Page 11 of Jett in Jeopardy

“God, no.” I’d had that with Ryan, and I wasn’t looking for it again. I was content being alone, fine with what I’d been doing so far for sex, keeping things fast and anonymous, free of expectations and emotional entanglements—just scratching an itch.

We’d made our way back to the hotel where we started and stopped to catch our breath.

“It’s okay to be with someone,” Daniel said. “Even if you’re not looking for forever. Just be upfront.”

I nodded, my throat suddenly became tight. I wanted Jett. I had since the minute he’d walked into my bar over three years ago, and it scared the shit out of me.

So, I opted for a change of subject, and nodded at the hotel stretched out behind us. Built sometime in the sixties, the old building was like an oversized time capsule. “You figure out what you’re going to do about the roof?”

Daniel shrugged. “A patch job, I think. I can’t afford to replace the whole roof this year.”

“I have some savings—”

“No,” Daniel said, shutting me down before I could really offer to help him out. He was so God damned stubborn sometimes. “Thanks, though. I’ll be fine.”

I wasn’t convinced. Neither Daniel nor I were ever going to get rich running businesses in The Square, but The Dunes, the only gay bar in Saltwater Cove, turned a steady profit all year round. Daniel was dependent on summer tourism, and between the age of the hotel and its proximity to the sea—the saltwater air was notoriously harsh on structures—the place was a money pit, the leaky roof Daniel was dealing with now just the latest in an endless list of repairs.

I didn’t know how Daniel managed to keep it all together and not buckle under the crushing weight of the hotel. Especially now with Oliver McKenzie, who had been a silent partner before his death, gone and his son, Greyson, inheriting, Daniel’s situation was even more dubious.

I sometimes thought he’d be better to pack it in, sell the hotel for whatever he could get for it. But I kept my thoughts to myself. It meant something to him, after all. And as a man who had spent the last six years running his dead boyfriend’s bar, I got that.

“I should get back in there,” Daniel said, nodding to the hotel. “But I just want to say this. It’s been six years since Ryan’s accident. He loved you, and he wouldn’t have wanted you to be alone forever. He would want you to be happy.”

My throat squeezed tight, and I nodded, mostly because I knew I couldn’t have pushed out words if I’d had a gun to my head.

Daniel started for the hotel, leaving me to walk back to the bar alone. This morning with Jett hinted at what would undoubtedly be fucking amazing sex, but even before that, when we’d been eating breakfast, it was the first time in years that being with someone, talking to them hadn’t felt forced or like a chore to get through. And for some reason, that made my heart pound faster and cold sweat slicked my skin.

Jett was a nice kid, hot as hell, and I itched to get my hands on him again, but it wouldn’t be fair to him. I didn’t believe I was capable of loving anyone the way I loved Ryan, and more than that, I didn’t want to.

Chapter Five

Jett

Duringthedrivehomefrom The Dunes—which admittedly was only a few minutes—everything inside me felt light and content. Anticipation moved through me like an electrical charge humming through my veins. Every time I shifted in my seat, a dull ache gripped my ass and a thrill shot straight to my cock—still half-hard, despite Brody no longer being anywhere near me.

Unfortunately, as soon as I steered into the driveway, my good mood plummeted.

I had been fired yesterday, and I still had to tell Grier and Sawyer.

“Shit,” I whispered, cutting the engine. I hesitated before getting out. Both Sawyer and Grier’s cars were in the driveway, so I knew they were home. And just so I wouldn’t block Grier in, who I knew had to work this afternoon, I parked behind Sawyer’s car. I almost wished Grier had already left for work, then I’d have an excuse to stall and tell them later.

After getting out of the car, I followed the walk and climbed the steps to the wide porch stretching across the front of the house. Oliver Mackenzie’s house was perched at the top of The Square, looking down over the community he’d built and the slate-colored waves beyond like a craftsman-style castle overlooking its kingdom.

The damp, frigid wind blowing in off the water rattled the bamboo wind chimes Grier had put up a few weeks ago, the hollow clanking oddly haunting even in the early afternoon under the dull grey clouds overhead.

Once inside, warm air drew me in like a hug, chasing away the chill from the outdoors. It was good to be home, even if this house didn’t feel like home the way our last place did.

Aside from the sound of Sawyer’s fingers typing on his keyboard, the house was quiet. I made my way through the living and dining rooms to the study that Sawyer had claimed as his own.

Oliver Mackenzie had died in this house. Daniel, who used to deliver the older man’s groceries, found Mackenzie in the front hall near the bottom of the stairs. Apparently, he’d died from an aneurysm. Most of his belongings were still here, in his house. Before agreeing to let us live here, Greyson Mackenzie had planned to sell his father’s home, and no one had disposed of his furniture in case the realtor needed it to stage the house. I guess it was lucky for us since we lost everything in the fire, leaving us with no furnishings of our own.

But between Mackenzie’s furniture filling the house and his personal things packed in boxes in the attic, the house had never truly felt like our own. I know that’s why I had chosen my bedroom upstairs rather than the larger primary bedroom on the ground floor toward the back of the house that had clearly been Mackenzie’s. It’s possible Grier had the same thought.

Sawyer had moved in about a month later, and he had no qualms about staying in Mackenzie’s room, sleeping in the man’s bed. Of course, it was the only room available, so it wasn’t as if he had a choice. Like Mackenzie’s room, neither Grier nor I had been interested in using the study. Sawyer, who picked up freelance writing jobs to make ends meet while he was getting his degree in journalism, had claimed the space as his own once he realized Grier and I weren’t using it.

After having lived there for almost three months, and now that I was almost convinced Oliver Mackenzie’s ghost wasn’t haunting us, I could see the attraction. It was a decent-sized room with a heavy wood desk set in the center. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, packed-tight with books, lined most of the walls, broken only by wide windows and a fireplace at the far end. Between the warm glow cast by the desk lamp and sconces mounted intermittently around the room, the space had a cozy sort of charm.

Sawyer looked up from his laptop as I approached and smirked. “How wasyournight? It must have been pretty good if you’rejustgetting home now.”

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