Page 24 of Blown

It would have been fantastic if he’d been able to take advantage of the new, sexy connection he and Rafe had to do more than just fumble in a closet. Jake wanted nothing more than to take his time with Rafe in bed, exploring just how compatible the two of them could be. He was certain they could create fireworks.

He liked Rafe. More than liked him. That was the whole reason he’d gone to Rafe for help cleaning up his life. They’d gotten on well in Corning, at least he thought so, even though Jake had, admittedly, been an arrogant jerk. The fact that Rafe had even answered his call when all the other friends they’dmade during their residencies had ditched him fast once they’d figured him out was proof that Rafe was a good man.

Which was why Jake got downright twitchy anytime bits and pieces from his not-so-distant past peeked around the corner and tried to bite him in the ass.

“Proof of identity isn’t a problem,” he said, half talking to himself, as he sat in the office at the desk across from Early on Friday morning. “I’ve got my US passport, and that’s more than enough to satisfy the fiancé visa requirements.”

Early glanced up from the purchasing orders they were filling out and cocked their head curiously. “What else do you need for the fiancé visa? Or the spousal one.”

Jake sighed and sank in his chair, staring at the pile of paperwork in front of him. “Too many things,” he muttered. “Can’t they just accept that Rafe and I want to get married and leave it at that?”

Early arched one of their perfectly plucked eyebrows at him. “I think the whole point is to prevent people from committing fraud by getting married for the sake of a visa.”

Jake eyed them sullenly. “It’s more than just the visa. I like Rafe. I wouldn’t mind being married to him for a while at all.”

“For a while?” Early asked.

Jake shrugged. “Maybe longer. It takes five years minimum to get British citizenship.”

That had been his goal a month ago, when he’d landed at Heathrow. Marriage to Rafe was supposed to be a stepping-stone to a new, clean life. Once he had what he wanted, he’d set Rafe free and they could both go about their business, no harm, no foul.

Now, however, he had other whispers and hopes growing inside him. There was no denying that he and Rafe had chemistry. Those fifteen minutes in the closet of the glassblowing booth weren’t the only proof of that. They flirtedall the time now, dropping innuendos left and right and making dirty jokes whenever they had a chance. He knew Rafe wasn’t a prude. Far from it. In some of their friendlier moments in the hot shop, Rafe had joked about how big of a man-whore he’d been in his twenties. If Jake hadn’t been such an ass in Corning, they might have hooked up back then.

It was more than just the sexual chemistry. Professionally and artistically, they worked so well together. Their idea for a line of glassware that captured the essence of summer in the English countryside was moving from concept and experimentation to prototypes. They were so close to figuring out exactly what method to use to create a layered effect of greens and color that gave their pieces a real feel of being submersed in a summer day on Box Hill, and then using that method on a variety of shapes and forms.

“Well, that answers question number two,” he said aloud.

Early glanced up from his work again. “What answers question number two?”

Jake pointed to the requirements listed on his computer screen. “Documents demonstrating shared living arrangements, joint financial responsibilities, and common commitments. Rafe and I are working on developing this new line of glass together. We can show proof that we have a common commitment.”

Early smiled. “There you go, then. If that isn’t a basis for a marriage, I don’t know what is.”

It was impossible to tell whether Early was joking or not. Jake still hadn’t figured out if they liked him. He hadn’t figured out if any of the Hawthornes actually liked him. They were all nice to his face, but plenty of people had been nice to his face at first only to want something from him later. He would never forget the time in his early twenties when he thought he’d made a friend in Brian Fuller, someone he could actually confide his problems in, only to discover that Brian just wanted theaccolades for converting the gay kid to his freaky church group and saving him.

Jake sighed, flopped back in his chair, and rubbed a hand over his face. The number of times he’d been burned by people he thought he could trust was harrowing. He wanted to believe the Hawthornes were different, but his track record said otherwise. Instinct told him to be careful.

Instinct also told him to climb Rafe like a monkey and offer his ass for whatever fun and games Rafe wanted.

“You okay?” Early asked, turning away from their work entirely and swiveling their chair to face Jake.

“Yeah,” Jake lied. That was one lie that wouldn’t bite him in the butt. He hoped. “They just make this whole process so complicated.”

“That’s the point,” Early said, rolling their chair over to Jake’s desk. “If you wanted an easy way to immigrate to this side of the Atlantic, you should have moved to France.”

“It’s not about moving any old place,” Jake sighed. “My soul belongs in England.”

Early sent him a sympathetic smile. They looked at the requirements listed on the computer screen, then nodded. “Okay, so this should be simple. You’ve got your passport, you can prove you have accommodation with your fiancé, and you can prove shared interest. You already speak English, you came here legally and don’t have any outstanding immigration issues, like overstaying a previous visa, right?”

“Right,” Jake said, swallowing, his hands going numb. He’d been within two days of overstaying his visa last time and had had to buy a freakishly expensive flight home at the last minute when he decided he couldn’t risk staying illegally. The British government wouldn’t have any record of that, would they?

“So all you need to do is prove you meet the financial minimum and you’re good to go,” Early said, shrugging like it was all easy peasy.

Jake was dead silent.

“You do meet the financial minimum, right?” Early asked. “You earn at least twenty-nine thousand pounds a year?”

Jake swallowed. “I thought that was a combined amount that included my fiancé’s income,” he said.

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