I swallow hard, clearing my throat again. Stepping back from him might be one of the hardest things I’ve ever done in my whole life.
Jesus Christ, have I ever wanted to kiss someone so badly?
“We should probably get some sleep,” I say, my voice rougher than intended. “Gotta be sharp tomorrow.”
Louis blinks, looking dazed. There’s a flash of something in his eyes—relief, maybe? Or disappointment, it’s hard to tell. He looks like a little kid who got tucked in after a nightmare, like he’s both comforted but also desperate not to be left alone.
“Yeah,” he croaks. “Right. Tomorrow.”
He runs a hand over his face, and we turn away from each other, toward our separate beds.
“Night, Tanner,” Louis whispers into the dark after we’ve both settled under our blankets.
“Night, Lou.”
I lie on my back, staring up at the ceiling. My heart is still racing, thumping frantically against my ribs.
What the hell happens now? How am I supposed to go back to being the ruthless young gun out to take the number one job from him, when this man basically cracked himself open and showed me part of his soul tonight?
Five minutes pass. Then ten. Finally, Louis’s breathing settles into the snuffly, snore-y cacophony that tells me he’s actually sleeping.
I close my eyes, but I know sleep isn’t coming for me.
I’m in deep trouble. Not because I want to kiss Louis Tremblay—that’s just lust. I can handle lust. Lust is nothing more than biology.
I’m in trouble because when I saw him hurting, my first instinct wasn’t to use it against him. It was to protect him. To take away the thing that was troubling him.
And caring about the guy whose job you’re trying to take? I don’t have a formula for that.
Chapter 5
Louis
Islide into consciousness, the hotel blackout curtains doing their job so well I have no idea what time it is. For a second, I consider pretending to be asleep until Tanner leaves for breakfast, avoiding the inevitable awkwardness that’s going to come after I trauma-dumped my sexual crisis all over him last night.
But that’s not me. Sighing, I roll over and reach for my phone. 7:03 AM. Still early enough that I could reasonably be sleeping, but Tanner’s probably been awake for at least half an hour. The guy’s a machine.
“Morning,” I mumble, my voice still rough with sleep.
The pause lasts a beat too long. “Morning,” he finally responds, the sheets rustling as he sits up.
I do the same, running a hand through my hair, which I’m sure is sticking up in every direction like a mad scientist.
“Sleep okay?” he asks. The forced casualness in his voice makes my stomach twist.
“Yeah, fine.” I clear my throat. “You?”
“Fine.” We’re like two teenagers the morning after losing our virginity on prom night.
“I’m gonna shower,” he announces.
“Cool, cool,” I respond too quickly. “I’ll, uh, wait right here.” Omigod, I’ll wait right here? As opposed to what? Jumping into the shower to join him?
He disappears into the bathroom, and I flop back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. Fucking hell. How is it possible that in all my years of locker room bullshit and casual hookups, this is the most awkward morning-after I’ve ever experienced?
And nothing even happened! Well, nothing physical happened. Not technically. But I can still feel the way his cool hand felt against the overheated skin of my shoulder. And the way his eyes dropped to my lips, the way he looked at me like he was a man dying of thirst in the desert and I was a cool drink of water. Jesus H. Christ on a piece of toast.
And he’s queer! Tanner Sinclair is pansexual. That surprises me almost as much as my own queerness—or whatever it is that I am. That word doesn’t feel like it fits me, but maybe it will in time. Hell, after last night, when I wanted to kiss him goddamn bad I thought I might actually die from it, the word “queer” fits a whole lot better than it did before.
