“Your loss, Mr. McCord,” she said with a sauciness he found so fucking hot.
Yes, it most definitely was.
“Maybe, if you’re lucky, I’ll see you around,” she said before pivoting on her heel and walking away. He watched, admiring the sexy sway of her delectable ass and hating himself for being a stand-up guy.
Then again, a woman as incredible as Reilly Jameson wouldn’t want him if he weren’t. She wouldn’t have looked at him twice.
At least there’s that.
Seven
Donovan was an asshole; that was allthere was to it. He could admit it.
He’d kissed Tate, then panicked and walked away.
Not immediately, of course. He’d been unable to simply run out of the store without ensuring Tate was okay. Of course, his concern had earned him a glare from the much younger man before Tate stormed off toward the parking lot. As soon as Donovan saw Tate’s Mustang pull out of the lot, he headed for his truck.
Thankfully, he didn’t listen to his dick and follow Tate home. That would’ve made him a complete asshole. Instead, he’d come home to lick his wounds and ridicule himself for his stupidity.
“You’re an idiot,” Donovan muttered as he paced his kitchen. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
The last time he second-guessed himself was nearly twenty years ago, back when he’d been young and stupid and thought he knew every damn thing about every damn thing. He’d been in love with a man who had loved him deeply and honestly, but Donovan’s hubris had gotten in the way. Rather than embrace that love, he’d wondered whether or not he was ready to be tied down.
For nearly twenty years, Donovan regretted not taking the leap because he’d spent the past two decades hopping from one random bed to another, knowing that it would only be for a brief moment. Yeah, he’d dated a few men along the way, but nothing that had ever resembled anything close to love. He’d ruined it. He’d given up his chance because he’d worried he was making the wrong decision. If he hadn’t been so stupid, he could’ve still been sharing the same bed with a man he loved. But his uncertainty had led them down different paths. That man—whose name he couldn’t even think of without feeling more guilt—was happily married with three kids, and Donovan … well, he was still looking.
There was no way Tate Riggs was his second chance. He couldn’t be. Just because Donovan had that strange, giddy sensation when he was near Tate didn’t mean anything. It was probably an early-onset mid-life crisis or something. The guy was fifteen years younger, for fuck’s sake. Not to mention, not at all Donovan’s type. He was cute and sweet and…
“You’re supposed to be talking yourselfoutof this asinine idea,” he said, thrusting his hand through his hair.
He groaned and tilted his head back, unable to fight off the memory of that damn kiss. That kiss was supposed to be a precursor to another brief fling, but something happened, something that triggered his morality, and he’d been forced to walk away from Tate because spending even a single night in bed with him and then having to face the man for years to come wasn’t something Donovan could live with.
He figured if you asked Tate, he would tell you Donovan ran away with his tail between his legs. That hadn’t been the case, but it sure as shit might look like it.
“Damn it.”
Now that he was home, he should’ve been able to put it all behind him. So he’d kissed Tate. So fucking what? It wasn’t like he’d signed a contract promising more than that. It was a spur-of-the-moment thing—so what if it happened twice?—and now he was over it.
“Over it,” he grumbled.
He was so not over it but damn it to hell. If he tried to talk to Tate now, the guy would slam the door in his face. And the worst part was Donovan deserved it. What the fuck was he thinking? Kissing that kid. Jesus.
And fine, Tate was so not a kid anymore. At least from a chronological perspective. Donovan knew that. But compared to thirty-nine, twenty-four was still a kid. What the hell could they possibly have in common aside from some intense physical attraction? And attraction damn sure wasn’t a problem. Donovan wasn’t sure his dick had ever been as hard as it was when he thought about all the dirty things he wanted to do to Tate.
He went to the living room and flopped on the couch. The lights were off, but he didn’t care. He sat because he was tired of wearing a hole in the damn floor. He stared at the darkened Christmas tree. He’d half-assed it this year but gave himself props for making the effort. He’d pulled the tree out of storage, set it up, and plugged it in. If it weren’t pre-lit, he would’ve simply had a tree in his living room because he didn’t do anything more. There were no ornaments or tinsel or strings of popcorn like on his parents’ tree. Then again, he had no one to share the holiday with. Other than family, Donovan was alone.
He was so fucking tired of being alone.
His thoughts instantly wandered back to that damn kiss.
Fuck.
He’d been right about Tate giving up control. He’d done it so easily, and for some damn reason, that had turned Donovan on more than anything else ever had. There’d been no duplicity in that kiss. Tate hadn’t been angling for something from him. It had been genuine, and … goddamn, it had been sweet.
Donovan wasn’t sure which he hated himself more for: kissing Tate or walking away from him. Both made for a shitty existence.
What made it impossibly worse was the fact that Tate had looked at him as though he’d lost his damn mind. And maybe he had. At the time, he appreciated Tate’s ability to walk away without confrontation. Now that he was home, Donovan realized what that meant. Tate didn’t care one way or the other, and yeah, that fucking hurt more than he wanted to admit.
He sat up and put his elbows on his knees, dropping his head into his hands.
