Prologue
Jesse
Okay, so if I’m completely honest, coming to the grand opening party atThe Open Doortonight would not have been my first choice. I’d much rather be at home, alone, drowning my sorrows and searching for answers at the bottom of a bottle.
Instead, I’m standing alone in the middle of this happy crowd, nursing my second—or is it my third?—drink of the night as joy and excitement radiate from every corner of the room. This shelter for LGBTQ youth in a town just north of Seattle is something my friends Penn and Hunter have been working on for several years, and I was lucky enough to get involved a couple of years ago. It's a huge accomplishment, and I’m thrilled for them.
Delighted, even.
Honestly.
The alcohol is helping. Or it was until Hunter gets down on one knee in front of Penn and pops the question. Yes.Thatquestion.
My stomach drops as the room erupts into cheers.
It's only been three days since I signed the final divorce papers, putting a sharp point on nearly two decades of my life. A couple of years of dating, fifteen years of marriage, plus two years of messy negotiations, heartache and shattered trust—all wrapped up in a neat little package of legalese.
But maybe their marriage will work out better than mine did. Of course, I thought mine would too, so what the hell do I know?
As grief claws at my chest like a ravenous beast, all I want to do is scream and shatter my almost empty—and how did that happen?—glass against the wall and storm off to lick my wounds in private.
But I can’t. I won’t.
Instead, I swallow the mountain-sized lump in my throat and raise my glass to toast the happy couple along with everyone else.
“Congratulations, you two,” I tell them a few minutes later, hoping they don’t notice my strained tone. I know I’m busted when Penn raises his eyebrow pointedly at me before crushing me in a huge hug.
A few minutes later, as I’m getting ready to slip away, hopefully unnoticed, Martin Benoit appears beside me. I’d wanted to chat with him earlier and run a few ideas past him about plans I have for a shelter similar to this at home in San Diego, but those good intentions are all buried under a big pile of grief and irritation at the moment.
“I recognize that look in your eye,” he says, his soft Irish lilt curling around me. In another life, I’d find it attractive. Ihavefound it attractive the few times we’ve chatted.
“Oh? What look is that?” I ask, signaling to the bartender for another round.
“The look of a man trying to decide how soon he can leave without being rude and then trying to decide whether he cares.”
I snort. “That obvious?” I ask, nodding in appreciation when the bartender refills my sad little glass.
Martin shoots me a wink, his green eyes twinkling. “Come on, pal. Let me drive you back to your hotel. We’ve not had the chance to properly catch up tonight.” He leans in with a conspiratorial whisper, “And I’ve been trying to make my own escape for the last twenty minutes.”
Well, that sounds like an offer I can’t refuse.
And that’s how I find myself sitting across from Martin in the bar of my hotel, nursing a couple of fingers of Bushmills 21. At this point, I've lost count of how many I've had, but it doesn't seem to matter because the alcohol's done a shit job of dulling the pain in my chest.
"Thanks again for the ride," I say. "You really didn't have to. I know I'm terrible company right now."
He waves me off. "Not at all. Like I said, we didn't get a chance to catch up during the party. Plus, you looked like you could use a friend and maybe another wee dram," he says, holding up his own glass with a mischievous smile. "For medicinal purposes, naturally."
Martin is a consultant Penn worked with to plan and buildThe Open Door. I spent a lot of time in Seattle during the project, but most of it was during off-hours when I wasn't busy running the green energy company I own with my brother. As a result, I didn't spend much time with the handsome Irishman, although I've always thought he seemed like a good guy.
I don't know if it's the alcohol, the atmosphere, or my melancholy mood, but the smooth lilt of his voice is sending shivers down my spine, and the way the laugh lines crinkle around his green eyes when he smiles causes a pool of liquid heat to settle down low in my belly.
I let my eyes drift over him. He must be in his mid-fifties, shorter than me, with a solid, compact build. He has thick, wavy hair and just enough stubble to feel incredible against my skin. It's entirely possible the term "silver fox" was coined specifically for this man.
Martin blinks at me and cocks his head to the side, jolting me back into reality.
My therapist assures me that my current lack of focus is just my depression, and I’m not actually losing my damn mind. Sometimes, I’m not so sure.
I clear my throat. “Um, I’m sorry, what was that?”
