“Is this apology bacon?” I asked with my mouthful.
“Is it working?”
“No, because I don’t want an apology. I’m an adult. I can make bad decisions too, and this time I did. That’s all. Okay?” I grabbed Lincoln’s face, pinching his cheeks in so he looked like a cranky wall-mounted fish.
“Who was that other guy last night?” he asked.
I picked up another slice of bacon and folded it into his mouth. He chewed it, one eyebrow arched.
“Someone from work,” I said.
Lincoln swallowed. “Tell me more.”
Lincoln was no stranger to the pain points of my job or the long hours I worked with my father. He knew almost as much about architectural design as I did, learned purely through osmosis, so as soon as I told him it was Marshall, realization dawned across his face like a sunrise.
“Please don’t,” I begged.
“Marshall Covington liketheMarshall Covington, like the man your father would send into space with nothing more than his birthday suit Marshall Covington?”
“That’s him.” I reached for my coffee and another piece of bacon so I would have something to do with my hands.
“You didn’t tell me he was kinky.”
“I didn’tknow!Jesus. How was I supposed to know that? That’s not really the kind of thing that comes up over our usual business meetings, you know.”
There wasn’t enough coffee in the world.
“He’s hot,” Lincoln said.
“He’s…”
My cheeks burned, remembering the way his arms had felt around me, the way his fingers felt against my cheek, the way he breathed with me until I wasn’t scared of dying any longer.
“Hot,” Lincoln said again.
As if my guardian angel sensed I needed a reprieve, my cell phone started to ring from somewhere in my bedroom.
“I’ve got to get that,” I said, clambering to my feet.
“Literally saved by the bell,” Lincoln grumbled, grabbing for the plate of bacon before it fell onto the couch. I ran down the hallway, chasing after the ringtone and finding my phone properly plugged in on the nightstand where it belonged. At least I’d managed that much before going to bed.
My finger swiped to accept the call—a force of habit from work—before my brain had time to register the name. By thetime I put two and two together, it was too late, the phone was pressed against my ear and my mouth was moving.
“Hello?”
“Silas,” Marshall rumbled, and I screwed my eyes closed, sinking down onto the floor. “Good morning.”
“Is it?”
A pause. “Isn’t it?”
“I slept like shit,” I admitted.
He made a sound so displeased I felt it down to my marrow, and again I found myself wanting to burrow into the ground and die. But now for entirely different reasons.
“Have you had coffee?” he asked.
“Yes.”
