Page 3 of Unspoken Rules

Bad, Bryson. Your best friend’s father isn’t handsome.

He totally is, though. Always has been.

He’s 6’4” and at least 230 pounds of muscle. Dark brown hair that’s always styled neatly. Short facial hair. Crystal blue eyes. Full lips. Straight nose. Strong jaw.

The man is perfection.

When he gets the drink, he smells it before taking a sip. My gaze is glued to his movements, completely entranced by the way his fingers wrap around the glass, the way it presses against his bottom lip. The way his throat works as he swallows. The collar of his white shirt is tight around his neck, his royal blue tie knotted perfectly at his throat. Cole Harper, my best friend’s father, is sinfully gorgeous.

And I better get my shit together before I say something really stupid. Like tell him how hot he really is.

I haven’t seen him in over four years and now I’m on my way to getting drunk. The man has definitely gotten more attractive with age, and there’s no way he doesn’t know it.

But Cole Harper is off limits! For obvious reasons. The fact he’s exactly my type, the type who could bend me, break me, and snap me, is just another way the universe has given me the shit end of the stick.

Yes, universe. Dangle the sweetest piece of meat in front of my face but give me a conscience so I don’t touch it.

Fuck the universe.

Chapter Two

Bryson

I finish my beer, and the bartender brings another without me asking. Cole’s gaze burns the side of my face and I turn toward him. The man can pull off a suit—like he is now—as well as he can pull off a pair of dirty ripped jeans and a stained t-shirt, which is normally what he wears considering he owns a construction company. Visions of him from years ago working out in the yard shirtless pop into my head and I practically drool. Muscles—god, the muscles. Sweat. Dirt. Grunting. Those sounds live in my head rent free.

Jesus, this man is a gift to humans.

“Where are you staying?” he asks in that rumbling husky voice of his.

My dick twitches, and I shake my head. I should stop drinking before I get myself into trouble. Telling him I’ve imagined his dick down my throat more times than I can count is a bad idea. This attraction to him isn’t anything new. I guess I just forgot how strong it was. Or maybe it’s stronger now because I’m not a child anymore. When I was a teenager, he was my best friend’s hot dad. Now? Sure, he’s still my best friend’s hot dad, but he’s also a man. And I’m a man. And I’m gay. And he’s not.

Right.

Forgot about that.

Cole is straight.

Fuck you, universe.

“Daddy was nice enough to send me money for a hotel since he didn’t want to see my face. So, it looks like I’m getting a room across the street,” I explain as my phone lights up with a text.

Chris: Sorry just saw you called. You need a ride or something?

Of course he’d assume my father left me here. It’s such a Bart thing to do.

My fingers hover over my keyboard, trying to decide how to tell Chris to stay put in a way he won’t get pissy about it. I have a feeling he’s been drinking. Something he’s been doing a lot of lately, if his IG posts and late-night misspelled texts are any indication.

Chris is temperamental on a normal day, never mind when alcohol is involved. Last thing I want to do is piss him off. Before I get a chance to type anything, my phone is plucked from my hands. I frown as Cole types something, and I wonder if I should save my best friend from the stern talking to his father is no doubt putting him through.

Cole has this way of telling Chris off in the most loving, fatherly way. It always made me jealous. And it’s totally because my father is an asshole, and not because I want Cole Harper to bend me over a table and fuck me senseless while telling me I’ve been a bad boy.

God Bryson, you are a mess.

Christ, I really am.

Letting Cole tell off Chris is just something Chris will bitch at me for when he’s sober. He’s my best friend, but because of that, we fight like brothers. Whatever. That’s a future-me problem.

Cole locks the screen before handing my phone back to me. He finishes his drink in one gulp, putting the glass on the bar-top and getting to his feet. I watch his every move, bewitched by his beauty. It’s pathetic. He pulls a wad of twenties from his wallet and drops them on the counter. It’s way too much for his one Old Fashioned.

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