Page 11 of The Chance

“Huh?” he mumbles back absently and pulls his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around his shins.

“Best friends first,” I say, and I watch as something settles over Mac that’s heavy enough to bow in his shoulders. “Right?”

His breath releases through his nose when he meets my gaze over his shoulder and then he tips his chin. “Yeah.”

Why don’t I believe him?

Chapter Five

Jordan

The sun has longsince taken over the windowpanes on the far side of the living room, the credits rolling on yet another replay of the same movie.

And yet, I haven’t moved since I woke up with stubble burn prickling my shoulder.

Sometime before the day fully took over the city, I kicked back both mine and Mac’s seats, his head resting on my shoulder, his cheek rubbing against my skin, even in his sleep.

I’m not even sure when I lost my shirt or my hat, but having the sleeping drummer softly snoring against me has made it impossible to give a shit.

Think this is the longest he’s slept in months.

The fact that he’s at peace for now has me cradling his head enough to slip my arm around him, that stubble on his cheeks settling against my pec as I wiggle some feeling back into my fingers.

He’s warm when he burrows in closer, his torso plastering to my side and his leg kicking over mine.

I should give a shit, but I don’t.

Do I?

In fact, when Mac slings his arm across my middle and his breath puffs across my chest, I feel myself sink deeper into the cushions.

Fuck, this couch is comfortable.

My eyes slide closed, and my lungs fill with the scent ofdrummer. It’s not one I could explain, but it’s inviting enough in my half-asleep state that my nose finds his hair and stays there.

Just five more minutes and I’ll sneak off to the gym.

But then Mac’s hand tucks underneath my opposite hip, his fingertips gripping me just tight enough to remove all space between us until I feel him from thigh to head.

At some point, my fingers weave into his hair, the digits getting caught up in his untamed curls as I scratch lightly at his scalp to keep him asleep.

I know this won’t last.

Nothing this good ever does.

So … I’m accepting it as it is and hoping for just a few more seconds of it.

It’s a weird thing to hope for, I know this, and yet with the chaos that is life, I find that it doesn’t matter that my client is gay and I’m straight. That we’re best friends with an unprofessional dynamic that bothers others and challenges societal norms.

Or that most of my life has been spent on the road, changing homes, never really settling into anything that isn’t shortly ripped away from me.

I have to find the quiet moments to keep my sanity.

My boss, Ian, thinks I’m crazy to guard the way that I do. Thinks it’s borderlineunprofessionalfor Mac and me to be this close.

And yet, I can’t find it in me to go about it any different.

He’s the closest thing I have to family.

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