“Ahhh, here come the big questions. You do realize that, until only minutes ago, I didn’t even know how old you were.”

Logan heard a knock on his office door as Tate stated, “And you still don’t know my real name.”

Sherry stuck her head around the door, and Logan felt his mouth fall open as Tate’s words penetrated his brain.

“What do you mean I don’t know your real fucking name?”

“Just what I said,” Tate stated matter-of-factly, and Logan could tell he was enjoying himself at his expense. “Well, would you look at the time…I gotta go.”

“Where do you have to go? Don’t you dare hang up on—”

It was too late. Tate—or whoever the hell was on the other end of the phone—had hung up on him, leaving him curious and really fucking confused.

It was definitely time they started talking to one another.

* * *

Tate was still amused hours later when he strolled into work and made his way out the back to punch in. Logan must have called and text him a dozen times, each sounding slightly more annoyed than the time before.

Logan: You think you’re real funny, don’t you?

Logan: So, you don’t go by TATE?

Logan: I don’t sleep with people whose name I don’t know. I’m reformed. Keep that in mind, Morrison.

Logan: Where the fuck are you?

Tate knew the minute Logan could get away from the office he would be down at the bar to interrogate him, and honestly, he was looking forward to it. He’d had too much time to sit and think about the shit storm that happened yesterday, and all he kept coming back to was his sister’s disgusted face.

Logan’s brand of annoyance would be a welcome relief, not to mention he’d developed quite the fantasy revolving around Logan in full lawyer mode.

Forty minutes into his shift at the bar, the door to After Hours opened and Logan stepped inside. As predicted, he appeared irritated, and Tate could spot the frown a mile away. The shrewd blue eyes behind the glasses scanned the tables and chairs then found him standing behind the bar with his coworker, Amelia.

“Oh watch out. He is not happy. What’d you do?” the woman beside him asked tongue-in-cheek.

Tate turned to Amelia with an unrepentant grin. “I don’t know what you mean.”

A smile touched the corner of her lips, but she seemed doubtful. “Sure you don’t. Should I leave? Or do you need the backup?”

Tate glanced back to where Logan was muscling his way through the customers and across the hardwood floor toward them. Then he shook his head. “Nah. I can handle him.”

“I have no doubt about that. I’ll leave you to it, but if you need me, just yell.”

Tate agreed absentmindedly as she moved away, and Logan finally reached him on the opposite side of the mahogany bar. The lighting in After Hours was muted and low, making the surroundings cozy and private, and as Logan stared across at him, the other word that came to mind was…intimate.

“Good evening,” Tate started, but before he got any further, Logan placed his hands on the bar and angled his head.

“Cut the crap, Morrison.”

“Morrison, huh? That’s the second time you’ve called me that today. Have to say, I’m not a fan.”

“Tough shit. That’s what I’m going to call you from now on. Apparently, it’s the only thing about you that I know is real. Did your phone break?”

Tate was having a hard time being serious in the face of Logan’s irritation. “I’m pretty sure you had access to my file at your office. My name was on that. Or did you forget, old man? And no, my phone’s not broken.”

“Then you’re ignoring me?” Logan questioned, his eyes narrowing. “As well as insulting me.”

“Nope. I’m talking to you and stating the facts.” Tate waited several beats and then leaned a little ways across the bar. “What’s bothering you the most? That you didn’t know my age or my name?”

Logan looked him over before he accused, “You’re having fun with this, aren’t you?”

“Maybe a little.”

Taking a seat on one of the barstools, Logan placed his phone on the counter. “Okay then. Fair enough. I didn’t bother to ask many questions, I get it.”

“Well that’s not true. You asked a lot of questions. They usually just revolved around getting me naked and in your bed.”

Logan raised an agitated hand and ran his fingers through his jet-black hair, shaking his head in disbelief or disgust—Tate couldn’t tell which. He’d wanted to play, not upset him, so Tate reached across the bar and placed his hand over Logan’s.

“Hey, I’m just having some fun with you.”

Just like that, the tables turned as a sensual smile split Logan’s lips and he tugged Tate forward across the bar, promising quietly, “Oh, I know when I’m being fucked with. But by the end of tonight, you will tell me your full name.”

Tate knew right then that Logan wasn’t angry. He was challenged and annoyed that he couldn’t remember, and Tate had no doubt that he would cave and tell Logan anything he wanted by the end of the night.

“Well, I like your confidence, but I have to tell you, I’m not going down without a fight.”

As his own words echoed through his head and Logan’s brow rose, Tate was hit with the full impact of what he’d said.

“A fight can be arranged if that’s all that’s needed.”

Laughing now, Tate pulled away and asked pointedly, “Do you want a drink? If not, can you please leave? I have work and you are distracting.”

“If I leave, will you come to me after?”

Tate wondered if the word yes had ever been easier for him to say, and as Logan waited for his response, he knew the answer to that particular question was never. He nodded and began to walk away, but at the last moment, he turned back to see he was still being watched from behind those sexy-as-hell glasses and simply said, “Yes.”

2.

Several hours later, a knocking on Logan’s front door woke him. Opening his eyes, he watched the infomercial for hair implants. He reached up and ran a hand through his own thick hair, which immediately made him think of—knock, knock, knock—Tate’s curls.

With a yawn and a stretch of his arms, he removed his feet from the glass coffee table and made his way through the living room and down the hall to the front door. As he unlocked and pulled it open, he saw Tate standing on the other side with his hand raised as if he were about to knock again.

Wearing only his glasses and grey sweatpants, Logan held the door ajar and scratched his naked chest. His cock twitched at the way Tate’s eyes tracked down over him, but before he took up the invitation in them, he wanted something.

“Can I help you?” he asked, as if greeting a stranger.

With his red motorcycle helmet in one hand and his leather jacket unzipped over his After Hours uniform, Tate was fucking hot. His mouth curved but he didn’t step forward. He leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb and continued to silently check him out.

Logan could feel the blood racing to his hard-on under the heat of Tate’s stare, but instead of doing what he wanted and reaching out to touch, he waited. It felt like minutes, not seconds, before Tate finally spoke.

“I don’t know. It seems maybe I could help you out.”

Logan shrugged nonchalantly and shook his head. “That may be, but you see, I don’t take that kind of help from strangers. Not anymore.”

“We’re hardly strangers. But then, you might have forgotten all the dirty details at your age.”

Asshole.

“I remember all the details, thank you very much. But I think you may have left something important out while you were busy being dirty.”

Tate’s tongue swiped his lip as he leaned forward and informed him confidently, “Pretty sure I left nothing out of you whenever we’ve been together.”