by Ella Frank
“Yes, I did. I told you that I trust you.” Tate could just make out Logan’s eyes in the moonlight—he was so serious.
“Not about that,” Logan said.
They eyed one another in a silent battle of wills, and finally, Tate turned away.
“Can we talk about it tomorrow when I’m not half asleep?”
Logan moved in closer and placed a hand on his chest. “Will you talk to me, or are you going to shut down and run?”
Tate thought about all the things he wanted to say and had no idea how he would even start. But he knew that, if he didn’t say something soon, Logan would undoubtedly get the wrong idea altogether.
“I’ll talk, but you have to promise to listen and try to understand. Deal?”
Logan’s hand stopped where he’d been drawing circles on his skin, and then he kissed him. “Deal. But that doesn’t mean I won’t try to change your mind.”
Tate closed his eyes as Logan settled in beside him. As he lay there, he tried to think of a way to explain to this self-made, confident man that he needed to carry his own weight. That he needed to be able to stand on his own two feet before he could even think about moving in and sharing that responsibility with another. But he was drawing a blank. How could he ever admit to a man like Logan that he felt as though he was starting from scratch and it scared him half to death?
He had no idea, but he had several hours to come up with something because there was no way in hell that Logan would ever let this go.
Chapter Five
Logan woke the next morning to the muffled sound of music filtering in from behind the half-cracked bedroom door. He shifted his head on the pillow to see it had just turned eight thirty a.m. That was relatively late for him on a Sunday, but he knew damn well that it was early for Tate.
Someone can’t sleep this morning. Interesting…
He stifled a yawn and ran a hand over his face as a loud clang came from the direction of the kitchen followed by a soft, “Shit.”
Smiling, Logan got out of bed. He snagged his jeans off the floor and stepped into them, deciding he better get into the kitchen before Tate hurt himself or burned the building down.
As he opened the bedroom door and stepped into the small living space, he spotted Tate standing in front of his oven, wearing a pair of black sweatpants and a red T-shirt. With his feet bare and his back to him, it was the perfect opportunity to watch him unnoticed.
Leaning against the doorjamb, he acted the silent voyeur to the oblivious man in the kitchen. Tate was humming to the soft music he had playing, stirring something on the stovetop, completely unaware that he had an audience.
This was what Logan wanted more than anything else—moments just like this, where he saw glimpses of Tate that no one else did.
As one of his favorite artists continued to fill the room, Logan found himself unable to stay quiet any longer. “Peter Gabriel, huh?”
Tate’s head whipped around, and when their eyes connected, he stopped singing and smiled. “Yeah. He’s a favorite of mine, among others.”
When he turned back to what he was doing, Logan pushed away from the wall and made his way over to stand behind him. He couldn’t resist the urge to put a hand on Tate’s waist as he peered over his shoulder to check out what he was mixing on the stove—a creamy gravy with sausage in it. It smelled mouthwatering, and as Logan nudged his nose into the hair by Tate’s ear, he realized Tate did also.
“You’re cooking me breakfast?”
Tate chuckled, the vibration rumbling against Logan’s chest. “I figured I owed you.”
“Oh…so this is a ‘sorry I came before you’ breakfast? Why didn’t you tell me? I would have worn considerably less and really made you apologize.”
When Tate turned his head, Logan made sure to lick his lips and Tate zeroed in on them with obvious interest.
“Considerably less than a pair of jeans?” Tate asked.
Logan nodded and gave him a kiss. “Yes. But I didn’t know, so alas, I’m now clothed.”
“That’s a shame. We both know how bothersome you find clothing.”
Logan ran his fingers under Tate’s shirt and around the waist of his sweats. When he started to flirt with the silky hair of his treasure trail, Tate fumbled the spoon in his hand.
“I find yours bothersome too.” With a laugh, Logan stepped away and pointed to the stove. “But it’s probably for the best. I don’t want you to burn yourself—or me for that matter.”
