He squeezed through the glitzy crowd who packed the bar, and bodies bumped against him as they moved desultorily to the music blasted through the speakers. It wasn’t quite dancing—that could have messed up their hair or spilled the drink—just movement between the knees and elbows.
Nate wasn’t at the bar. Max was. The heir apparent to the hotel did a brisk business in prep-school charm and gaudily colored cocktails from behind the bar. He traded a bottle of beer for a slip of paper that he glanced at and grinned and then tucked into the pocket of his shirt.
When the cocky little bugger gave Flynn that look, he’d been fifteen with a fake ID that said he was twenty, and if Flynn had been a bit more drunk, he might have bought it. His whole life could have been fucked because one horny teenager fancied him. Yet somehow, for turning him over to his dad, Flynn was painted as the dickhead in Max’s mind.
Through the gently moving tide of bodies, Flynn caught Max’s eye. He tugged the corner of his mouth up in a smirk and tilted his chin down. A scowl chased the smug off Max’s face, and he glared for a second, until an importuning customer managed to snag his attention. While he dealt with them, Flynn went looking for Nate.
It didn’t take him long. The man stood out in a crowd.
He was out in the garden, having a smoke between the rosebushes. His lean, long-legged body was propped against a trellis, and his head dipped back as he languidly exhaled smoke up into the air. He’d traded the usual suit for a low-V-necked blue T-shirt and tailored black trousers, cuffed up at the bottom to flash the star on his gray Converse sneakers. Even they looked expensive—straight out of the box, as though they still had the tread on the bottom.
It was a good thing it wasn’t a real date, because Nate was not Flynn’s usual sort of bloke. He liked rough hands and worn jeans, cheap aftershave, and that fuzz of stubble at the back of a shorn head—not designer clothes and stupid curls.
Mind you, apparently his dick was all for designer clothes and curls. He swallowed the dry heat in his mouth and let himself out of the bar. The air outside was a cool relief after the body-heat temperature inside. The sound of the door closing behind Flynn made Nate glance up. Surprise flickered over his smooth, open face, and then a flash of appreciation dragged his eyes down and up in a quick once-over.
“About time,” he said. “I was starting to think you’d stood me up.”
Gravel crunched under Flynn’s boots as he crossed the garden. He reached around and pushed his hands into the back pockets of his jeans—it could have been to see the way Nate watched the roll of his shoulders under his shirt.
“Maybe I should have. You wanted a bad date.”
Nate tucked the corner of his mouth up wryly. “I want people to think I’m better off single. Not that I’m such a sad sack I’m making up boyfriends and somehow still expecting them to turn up.”
“Fair point,” Flynn said. He gestured to the wall around the garden, Nate followed him, and they sat down. The moonlight gave the sheer drop down to the sea a soft edge, blurred the sharp edges of the rock, and warmed the restless gray of the ocean. He leaned over, plucked the cigarette from Nate’s fingers, and let it drop into the dark. “So what next?”
