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My heart lifts too fast. “You’re sure?”

“Yeah. Let’s go scare your friends.”

Getting dressed feels obscene. After weeks of house rules, fabric feels like a costume.

I stand in the master bedroom mirror buttoning a pale blue shirt with a logo small enough to suggest taste and expensive enough to confirm it.

Paul Benton, suitable for public consumption. A man who knows how to order wine.

Clint appears in the doorway behind me.

Cutoffs. Sandals. A Hawaiian shirt bright enough to suggest a weather pattern. The fabric pulls tight across his chest and arms, which is doing nothing helpful for my commitment to public decency.

He tugs at the hem. “Is this okay?”

The energy coming off him is too sharp to be excitement. He looks ready to fight the shirt and throw punches at the night.

“You look good.”

His eyes narrow. “Good like good, or good like you’re trying not to say bartender at Margaritaville?”

I pause.

“Like a very hot bartender at Margaritaville.”

He groans.

“Emphasis on very hot,” I add.

“That save attempt was pathetic.”

“But sincere.” I step closer. “It works.”

His eyes lift to mine. For one second, my body forgets that we’re dressed.

“Okay,” he says. “Public Clint.”

“And Public Paul.”

He snorts. “Yours looks more expensive.”

“Yours has better arms.”

That gets a real smile, then Clint looks at himself in the mirror again. “Why am I more nervous with clothes on?”

I step behind him and grip both his arms.

“Because naked is honest. Clothes are branding.”

“That’s supposed to help?”

“You are about to meet two incredibly nice douchebags. Don’t overthink it.”

He turns his head. “Why are we going if you think they’re douchebags?”

“Because gay men like to gather in groups and drink until we like one another.”

“I’m not a big drinker.”