“Fuck you,” Tate said with a slight frown, his lips twitching as he fought back a grin. “Go and sit down, troublemaker.”
Logan wandered over to the small table in the dining area and heard Tate say, “Turn this up, would you? It’s one of my favorites.”
He grabbed the remote for the entertainment system and turned the volume up on “Solsbury Hill”—one of his personal favorites also. Taking a seat, Logan angled himself so he could watch Tate as he worked around the kitchen and found, for the first time in his entire life, that he was truly content.
* * *
Tate sang along to the lyrics as he opened the oven and pulled a tray of biscuits free. He didn’t usually cook. Actually, he never cooked. But as he’d lain there thinking about what he wanted to say to Logan this morning, he’d become more and more nervous. So he’d figured the best thing to do was get up and do something—anything to take his mind off trying to explain what was running through his head.
“You know, for his solo debut, this was a damn good song,” Logan said, cutting through his thoughts.
Tate reached for two plates and then walked over to put them on the table. One on his side, the other in front of Logan.
“Yeah. I’ve always liked it. Probably more so than any of his others.”
“Oh, come on. He did some of his best work with Genesis.”
Tate agreed and turned back to get the food. “There’s just something about this one. I’ve been listening to it a lot lately.”
“Have you?” Logan asked, and his tone had Tate facing him.
“Yeah. Why?” He carried a plate with biscuits and the pot full of gravy over, watching Logan closely.
“No reason in particular. I was just thinking of the coincidence. In an interview, he was quoted as saying the lyrics were about ‘being prepared to lose what you have for what you might get. It’s about letting go.’”
After Tate placed the food down, he rested a palm on the table to lean over and brush his mouth to Logan’s. “I love what I got,” he said, and he slid his tongue across Logan’s lower lip to slowly sample him.
“Do you?” Logan’s eyes practically sparkled at him, and he stroked Tate’s cheek.
“Mhmm,” he hummed before sitting in the opposite chair.
He loved the way Logan was staring at him. It was like he’d just offered him the world—it made him feel like a fucking king.
“So…this morning I get to try your cooking, huh? Is this a prelude of something I have to look forward to?”
And with those few words, Tate was reminded of why he’d cooked. He’d been unable to fucking sleep, and why? Because he didn’t have the first idea how to explain himself to Logan—and he deserved an explanation.
Taking a moment to think, he shoveled two biscuits onto a plate and then poured the sausage gravy over it before handing the plate to Logan. He took it from him with a quiet, “Thank you,” and Tate knew he was waiting—waiting for him to open his mouth and start the conversation he didn’t want to have.
How the hell do I even begin?
He smothered his own food in the creamy sauce, and when he placed the pot back on the table, he noticed that Logan was still watching him. But this time, the look in his eyes was…pensive.
“You not going to eat?” Tate asked, mentally kicking his own ass for being a fucking coward.
“I am,” Logan said and picked up his fork. “You going to talk? Or sit there scowling at your plate?”
“I’m not scowling.”
&nbs
p; “Yes, you are.”
“I’m thinking,” Tate explained. “There’s a difference. And I’d think you would be used to this face by now.”
“Oh, I recognize it for what it is. I was just checking. Well, then. I’ll just sit here and eat my delicious breakfast quietly until you’re ready.”
Tate smirked as he stretched one of his legs out in front of him. “You are going to sit quietly?”
“Yep,” Logan told him before he brought a full fork to his mouth, pushing the food between his lips. He bared his teeth at Tate and dragged the fork free, giving him a grin. “I can be quiet.”
“No, you can’t.”
“Yes. I can.”
Tate didn’t reply. Instead, he started to eat his breakfast in complete silence. He watched Logan do the same, and as the seconds ticked by and turned to minutes, Logan sat forward in his chair.
Tate reached for his orange juice and raised it to his lips. After taking a sip, he put it back down and acted as if he were about to talk. Logan’s eyes widened a little, expectantly, but Tate started to eat again, enjoying the game immensely.
