Family house. That explained the voices downstairs, the lived-in feel despite the expensive furniture. Jamie’s apartment barely fit him and Nick without someone’s elbow ending up in someone else’s cereal bowl.
“Must be nice,” he said then caught himself. “Not in a bitter ‘eat the rich’ way. More like a ‘wow, you have walls that don’t share DNA with your neighbors’ way.”
“The walls are definitely DNA-free.” Sloane took a bite of toast, and Jamie absolutely didn’t watch his jaw work. “Though my brother’s music taste might count as biological warfare.”
“What does he play? Please tell me it’s something deeply embarrassing. Polka. Yodeling. Those YouTube videos of screaming goats set to Taylor Swift.”
“Classic rock at volumes that violate several noise ordinances.” Sloane’s expression stayed neutral, but humor lurked in his eyes. “He claims it’s character building.”
“Whose character? The neighbors?”
“That’s the ongoing debate.”
They ate in comfortable silence for a few moments, forks scraping against plates, morning light painting gold stripes across the bed. Jamie looked at the clock on the wall. Not a single hour since sunrise and already he’d messed up three times, once by getting drunk enough to invite himself into a stranger’s bed, twice by wanting to stay, and now by wanting Sloane to keep talking.
Jamie cleared his throat. “You have a really nice room. Very...no clutter. Mine looks like a laundry rebellion.”
“I used to collect coasters,” Sloane offered, his lips twitching. “Got boring, so I switched to art and dogs that don’t judge.”
“Plural dogs?” Jamie brightened, leaning forward like a spotlight swung. “Current head count?”
Sloane’s expression turned wistful, the way guys look at photos tucked inside old wallets. “One, once. Daisy. Golden retriever. Best co-pilot ever.”
Jamie’s fork paused mid-air. “Daisy,” he echoed. “Classic. She ride shotgun with her tongue out the window?”
“She preferred the back seat, and expressed opinions about my music with snorts.” Sloane’s eyes softened at the edges. “Ten years ago. She’s...retired now.”
“Retired?” Jamie’s brain supplied retired from living. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. She had the mountains, a ball collection, and zero regrets.” Sloane’s thumb traced the rim of his coffee mug like it was a photo frame. “I buried her favorite squeaky squirrel with her. Figured she’d want a victory toy on the other side.”
Jamie’s chest did a slow throb he refused to call tenderness. “I had a hamster named Gouda. It died mid-wheel spin. Very on-brand dramatic exit.”
Sloane’s laugh came quiet and genuine, the sound settling into Jamie’s bones like it belonged there. “Gouda had been commitment to cardio.”
Jamie snorted. “Also to cheese. Total type-A rodent.”
“That’s why I like canines.” Sloane’s leg brushed Jamie’s knee. “They stick around longer. And if you get a good one, they’ll keep you out of trouble.”
“You think I need trouble prevention?”
Another of those patient, measured looks from Sloane. “Depends. You have any other plans to pass out in strangers’ cars, or was last night a one-time special?”
“I’m making it a rule to only pass out in my own bed from now on. Lower risk of waking up with regrets. Or without pants,” Jamie huffed while hiding a smile.
“Well.” Sloane’s eyes gleamed in the lamplight, making Jamie work harder to find his next breath. “If you need a spotter for future drinking escapades, let me know.”
“You volunteering?”
Sloane’s mouth ticked up at the corners. “Sure. Someone’s got to make sure you don’t end up on a milk carton.”
The morning light caught the angles of Sloane’s face, highlighting the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw.
Focus on your eggs. Not his jaw. Definitely not his jaw.
“Thanks for this,” Jamie said, gesturing vaguely at the food, the room, the whole surreal situation. “Most guys would’ve just called me an Uber and washed their hands of the whole thing.”
“You couldn’t tell me your address.” Sloane’s gaze stayed steady on him. “It seemed like the better option than leaving you on a park bench.”
