though.
“I bet Lane and Sadie would be pissed to hear you say that.”
I bit at my upper lip. “You might be right about that.”
“Lost causes, all of you.”
Before I could retort, he slipped out of his towering heels and knelt in front of me, his ambery-smelling cologne lingering between us. He started with my good side—though calling it my good side might be a bit of an overreach. My knee twinged as he slid the well-loved boot off my foot, and I’m pretty sure Sky caught my grimace.
He took what appeared to be a calming breath, then examined the boot. “How do you pronounce this brand? Lou-cheese?”
I laughed, even though it hurt to do so. “Lu-Kay-Zee,” I pronounced.
“Ah. Kess bought Rowdy a pair of Lucchese’s for Christmas,” he said, grabbing hold of my other heel. “They’re nice.”
He pulled on the boot heel, and I genuinely thought I was gonna pass out. I had to clamp down on his shoulder to stop him from trying again. “I’m gonna need a minute.”
Sky let out a cute growl. “If I didn’t think you’d hate me, I’d throw your stubborn ass over my shoulder and take you to the hospital myself,” he said, his voice all pretty and breathy.
I gestured at him. “Like you could pick me up.”
Woody once explained to me that Skylar was one of those twinks—a smaller gay man with girly—er, femme, maybe?—style. I wondered if all twinks painted their toenails this same blush pink color, or if it was just a Skylar thing.
Probably just a Skylar thing.
“Bitch, I go to the gym four times a week,” he said, flexing his arm.
Huh. He had more muscle tone than I’d’ve guessed. And I’m pretty surebitchwas a compliment in gay.
Before I could think through a response, he stood, agitated. “Do you have any liquor?”
“Sure. I’ve got some mezcal in my bar. Are you wanting a drink right now?”
He pointed a perfectly manicured finger in my face. “No, you ornery cuss. I’m gonna have you take a couple of shots. You need something to numb the pain quick, and I’m assuming liquor is the strongest stuff you’ve got.”
Skylar seemed awful concerned for me, which made me feel a twinge of guilt. “Bar’s behind the big couch. If you don’t mind grabbing it from the living room.”
“Not at all, sugar,” he answered softly.
I listened, wearing only one boot, as he made his way down the hallway barefoot. Something about the soft sounds of his feet padding down the wood floors felt intimate, like maybe he’d finally gotten comfortable in my home. I heard him opening the liquor cabinet in the living room and then . . . was he fussing around in my kitchen?