Noticing Logan’s jaw bunch as though he were clamping his mouth shut, possibly biting his tongue in an attempt to keep it closed, Tate was about to relent until Logan lost it first.
“Okay, so apparently, I can’t keep my mouth shut. Happy?”
Tate crossed his arms over his chest. “Nah. I rather like you with your mouth open. But…”
“But the answer’s still no, right?”
* * *
Don’t let me be fucking right, was all Logan could think as Tate sat up straight in his chair and replied, “Right.”
He barely held back the urge to demand why. As it was, he was trying his best to be patient, but Tate needed to talk. He needed to help him understand what was going on.
“Is it me? You don’t think you’d like living with me?”
Tate’s eyes found his as he adamantly denied that claim. “No. No. It’s nothing like that. It’s not you—”
“If you end that sentence with ‘it’s me,’ I might kick you.”
Tate brought a hand to his hair and pushed his fingers through it. He seemed extremely uncomfortable, and Logan hated that, but at the same time, he wanted answers. Then, with a long sigh, Tate dropped his hand onto his leg and squeezed his fingers into his thigh.
“Is it because of Chris?” Logan hedged, wondering if maybe the reappearance of his ex had somehow made Tate doubt him just as Cole had suggested. Fuck, he hoped that wasn’t the case. He’d done everything in his power to gain Tate’s trust, and he wasn’t about to blow it on Christopher fucking Walker.
“No. I don’t like that he’s back in your life. But I don’t give a shit about him,” Tate said and then met Logan’s gaze head on. “Should I?”
Sitting forward on his chair, Logan put his hand over Tate’s, where it remained on his thigh. “Of course not. You don’t ever need to worry about him,” he said, curling his fingers around Tate’s. “If it’s not Chris and it’s not me, then what is it?”
Tate entwined their fingers, a habit of his that always reminded Logan of how far they’d come since their first coffee date at The Daily Grind.
“I…” Tate trailed off, and Logan waited, figuring that it was best to let Tate get off his chest whatever was making him feel so uneasy. “I’m not comfortable moving in with you because…” He looked up then, and the emotion in his eyes made Logan feel anxious.
“Because?” he encouraged.
“I have nothing to fucking offer you,” Tate finally said on a rush of air.
Wait. What the…“What are you talking about? I don’t need anything—”
“Exactly. That’s exactly my point.” Tate let his fingers go and sat back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his face. “You’re Logan Mitchell.”
Logan was sure Tate hadn’t meant for it to sound like a bad thing, but right then, that was exactly how it had sounded.
“And what does that mean?”
Tate abruptly pushed out of his chair as though he couldn’t sit still and turned away from him. “It means you’re thirty-four years old and own your own company, not to mention a cabin with practically an entire forest behind it. You wear the best clothes, drive the best car, and live in and own a fucking high-rise in downtown Chicago.” Tate stopped talking and turned with a frown. “It just means that it’s a little intimidating is all. I had so many plans for myself… I still do.”
For once in his life, Logan didn’t know what to say. He’d had no idea that was what had been bothering Tate. It’d never even occurred to him. But as he remained seated and Tate walked into the living room, Logan knew he needed more information.
If that was what was standing between Tate living on his own and moving in with him, then he needed to know exactly what Tate wanted.
“Tell me.”
Tate faced him, leaning his back against the small windowsill and crossing his arms. “They’re just ideas in my head. They probably won’t ever happen.”
Logan stood and walked toward Tate, but feeling as if he might still need his own space, he stopped by the couch and sat. “Tell me anyway.”
“Well,” he started and then gave a self-deprecating laugh as he shook his head. “You can’t laugh at me.”
“Why would I laugh?”
“I don’t know. Any time I’ve ever told anyone this, they just kind of laughed as if it would never happen.”
Logan cocked his head to the side and narrowed his eyes at him. “Anyone as in Diana?”
