“You don’t like lobster?”

“Nope,” he replied, walking farther down the display to the shrimp and fish.

“Who doesn’t like lobster?” Logan asked and moved beside him.

“Me,” Tate reconfirmed, bumping their shoulders. “It just never appealed to me. I don’t see what all the fuss is about.”

“But what about when it’s soaked in all that juicy butter?”

“Still…no.” Tate shrugged with a smirk.

“You’re a strange, strange man, Tate Morrison.”

Tate pointed inside the case. “I do like oysters.”

“Did you know it was reported that Casanova used to breakfast on fifty raw oysters every morning?”

Tate turned to him and Logan could see the wheels spinning when he finally said, “I’m thinking you’re just fine eating your toast and coffee.”

Logan grabbed Tate’s shirt, pulling him closer. “So you don’t think I need to up my oyster intake?”

“No,” Tate murmured. “I think you’re potent enough.”

Logan stroked his fingers over the small bruise on Tate’s neck. “Good, because I have to say, I’m not really a fan. Especially when there are other, more appetizing things to eat instead.”

Tate stepped away and pointed at him accusingly. “I thought we were shopping.”

“We are. Okay, since we can’t decide on seafood, how about steak? I can grill and we could have a salad and potatoes.”

Tate agreed and then started walking towards the rows of wine, calling out, “And how about a nice bottle of red?”

Oh yeah. Wine worked for him.

If they were going to have the talk he wanted, wine was definitely required.

“Make it two.”

* * *

When they returned home, they unloaded the groceries, filling the fridge.

Tate was seated on one of the two stools at the kitchen island watching Logan as he moved around in front of him. He’d been given a beer and told to sit his ass down, so that’s what he’d done.

Logan was currently getting the ingredients together to marinate their steaks, and as he bent down to look in a cupboard for a bowl, Tate was happy to inspect the way his khaki shorts stretched over his ass.

“I think this is the first time you’ve cooked for me. Should I be worried?”

Logan glanced up at him from where he was squatting and nodded. “Very.”

Tate chuckled and lifted the beer to his lips as Logan went back to fumbling his way through the pots and pans.

“Ah! Found it.”

He stood up and raised the bowl, triumphant, and Tate smiled.

“What?”

“You’re kind of cute when you’re being domestic. Who knew?”

The pan clanged down onto the counter and Logan placed his hands on the edge of the granite. “Did you just call me cute?”

Tongue-in-cheek, Tate replied, “Maybe. Is that a problem?”

“Yes, that’s a problem,” Logan informed him before he stalked around the counter.

Tate watched the way his fingers trailed over the surface. Then he raised his eyes and swiveled on the stool so Logan could step in between his legs.

“Puppies are cute. Babies are cute…” Logan took his hand off the counter to run his fingers over the top of Tate’s thigh and informed him, “I am not cute.”

Tate acted as if the fingers on his leg weren’t affecting him, but when they brushed over the bulge in his jeans, he knew that Logan knew better.

“Do you usually have this kind of reaction to puppies, Tate?”

Tate casually raised the beer from the counter and took a long sip. It was mind-blowing he had that kind of reaction to anything.

“Nope. But now that you mention it, you do have some similar qualities. Puppies also try to hide behind a loud bark.”

Logan’s eyes moved to the bruise on his neck and then back to his. “Are you saying my bark is much worse than my bite?”

Tate’s cock throbbed at the reminder.

“Mhmm.”

“I think you like it when I bite,” Logan guessed with unerring accuracy. Then he ran the tips of his fingers over the purplish mark on his neck. “Maybe you’d like another.”

Yes please, he thought as Logan stared down at him with a look that had Tate reaching for him. He slipped his hands under the hunter-green shirt Logan was wearing and traced his fingers along the top of his shorts.

“You aren’t always cute.”

“No?”

Tate shook his head and slid off the stool, coming to his feet. He looked Logan in the eye and admitted, “No. Most of the time you’re incredibly intimidating.”

He could tell his words blindsided Logan because he stopped what he was doing and took a step back. Before he was out of reach though, Tate hooked his finger into his shorts and drew him back.

“Where you going?”

“Tate…” he muttered softly.

Tate ran his hand up to Logan’s neck and cupped the back of it, bringing his face close enough that their noses touched. “Yes?”

“I…”

Now this is a first. Logan’s at a loss for words.

Tate ran his fingers through Logan’s hair and kissed the corner of his mouth. “What? Tell me.”

Logan’s arms encircled his waist and pulled him in until he had both arms banded around him. Tate wrapped his arms around Logan’s neck and held on.

How is this the first time we’ve shared a simple hug?

But there was nothing simple about it.

He nuzzled his face into Logan’s neck and pressed his lips there in a soft kiss, and Logan’s arms tightened.

“I don’t ever want to intimidate you. Not ever.”

The way Logan said it, and the way he gripped him as though he were an anchor, led Tate to believe that there was much more being said here—more than the two of them in the room.

He pulled away slightly and studied the serious expression now reflected on Logan’s face.

“Hey. I didn’t mean it the way it sounded.”

“It’s fine,” Logan said as he rubbed a hand over his face. He stepped away and made a move to walk back into the kitchen, but Tate grabbed his arm.

“It’s not fine.” He stubbornly faced off with Logan, and then dropped his arm. “I just want to understand.”

He heard Logan sigh and then say, “You will. Just let me finish this so we can eat tonight, okay?”

Tate nodded, but could tell Logan was shaken.

He wanted to know what was going on there. He rarely saw Logan rattled, but as he picked up the pan and turned his back on him, Tate knew that, in his own way, Logan was hiding.

Tate understood that feeling, so he would give him what he needed and be there when he was ready, just as he had been for him.

21.

Logan heard the door behind him shut and let out a sigh of relief.

Tate had given him some room, a second to breathe on his own, and in that moment, he couldn’t have loved him more.

Yes, I love him. Recklessly and without caution.

He was all in, and he wanted Tate more than his next breath.

He reached for the salt and, seeing the way his hand shook, clenched his fist. There was no way he was going to let that asshole fuck this up for him all these years later. Not with Tate.

He finished up the steaks, placed them back in the fridge to soak, and suddenly felt the need to shower. He’d taken one earlier this morning, but now he just felt dirty.

Thinking about his past did that to him, and he wondered if Tate would want him after everything he had to say. He hoped so, because he honestly couldn’t imagine his life without him.

Walking down to his bedroom, he removed his shirt and shorts and then wandered into the large bathroom to step in the shower. Turning on the spray, he sighed as the warm water hit him and he stuck his head under.

Yes. This is what I need.

If he could cleanse his mind, maybe he could then try and unburden his soul. Shifting so his back was under the faucet, he ran his hands up into his hair and closed his eyes.

He wanted to talk to Tate about this past week. Ask if he’d tried to get in touch with his parents, but instead, he was standing in the shower, shaking like a lost fucking cause.