“Hey?” Logan asked, breaking through his thoughts.

“Yeah?”

“You trust me, right?”

The question was so out of place and so serious that it brought Tate out of his relaxed, sexual lethargy real fucking fast.

“Of course,” he replied and sat up as Logan moved off him to lie by his side. “Why did you ask me that?”

Logan licked his top lip and looked beyond his shoulder.

“Logan?” Tate asked, waiting until he had his attention again. “Why would you ask me that? You know I trust you or I wouldn’t be here with you.” Then Tate remembered where Logan had been earlier today. “What happened at Cole’s this morning?”

Logan rolled to his back and looked at the ceiling. “Nothing.”

“You’re a terrible liar,” Tate told him as he undid his vest and shirt.

Logan shook his head on the pillow and said, “Fuck, I hope not. Most days, my career depends on that.”

“On lying?”

“On being…convincing.”

Tate moved to the side of the bed and stood to undress. Then he turned the light off and climbed back in. “Well, you’ve never had a problem being that. But you still didn’t answer me.”

“And you haven’t answered me.”

“Yes, I did. I told you that I trust you.” Tate could just make out Logan’s eyes in the moonlight—he was so serious.

“Not about that,” Logan said.

They eyed one another in a silent battle of wills, and finally, Tate turned away.

“Can we talk about it tomorrow when I’m not half asleep?”

Logan moved in closer and placed a hand on his chest. “Will you talk to me, or are you going to shut down and run?”

Tate thought about all the things he wanted to say and had no idea how he would even start. But he knew that, if he didn’t say something soon, Logan would undoubtedly get the wrong idea altogether.

“I’ll talk, but you have to promise to listen and try to understand. Deal?”

Logan’s hand stopped where he’d been drawing circles on his skin, and then he kissed him. “Deal. But that doesn’t mean I won’t try to change your mind.”

Tate closed his eyes as Logan settled in beside him. As he lay there, he tried to think of a way to explain to this self-made, confident man that he needed to carry his own weight. That he needed to be able to stand on his own two feet before he could even think about moving in and sharing that responsibility with another. But he was drawing a blank. How could he ever admit to a man like Logan that he felt as though he was starting from scratch and it scared him half to death?

He had no idea, but he had several hours to come up with something because there was no way in hell that Logan would ever let this go.

Chapter Five

Logan woke the next morning to the muffled sound of music filtering in from behind the half-cracked bedroom door. He shifted his head on the pillow to see it had just turned eight thirty a.m. That was relatively late for him on a Sunday, but he knew damn well that it was early for Tate.

Someone can’t sleep this morning. Interesting…

He stifled a yawn and ran a hand over his face as a loud clang came from the direction of the kitchen followed by a soft, “Shit.”

Smiling, Logan got out of bed. He snagged his jeans off the floor and stepped into them, deciding he better get into the kitchen before Tate hurt himself or burned the building down.

As he opened the bedroom door and stepped into the small living space, he spotted Tate standing in front of his oven, wearing a pair of black sweatpants and a red T-shirt. With his feet bare and his back to him, it was the perfect opportunity to watch him unnoticed.

Leaning against the doorjamb, he acted the silent voyeur to the oblivious man in the kitchen. Tate was humming to the soft music he had playing, stirring something on the stovetop, completely unaware that he had an audience.

This was what Logan wanted more than anything else—moments just like this, where he saw glimpses of Tate that no one else did.

As one of his favorite artists continued to fill the room, Logan found himself unable to stay quiet any longer. “Peter Gabriel, huh?”

Tate’s head whipped around, and when their eyes connected, he stopped singing and smiled. “Yeah. He’s a favorite of mine, among others.”

When he turned back to what he was doing, Logan pushed away from the wall and made his way over to stand behind him. He couldn’t resist the urge to put a hand on Tate’s waist as he peered over his shoulder to check out what he was mixing on the stove—a creamy gravy with sausage in it. It smelled mouthwatering, and as Logan nudged his nose into the hair by Tate’s ear, he realized Tate did also.

“You’re cooking me breakfast?”

Tate chuckled, the vibration rumbling against Logan’s chest. “I figured I owed you.”

“Oh…so this is a ‘sorry I came before you’ breakfast? Why didn’t you tell me? I would have worn considerably less and really made you apologize.”

When Tate turned his head, Logan made sure to lick his lips and Tate zeroed in on them with obvious interest.

“Considerably less than a pair of jeans?” Tate asked.

Logan nodded and gave him a kiss. “Yes. But I didn’t know, so alas, I’m now clothed.”

“That’s a shame. We both know how bothersome you find clothing.”

Logan ran his fingers under Tate’s shirt and around the waist of his sweats. When he started to flirt with the silky hair of his treasure trail, Tate fumbled the spoon in his hand.

“I find yours bothersome too.” With a laugh, Logan stepped away and pointed to the stove. “But it’s probably for the best. I don’t want you to burn yourself—or me for that matter.”

“Fuck you,” Tate said with a slight frown, his lips twitching as he fought back a grin. “Go and sit down, troublemaker.”

Logan wandered over to the small table in the dining area and heard Tate say, “Turn this up, would you? It’s one of my favorites.”

He grabbed the remote for the entertainment system and turned the volume up on “Solsbury Hill”—one of his personal favorites also. Taking a seat, Logan angled himself so he could watch Tate as he worked around the kitchen and found, for the first time in his entire life, that he was truly content.

Tate sang along to the lyrics as he opened the oven and pulled a tray of biscuits free. He didn’t usually cook. Actually, he never cooked. But as he’d lain there thinking about what he wanted to say to Logan this morning, he’d become more and more nervous. So he’d figured the best thing to do was get up and do something—anything to take his mind off trying to explain what was running through his head.

“You know, for his solo debut, this was a damn good song,” Logan said, cutting through his thoughts.

Tate reached for two plates and then walked over to put them on the table. One on his side, the other in front of Logan.

“Yeah. I’ve always liked it. Probably more so than any of his others.”

“Oh, come on. He did some of his best work with Genesis.”

Tate agreed and turned back to get the food. “There’s just something about this one. I’ve been listening to it a lot lately.”

“Have you?” Logan asked, and his tone had Tate facing him.

“Yeah. Why?” He carried a plate with biscuits and the pot full of gravy over, watching Logan closely.

“No reason in particular. I was just thinking of the coincidence. In an interview, he was quoted as saying the lyrics were about ‘being prepared to lose what you have for what you might get. It’s about letting go.’”

After Tate placed the food down, he rested a palm on the table to lean over and brush his mouth to Logan’s. “I love what I got,” he said, and he slid his tongue across Logan’s lower lip to slowly sample him.