Page 74 of Reluctantly You

“I’m not stressing,” I murmur and then pull the binoculars out of my pants and set them in my desk drawer.

Shiloh arches an eyebrow at me and then places a hand on his hip.

“You know, you could just ask him what’s going on. You’re all about talking about shit, and here you are, spying on him.”

“He’s in his car. Has been each day this fucking week. For the past two days at least,” I finally admit. “And he hasn’t even been speaking with me and he told me he would.”

Shiloh watches me intently as I scrub a hand down my face.

“I don’t know why I’m even bothering with him. He’s a pain in my ass.”

“Yeah, but it seems you have a soft spot for him. You didn’t want it, but it’s there and you’re stuck.”

I sigh and lean my head back.

“Fine. You asshole. I’ll ask him…I’ll talk to him.”

Shiloh nods, clearly happy that I’ve decided on the most rational avenue.

Yeah, well, he’s not the most rational either. He in no way should be judging me. We’re both broken, warped guys at heart.

When the day nears the end, I make my way to Mitchell’s office and knock on the door. He grunts to come in and I do, leaning against the doorframe and shoving my hands in my pockets.

Be casual, behave naturally.

“I’d like to get dinner with you tonight,” I say, and his eyes shoot up to meet mine.

“Why the fuck would you want that?”

“Because. I’d like to speak to you.”

“The fuck about?” he murmurs, but I see the way his breath comes out a little heavier, the way his cheeks darken. He wants this.

“How about at my place?” I offer, cursing myself for being so desperate for time with him. I’m showing all my cards, and hell if I can’t stop myself.

He shifts in his seat.

“Fine. Just send me your address and a time.”

I push off the doorjamb, my heart beating swiftly in my chest.

“Will do.”

I’m pacing my kitchen, a glass of red wine in my hand as I wait for Mitchell to arrive. The food is on the counter—I ordered in—and I’m dressed down, with my tie off, sleeves rolled up my forearms.

I’m not even wearing any shoes.

I’m casual and cool.

I’m Gideon Masters. I overcame a shit ton of trauma to be where I am today. And I’m not fucking nervous over a dinner with in-the-closet Mitchell Morris.

The doorbell rings, so I force myself to take another drink and breathe in deeply before walking over to answer it.

As soon as I do, my heart flips in my chest.

“Come in,” I say, pulling the door open a little further. He steps inside, his eyes flicking around my home.

It’s bigger than most, an impulse buy that I made when I was feeling arrogant. Now that I’ve been living here, I realize that it’s far too much space for one person.

---