There was half a takeout carton of vindaloo and rice in the fridge. He tipped it into a white bowl and put it into the microwave. When he looked around, Nate was leaning against the doorframe. His arms were folded, and his soft pink shirt was pulled tightly over his chest. Flynn spent a second trying to pretend that he was surprised Nate hadn’t fucked off.
“I could eat.” When Flynn narrowed his eyes at him, Nate rubbed the back of his neck. He shrugged one shoulder. “Just let me explain. Then you can chuck me out on my ass if you want.”
The ping of the microwave interrupted them. Behind the smoked glass, the curry bubbled enthusiastically. What the hell. The joy of reheating was that you could always reheat again.
“I’m not feeding you,” he said. It was his turn to cross his arms and lean his hip against the scarred wood countertop. His shoulder whined at the stress on it, but he let it. “But go on. Spit it out.”
Nate blinked. Maybe he hadn’t expected it to be that easy.
“Everyone thinks I need a boyfriend,” he said. “So I thought I’d get one—a really bad one, or at least the worst one I can find at short notice on an island.”
“And you immediately thought of me,” Flynn said. And he’d thought the posh boy trying to buy his ass was insulting. Showed what he knew. “What? The island’s child molester died finally?”
