Page 45 of Ride With Me

Exhausted beyond belief,I climb out of the airport cab and get my suitcase from the trunk. I drag it behind me to the front door of Derek Johnson’s house. Being one of my favorite clients—one who’s actually a friend too—means he gets the privilege of me thinking of his home as my home too.

Not always of course.

I honestly can’t remember why anymore, but I have a ten-bedroom house up in Calabasas. The fact is, Derek’s house is a twenty-minute cab ride from the airport at three in the morning, and he’s always said I can crash in his guest bedroom whenever I need it.

I need it today.

Like I’ve needed it countless times before. I spend more time away from home than in it, even though it’s where my actual office is.

Being an agent to so many athletes means I’ve exceeded all expectations I had for myself ten years ago when I decided to start this career. It also means I’ve sacrificed a lot of things along the way.

Time with my parents and sisters, time with my nieces and nephews, time with the few friends I have, and of course any romantic relationship I ever tried to make work.

I’ve been thinking non-stop over the last few months, trying to decide if it’s been worth it.

I think it has—I love my life, I really do.

Not being home isn’t too bad when it’s just an empty house. Traveling is exciting. The chase of a deal or of signing a new client always thrills me.

Making sure the men and women I represent achieve their goals is more gratifying than your average person would think. And of course, the money doesn’t hurt.

I open the door with my spare key as quietly as I can, make sure the alarm is all set up since Derek forgets to do that most days, then carry my suitcase to the guest bedroom down the hall without bothering with the lights. I know this place as well as Derek does by this point. I turn to the left, so I can get to the staircase and start the walk down the hallway on the second floor, when I bump into someone.

“Oh, shit,” I exclaim from the scare.

The person shouts one sharp “Ah!” and then flails backward. I reach for them so they don’t fall, and manage to catch them.

“Sorry, sorry,” I think to say. It’s the best way I know how to communicate that I’m not here to rob the place. I don’t know who this person is, though. Maybethey’rehere to rob the place?

Okay, focus, Hugh.

“Let me turn on the light,” I say urgently. I don’t want to spook them any more than I already have.

I reach to the wall for the light switch and it’s a few eternal, panic-filled seconds until I do. The light blinds me when I finally turn it on, but I guess it has the same effect on the other person—a man, I realize when he speaks. “Jesus, fuck.”

“Are you okay?” I ask as I slowly get my sight back. When I can see properly, I can’t speak any more.

He’s so fucking gorgeous. Bright blue eyes, shaggy light brown hair—or is it dirty blond? I think that’s what people call it. He has a soft-looking white T-shirt on, paired with only black boxers.

The light stubble shadowing his cheeks tells me he’s old enough, but still so much younger than me. Probably in his mid-twenties. I have no clue what he’s doing in Derek’s house, but I don’t doubt he’s a guest. Why else would he be in his boxers right now otherwise?

“Who are you?” he asks quietly when he finally stops breathing hard.

“I’m Hugh,” I whisper. I don’t have the mental bandwidth to say anything else right now. I wish I could explain to himwhoI am, why I’m here so late. But I can only stand there and stare.

“I’m Ollie,” he says adorably. He stares right back, eyes wide open as they shift all over my face then trail down my button-down, my slacks, and he even spends a moment looking at my Oxfords.

I take a step toward him as if pulled by something. Some magnetic force that demands I get closer to him. I’ll probably blame it on how tired I am tomorrow, but I don’t hesitate when that same force has me raising my hand to his cheek and taking yet another step toward him so our chests are almost touching.

“Ollie,” I whisper. I start to lower my face to his and his eyes get impossibly bigger.

“Hugh,” he says just as softly. It’s not a protest, it’s definitely not a rejection, in fact...

Is it my imagination or is he leaning in? He is. He places one hand on my shoulder and now I know for certain he’s totally leaning forward, maybe even going up to his tiptoes.

Does he want this as much as I do?

I close my eyes as I close the space between our mouths and send a wish to the universe.Please let him feel this attraction as strongly as I do.

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