Tate said nothing, and Logan knew he was right.
“In case you hadn’t noticed, there are a lot of ways in which Diana and I differ.”
Tate’s eyes roamed over him. “Believe me. I noticed.”
“Good,” Logan said. “Then you’re also aware that my reactions to most things also differ from her. You once told me not to compare you to Chris. I’m telling you right now—stop comparing me to her.”
Logan could tell that the tone of his voice had gotten through because Tate’s lips pulled tight and he replied with a curt, “Okay.”
He nodded once and relaxed back into the couch, putting an ankle across his knee. He tapped his thigh several times, waiting for Tate’s next move, and when he came over and sat beside him, Logan said again, “Please, tell me your plans.”
* * *
Tate angled his body toward Logan and thought about his next words carefully. For years, he’d had an idea he’d kept on the back burner, waiting for the right opportunity, and it wasn’t until recently that he’d really started to think of the possibilities.
“Well, you know how I’ve worked behind a bar most of my adult life?”
Logan’s brow rose, and when his lips curved into a smile, Tate wondered what he was thinking. He didn’t have to wait long though, because he told him.
“Yes, I seem to remember frequenting one just to see you.”
Tate narrowed his eyes and reminded him, “You were going there long before I showed up.”
“I used to go in once a week, maybe twice. I didn’t start hauling ass downstairs every day until you arrived.”
Tate dropped his eyes down to Logan’s fingers, which were still tapping against his jean-clad thigh, and then he raked them over his bare torso and lightly-haired chest. “I used to watch the door for you.”
“Did you?”
“Yes,” Tate admitted. “At first, I thought I was looking for the man who gave me a nice tip, but now…”
Logan shifted his arm across the back of the couch—an invitation Tate couldn’t resist when it came to getting closer to all of that naked skin.
“But now?”
“Now, I know I just couldn’t wait to see you.” He watched Logan’s thick lashes sweep against his cheeks as he blinked, and then he leaned over to place a kiss by his ear. “I’m so glad you kept coming back. Did I ever tell you that?”
“You’re being very sweet to me this morning. Not that I�
�m complaining,” Logan laughed, turning his head so their noses practically touched. “But stop avoiding the issue and talk to me. Tell me what you want to do with your life so I can be a part of it.”
Tate put a hand on Logan’s chest and took his lips in a slow kiss. As his mouth parted, Tate slid inside and groaned at the way Logan’s tongue tangled with his. The kiss was unhurried; it was familiar. And when Logan’s fingers came up to graze his cheek, Tate relished the heat that simmered just beneath the surface. With Logan, it was always there, always the same, even when the emotion behind the action was different, and Tate wondered how he’d ever lived without it.
Reluctantly, he pulled away and put his head against the arm Logan had resting along the back of the couch. He then looked up into the blue eyes watching him and said, “I’ve always wanted to open my own bar.”
He waited, almost expecting Logan to laugh even though he’d already told him he wouldn’t.
“I know it would be a lot of hard work and probably more expensive than I could ever imagine. But I got my business degree specifically for that reason. I’ve always wanted to run my own place.”
As Logan remained silent, Tate started to feel self-conscious. He didn’t know what Logan was thinking. Since he worked closely with and likely represented people who owned such establishments, he probably realized what a pipe dream it was.
He probably thinks I’m crazy.
“I think you’d run a fantastic bar,” Logan finally said, shocking the hell out of him.
“You do?”
The genuine smile that crossed Logan’s lips had Tate returning the gesture.
“Yes, I do. You’re incredibly personable, and I, for one, have seen what a good rapport you have with customers. Have you looked into it at all? Owning your own place?”
Tate knew he must have looked stunned because Logan laughed.
“Why are you so surprised?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I—”
“Tate?” Logan interrupted, grabbing him and pulling him into his arms. “I think you could do whatever you put your mind to, but this? I can definitely see you doing this. By the way, how did I not know you went to school for business?”
