Chapter Nine
“You know, I think my cousin’s gay. He says he’s not, but he’s really into fashion. Maybe I could set you up?”
BREAKFAST INbed for the happy-couple-to-be was on the house. Breakfast for Nate was a slice of toasted pumpernickel-and-olive bread and a furtive escape before his mother asked any questions.
Nate sat in his office and frowned blankly at the stunning view through the huge, spotless window. That morning’s escape was counter to the whole bad-boyfriend scheme, of course. It was hard to be scandalized by something you didn’t know about. Nate just needed a chance to process what had happened. A locker room hookup wasn’t exactly part of the plan.
Sweat, salt, and the rough grasp of Flynn’s hands on him. The hard length of Flynn’s dick grinding against his, and the wet slick of come mixed on his stomach—the memory was sharp enough that Nate could practically taste Flynn on his tongue, and interest cramped hot deep in his balls.
Okay. It had been unexpected but not exactly unwelcome.
Nate shifted in the chair and dragged his mind out of the locker-room gutter. He had work to do, and that, at least, was something he actually understood.
Katie and Bradley’s wedding—other than the near drowning—was set to go off like clockwork. The prewedding photo shoot had been rescheduled to give Bradley time to recover, and the tailor was pushed back until that evening. Nothing else was going to go wrong, not until the last minute, when it would screw up his blood pressure as usual.
That just left the twenty-five other weddings they had booked, a dozen new clients to touch base with, and some new suppliers to explore. He had plenty to keep his mind off salt-chapped lips and that lean, offensively ripped body.
He picked up the phone.
“Hello?” a pleasant alto voice answered on the other end of the line. In the background a faintly electronic voice rattled through “The Wheels on the Bus.” “This is Fi Calders of Harpy Endings, how can I help you?”
The name made Nate wince. Some couples liked cute, but still…. Still, Ms. Calder’s branding was her business.
“This is Nate Moffatt. I’m calling from the Granshire Hotel,” he said. “You sent me your reel—”
“Oh, Mr. Moffatt, of course.” He heard a door open and close. “Did you want to book me? I’m quite busy at the minute, but if you have dates, I could see if it would be possible to fit you in?”
“One of our clients really liked your reel,” he said. “However, there’s a few details we’d need to agree on before we even talk contracts.”
“Like what?” Her voice went up quizzically.
Nate sympathized. He’d felt much the same going through the details with the bride and her representatives.
“You’ll have to sign a nondisclosure agreement.” He leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on the desk. “You’ll also need to agree to have your image used for broadcast.”
She snorted out a laugh. “Seriously?”
“Yes,” Nate said. “I’m afraid that’s nonnegotiable for the bride. There are a few other musicians she’s interested in, but if you—”
The door opened, and Max came in sideways, his tongue stuck out the corner of his mouth as he balanced two overfull coffee cups in his hands.
“Shit,” he muttered as coffee slopped out and scalded his fingers.
“Pardon?” Fi asked uncertainly.
“Sorry. Just my other phone,” Nate fibbed smoothly. He raised his eyebrows curiously at Max but pointed to the couch by the window. It wasn’t often he saw him awake that early in the morning, and when he was, it was usually to beg for coffee, not provide it. While Max made himself comfortable and scuffed a coffee stain into the carpet, Nate focused on the call. “If you’re interested, we’ll need to set up an audition with the couple.”
She hemmed. She hawed. She agreed to a date. Nate hung up and flicked through screens to his email inbox. He tapped away with his thumbs as he swung his legs off the desk and stood up and sent an email to the production company to add the date to their schedule.
It was Teddy’s idea. Nate was not sure it had anything to do with business benefits as much as Teddy’s love of trashy reality TV. He owned the Granshire, though, so it was his call.
Nate hit Send, flopped down on the couch, and slung his legs over the arm. “Coffee?”
“With vanilla and hazelnut.” Max handed him the cup. “Busy morning?”
“Productive,” Nate said. “Of course for you, movement before noon is a busy morning.”
Max slouched back and draped his arm along the leather cushions. His T-shirt dragged tightly over his shoulders as he toasted Nate mockingly.
