Page 90 of Boyfriend of the Hour
We stared at each other for a long time as the sharp edge in the room faded away, leaving just the two of us, and the fact that we both seemed to, frankly, just really like each other to sink in.
Maybe it really was as simple as that. Nathan liked and respected me, and I felt the same about him. I didn’t know why that was such a rare combination, but apparently it was. For both of us.
“You were too young,” Nathan said in a softer tone now. “I don’t know you all that well, but I know that. Just like I know that right now, you deserve a lot more than the way people in your life seem to treat you. But you’re smart and kind, and you’re my friend. You need some help. We both do. I’m open to trying if you are.”
I blinked. I honestly wasn’t sure what to do with this. An honest exchange. How novel.
“Speaking of, that dinner with my colleagues is next week,” Nathan said. “We should probably buy you something to wear to that too.”
I looked down at my clothes, which currently consisted of one of Matthew’s old Marines T-shirts over a pair of threadbare striped pajama shorts. “This isn’t it, but I do have nice enough things for dinner. You’ve seen my other stuff.”
Nathan shifted in his seat. “Transparent lace is fine for a bar, but you can’t show up to dinners with my partners in a see-through shirt. I don’t personally care what you wear?—”
“Except for my shoes,” I put in playfully.
That earned me a small smile. “Except your shoes that don’t provide you any arch support, yeah. But the rest…” He waved a hand around. “It’s just about meeting social expectationsof particular class environments. Most people are shallow enough that things like clothes and appearance trigger certain prejudices. Ones you don’t deserve.”
“I thought you weren’t good at social stuff,” I said.
I was joking again, but the comment cast a shadow across Nathan’s face.
“People who are raised by Lillian and Radford Hunt are acutely aware of class-based social mores such as wardrobe and table manners,” he informed me. “My brothers and I suffered through years of those ‘lessons’ together.”
It was one of the few pieces of information he’d offered about his life outside of New York. I wanted to know more. I’d spilled my guts to him—now I wanted Nathan’s stories. I wanted all of them.
But before I could ask for any, Nathan checked his watch and swore under his breath. “Shit. I’m late for clinic. But I’ll be back at five. That should give us a few hours to shop.”
And before I could answer, he stood up, ready to go to his room and change, I supposed.
“Wait,” I called as I followed him into the hall.
He turned, one hand shoved impatiently into his curls. I found myself wishing I could replace it with mine. They looked so soft. So inviting.
“What is it?” he asked. “Is there something else you need?”
Wordlessly, I stepped forward and wrapped my arms around his neck. “Just to say thank you. For everything you’re doing, Nathan, really. I don’t know where I’d be right now if you hadn’t dropped into my life like some kind of guardian angel. I’ll pay you back one day. I promise.”
His big, warm body stiffened under my grasp, though he didn’t move away.
“Nathan,” I said into his chest. “This is a hug. When you receive one, you’re supposed to give one back.”
His hands landed awkwardly on my hips. “But no one is here right now. Here, we’re just friends. Roommates.”
I wished the uncertainty in his voice didn’t make me feel so…hopeful.
“Friends hug,” I told him. “Roommates can too. And boyfriends definitely hug. Like all the time.”
“Is that right?”
I looked up to find him smirking down at me. It was fucking adorable.
“Yes, it is.” I pulled him closer, telling myself it wasn’t because his body, safe and secure, made me also feel safe and secure. “And they don’t let go until their girlfriends do. Ever.”
This was a lesson. Nothing more.
Nathan’s hands squeezed my waist, then slipped around on either side so he could wrap his arms fully around me, holding me tightly enough that almost every part of our bodies met, separated by only a few thin layers of clothing.
“Is this all right?” he murmured into my hair, which he stroked gently with one hand. “Not too tight?”
