Not with family, and certainly not with lovers. It was better to just keep it easy, simple, and uncomplicated.

Everything that Tate wasn’t.

“Are you listening to yourself?” he asked as Tate stared him down, his breathing heavy. “Yeah, I have a fucking wall. It’s twenty feet tall, especially with you. You’re different. And the fact that you’ve never been with a man other than me is fucking terrifying.”

Instantly, Tate sobered and stepped away. It was as if he’d punched the guy. Logan reached out and hooked his fingers into the front pockets of Tate’s jeans and pulled him back in against himself.

“I wasn’t lying last night. You scare me. I don’t do this. I don’t stay in relationships, and I certainly don’t let my fucking heart rule my head.”

“I know,” Tate nodded. “It’s just…How do I know what you want from—”

“He hurt me,” Logan cut in, not wanting Tate to voice his doubts about him. He brought his hand up to Tate’s face and cradled his cheek. “He kissed me and touched me like no one else ever had. And when he told me I was special, I believed him.”

Logan stopped talking when Tate took a step forward and slid a hand into his hair.

“You are special. So fucking special.”

The raw emotion in Tate’s words made it difficult for Logan to exhale, and when Tate connected their bodies right there in the museum and kissed his mouth, he allowed himself to believe for a moment that Tate was really his.

“Do you think I’d be here if it was just sex? That I’d be thinking about—”

Logan interrupted him by tasting Tate’s mouth again, slowly and gently. Tate seemed to have lost his train of thought, so Logan reminded him.

“That you’d be thinking about what?”

“Oh.” Tate blinked at him. “That I’d be thinking about the future.”

“A future with me?” Logan asked, his mouth curving against Tate’s until he started to chuckle.

“You just want to hear it out loud, right?”

Logan lowered his hands to Tate’s hips. “Damn fucking right.”

“Then yes. I’m thinking about my future and what part you’ll play in it. If you want to, that is.” Tate stepped away from him and held out his hand. “Come on. I have to go home and get ready for work.”

Logan took his hand, and as they walked out of the museum and down to the parking garage, he wondered for the first time what their future as a couple held.

15.

What a difference a few hours could make.

Tate sat on his couch Sunday morning, flicking the lid of his silver lighter. He’d called his mom after Logan had dropped him off yesterday afternoon, and she hadn’t answered.

That wasn’t a good sign. She always answered.

He’d kept expecting a message on his phone all throughout his shift, but again—nothing. He’d only ever had silence from her once before, when he’d told her he was divorcing Diana.

Fuck. He hadn’t slept for shit.

All night, he’d been staring at his ceiling fan, thinking about his date with Logan, not to mention the night before.

The more time he spent with him, the more complex his feelings became. He was slowly peeling away the layers of the cocky man he’d met in the bar, and every time he discovered something new, he found himself getting more and more involved.

Logan, it turned out, was someone he wanted to know on every level. But Tate was afraid that, after today, Logan would run in the opposite direction.

Standing, he began to pace his living room.

He knew that Logan was going to be pissed about what was going to happen, but it was the only thing he could think to do, and he’d already explained what his mother had said about meeting him.

His phone buzzed in his hand, and Tate looked down to see the text he’d been waiting on.

Logan: I’m here. In the parking garage.

Tate stood, grabbed the keys off of the dresser, and text back as he made his way to the front door.

On my way.

He showed...

Tate got into the elevator and tried to pinpoint what he was feeling as the metal doors shut and the elevator began its descent.

Shock.

That was it.

He was shocked that Logan had come, because somewhere in the back of his mind, he’d expected him to bail.

* * *

Logan sat in his car and once again inspected himself in the rearview mirror. He smoothed his fingers over his hair and then pushed his glasses up his face.

Fuck. I feel like a nervous teenager.

Essentially, that’s what he was—some nervous fool going to meet his boyfriend’s parents. It just so happened he was thirty-four and Tate’s parents already hated his fucking guts.

Fantastic.

He was surprised he wasn’t sweating in his V-neck as he sat there waiting on Tate. He’d worried over his outfit way too long last night—even for him—then this morning, he’d changed his mind anyway.

Black pants, black V-neck, and a black sports coat seemed safe enough.

I want to fade into the shadows.

Just as that thought entered his mind, he saw Tate push open the door, step out into the garage, and make his way toward him. If he thought he was showing his nerves, the stranger walking toward him had him beat.

Tate looked like he hadn’t slept for a month.

His curls were all over the place, and the stubble lining his jaw was a couple of days old. While the result was hot, it wasn’t Tate.

As usual, he was in jeans, but instead of the ripped ones, these were dark and in one piece. He had on a white long-sleeved shirt that was creased and looked as if he’d slept in it, and he was holding his leather jacket down by his leg.

In his other hand, he was flicking the lid of a lighter.

Up, down. Up, down.

He walked around the front of the car, opened the passenger’s side door, and got inside. His left leg was bouncing up and down, and if Logan didn’t know better, he would have thought the guy was high. He was a completely different man from the one he’d dropped off yesterday afternoon.

Logan reached over and put his hand on top of Tate’s, causing the metal clinking to cease. The interior of his car now smelled like a combination of tobacco and leather.

“Hey there.”

Tate turned to him, and Logan frowned.

“You’re a mess.”

“Awesome,” Tate replied, his tone surly as he looked away.

Logan removed his hand and placed it on the headrest behind Tate’s head. “Did you eat anything last night?”

Tate eyed him as he buckled his seatbelt. “Yeah, at work.”

“Okay then,” he responded. Then he asked, “Did you speak to your mom?”

Tate faced him, and immediately, he knew the answer—no.

“Do they know we’re coming?”

Again, the silence confirmed the answer—no.

What a goddamn disaster.

Logan looked out the windshield and tried to calm himself, but he knew that, no matter how long he sat there, he was not going to calm down.

“Jesus, Tate! This is hard enough when they know it’s about to happen, but they don’t even expect us? What the fuck?”

“I tried,” Tate stressed. “She didn’t answer.”

Logan gripped the steering wheel. “Fucking great.” He leaned his head back against the car seat and muttered again, “That’s just fucking great.” The air in the car was tense as they both sat there thinking, and then he asked, “Got a cigarette?”

Tate’s head whipped around, and when their eyes met, Logan shrugged.

“I’d prefer a fucking joint, but I’m assuming you don’t have one of those.”

As Tate picked his jacket up off of the floor and fished the pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, Logan opened the car window.

“Here,” Tate said, offering him one.

Logan took it, and when he placed it between his lips, Tate raised his hand and flicked open the lid to the lighter. As the flame lit up the dark interior, Logan inhaled, then sat back and closed his eyes. If ever a time called for a smoke, now was it.