“Please, call me Brent.”
“I’d rather not,” he said.
The attorney laughed softly. “Fair enough, Mr. St. George. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I have a bit of a legal problem,” he said. “And I could use your help.”
“Well.” He could hear the smile in the other man’s voice. “Lucky for you, helping is what I do best.”
CHAPTERTWENTY-TWO
BECKETT IS NOT A GOLD DIGGER
Beckett woke up thinking about his sister again. He didn’t know why, and he didn’t know what to do about it, so he shoved the idea to the back of his head and did nothing. He had more important things to worry about anyway, like work. And after work, dinner with Sebastian and Remington. One of those things worried him far more than the other. So, when work went better than it had in months and he made almost as much in tips as he had the day Rhys dropped a grand on him, he was fairly certain the double-date was going to be a disaster.
Rhys had suggested they order takeout and get together at his place, which was so unlike him, Beckett almost said no. But he quickly realized Rhys had made the suggestion to makehimcomfortable because Rhys knew how uncomfortable he felt when hundred dollar bills were moved around like they were singles, but he was working on it. He’d taken the suit from Sebastian. He’d enjoyed dinner, and he hadn’t balked the night he cooked for Rhys and the groceries were from the high-end supermarket he’d never even dared to set foot in.
His relationship with Rhys was built on understanding, compromise, and really fucking phenomenal sex.
He showed up at Rhys’s before Sebastian and Remington, and he was thankful for that because it gave him enough time to wash the smell of work off of him. When he stepped out of the shower, he found Rhys sitting on the foot of the bed, his long legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankle. The hem of his navy blue slacks rode up just enough to expose his ankles.
“Do you even own jeans?” he asked.
“No.”
“Shouldn’t you?” Beckett fidgeted with the knot on the towel around his waist. Cold drops of water tracked down his chest, causing him to shiver. His nipples hardened and he tried to remember where he’d left his change of clothes.
“Why would I?” Rhys looked honestly perplexed about the question.
“For casual things?”
“I have clothes for home and clothes for when I’m not at home,” Rhys said.
“You’re home now,” he countered, pointing at Rhys’s slim cut slacks. “Are these your home slacks?”
“Very funny.” Rhys reached behind him and grabbed the pile of clothes Beckett had been looking for. He set the shirt and jeans down beside him and shook out a pair of Beckett’s underwear, the smallest hint of a frown on his face.
“What?” Beckett snatched the underwear out of his hand, dropping the towel and stepping into them.
“I Just hate to see you dressed at all.”
Beckett chuckled and held out his hand, waiting for Rhys to hand over his jeans. “Are you using me for my body?”
“What? No.” Rhys looked horrified, all wide eyes and flushed cheeks.
“I’m joking. Calm down.” Beckett finished dressing, adjusting his constantly half-hard cock before tugging at the hem of his shirt to straighten it. “Are you okay? You seem more high-strung than normal. Higher-strung?”
Rhys answered with a small shake of his head. He stood and closed the space between them, sliding his arms around Beckett’s waist and pulling him close.
“I’m fine,” Rhys said.
“But?”
“No buts.” Rhys kissed the corner of his mouth. He tasted like wine. Expensive wine.
“I want your friends to like me. Your brother.”
“What’s not to like?”
