Page 31 of Triple Play

“I was just asking Shira for a favor,” Felix continues.

Blake’s jaw goes tense. “What exactly is Shira helping with?”

“I just need to trim my beard. Mostly I need someone to work the clippers.”

“Fine.” Blake smiles the hardened version of his grin. “Happy to lend you a hand.”

Not what I was expecting.

Not what Felix was expecting either from the line pinching his forehead. “You secretly a barber?”

“My brother and I used to cut our own hair sometimes.”

“Is there anything you can’t do?” Felix asks. It doesn’t quite sound like a compliment.

“Of course.” Though Blake doesn’t elaborate. He might be a few inches shorter than Felix, but he’s not small. Now he draws himself up to his full height—or as tall as he can without the towel slipping. Much.

“That towel a little small?” I tease.

Blake manages to go a faint pink. His hands grip the line of the terrycloth more tightly. “I should change.”

“Not on my account,” I say, mostly to watch him go even pinker. Fuck, he’s perfect. Every smooth plate of muscle, every perfectly placed strand of chest hair. If Felix weren’t here…

But Felix is here and he’s studying Blake with an expression I can’t read. Resentment? Jealousy? Something else that makes his gaze sweep appraisingly up Blake’s torso. Huh.

Blake’s flush deepens. He adjusts the towel, gripping it at his waist, as if he knows he’s being checked out. As if he doesn’t mind entirely. Double huh. After a minute, he clears his throat. “Go on and eat before it gets cold.”

“You not coming?” Felix asks.

“I need a minute. Wouldn’t want to make Shira go hungry.”

“No…” Felix drags the word out, like an insinuation. Like a promise. “Wouldn’t want that at all.”

CHAPTER SIX

Felix

When I woke up today, I thought I’d be in Florida by now. Not watching Shira groan in pleasure around a forkful of mac and cheese. It’s distracting. I should not let myself get distracted by her, but it’s hard not to, especially when she asked me to fold her in half against a wall.

Contrary to what a lot of people believe, thinking about baseball doesn’t make you not pop wood in inconvenient circumstances. Thinking about how the girl you had a year-long crush on is now dating the guy who’s gonna take your job—that sure does.

Even that couldn’t keep me from watching Shira. How her head tilted back, revealing the line of her neck. How she moaned into the stretch like she might if?—

I am not getting hard while sitting at a wobbly Airbnb table. I am not. So I take another bite of pasta. “This is good.”

“Thanks.” It’s not Shira who says it. I assumed she was who arranged all this. Not Forsyth, who’s shrugging like he’s embarrassed at being able to prepare a meal.

“Do you like to cook?” I ask.

Another shrug, even if he gets two pleased spots of color up on his cheekbones. “Sure.”

I don’t know why I’m so curious. Or maybe I do. Forsyth is…less horrible than I assumed. As far as I can tell, he’s good to Shira. I would have punched him if he wasn’t. “What else can you cook?”

“I didn’t really cook this.” He examines his forkful of mac and cheese assessingly. “But I can make mac and cheese.” The way he says it sounds like a particular point of pride.

“I mean, I can too. How hard is it to make something from a box?” I say it mostly to wind him up—southerners take that kind of thing seriously, I guess.

It works because Forsyth sputters, as uncomposed as I’ve ever seen him. He actually tugs a hand through his hair and glances over at Shira like she should come to his conversational rescue.

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