Page 10 of Game On

Maybe Jamie was still broken up over the ex.

Or perhaps he was more upset about the cat than he’d let on.

Could it be that he was distressed about the trade?

“Maybe it’s none of your business,” Dorian said to himself.

The shower turned off, and Dorian pictured a wet and naked Jamie Jamieson stepping out of the tub, hair dripping onto his shoulders, rivulets running down chiselled abs to?—

Nope. Not going there. Housemates were not for lusting over. That would lead to all sorts of complications. And what with most of his waking hours dedicated to his day job or side business, it didn’t exactly leave time for paramours, even if Jamie wasn’t his housemate.

The mutter of Jamie’s voice drifted down from upstairs a few minutes later. It was deep, the kind of voice that travelled, drawing Dorian’s gaze to his office doorway.

It wasn’t like he’d never had people over before. Matt was over often enough, as was another cousin, Charlie—who was also Dorian’s best friend. A few university friends he’d managed to keep in touch with since graduation seven years ago stopped by once in a while too.

But it wasn’t often people stayed. Dorian’s house was his safe place, and the people he let linger were few and far between.

But he could put himself in Jamie’s shoes. Had been in Jamie’s shoes more times than he could count, thanks to his parents throwing him into new situations without asking for his opinion. He knew what it was like to be thrust into something new when everyone else had already been doing it together for years.

The hockey team when he was six.

A new school when his parents had taken him out of public school and transferred him to a private one in grade two.

Soccer when he was eight, public speaking when he was eleven, a leadership program when he was thirteen, and plenty of other activities he’d forgotten.

It had hit a nerve when Matt had said he was pushing to get Jamie onto the Orcas, and all Dorian could picture was any of the numerous times he’d started something new when everyone had already known each other and feeling like the one burnt cornflake in a bag full of perfectly golden Corn Flakes.

His sympathy had ballooned for a moment, and he’d offered Jamie a room in his house before he could think better of it.

It wasn’t all bad, though, having someone in his home. Maybe they could be two burnt cornflakes together.

He finished Mark’s graphic—not hard given he was using a template—then mocked up three new versions that more effectively utilized the team’s colours. He sent all four to Mark with the subject line These templates are better. Once he’d answered a couple of emails, he closed out of everything day job-related, navigated to his personal inbox, and opened the spreadsheet he’d designed to track... everything. Brainstorm dumps, themes, vendors, samples received and still awaiting, expenses, and orders placed.

It was a lot for one spreadsheet, but he worked better with multiple sheets than with multiple files.

Halfway through drafting an email confirming that he’d paid an invoice, footsteps sounded on the stairs. Jamie appeared in the doorway a moment later, wearing sweatpants, a T-shirt, and an unzipped hoodie in olive green.

Dorian’s pulse jumped once before he wrestled it back into its normal rhythm. “Hey. Find everything you need upstairs?”

“Yeah, thanks.” Jamie edged into the room and sat on the arm of the couch next to the door. “And thanks for offering me a place to stay.”

“No problem.”

Dorian thought about asking why Jamie had chosen him among all the options he’d had. They didn’t know each other well enough for that, though, and Dorian didn’t want to pry into Jamie’s psyche on his first day here.

See? Nice.

“What is all this stuff?” Jamie nodded at the coffee table, which was covered with all manner of things: bath bombs, candles, crocheted stress balls, wall hangings, jewellery, teas, tote bags, and various other bits and bobs. He picked up a killer whale plushie made with chenille wool that was round and cute and not at all to scale. “Did you raid a general store or something?”

“No, but I can see why that’s where your mind went.” Dorian pushed away from his desk and rolled his chair to the coffee table. “They’re samples from vendors.”

“For what?”

“For my—” He broke off, his throat closing around the words.

He hadn’t told a single soul about his business.

No, scratch that. He’d told upward of three dozen vendors and makers.

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