8. Bryce
EIGHT
brYCE
My body struggles to get comfortable on the couch. There’s only so much space on a sofa that’s barely larger than a loveseat for someone my size. Suddenly awake, my eyes snap open to an empty living room. I glance at the vacant back cushions on the floor and my stomach drops. Where’s Bobo?
My heart pounds, momentarily frightened.
Where is he? He’s not at his food bowl awaiting breakfast. Nor at the water bowl attempting to assuage his stomach while he waits for his meal.
I throw the sheet off me and swing my feet to the floor.
I quickly scan the entire room. The bedroom door is cracked—that bugger.
Padding across the room in my socks, I nudge the creaking door open with my shoulder. In the dim light of the sun filtering through the drawn shades, I see it. Them.
Emerson, sprawled on his side of the bed, looking oddly peaceful for once, his hand loosely wrapped around Bobo—who’s not only sound asleep but snoring, his back curled up against Emerson’s naked chest. Holy shit.
A dull burning in my chest surprises me. But then Emerson pulls my baby boy toward him, and Bobo emits the cutest little grunting noise. The flame softens to a gentle warmth that spreads throughout my torso. They’re so damn sweet together.
Emerson, who seems to always be a bit too tense, is completely still—with the weight of Bobo’s enormous body against him.
There’s a vulnerability, a calmness I’ve not yet seen.
And Bobo … well, Bobo has a way of bringing out the inner softie in almost anyone.
A yearning stirs inside. For a fleeting moment, I wonder what it might be like to join their dog pile. On the other side of Bobo, of course.
My eyes blink, and fuck, I’m staring at a half-naked Emerson.
Sure, my dog is there too, but my eyes linger on the man.
That chest. Even beneath a button-down shirt and blazer, I could sense it was something spectacular, but now, in the flesh, dusted with just the right amount of hair, my fingers twitch as my eyes focus on each detail.
I shake my head, shooing impure thoughts away. This is all Portia’s fault. Why’d she have to go and plant the idea of making nice with Emerson in my head?
Oblivious to the creeper watching him in his sleep, Emerson smacks his lips, and Bobo pops his head up. When he moves back to sniff Emerson’s face, he spots me, and upon seeing his daddy, his tail immediately thumps against … Emerson’s leg.
His eyes flutter open just as Bobo scrambles to his feet, the mattress caving under him as he bounds over to me.
“Morning,” Emerson mumbles groggily, his voice rough from sleep.
A smirk skates across my face, trying to mask the odd flutter in my chest. “Uh, morning. Didn’t mean to interrupt your snuggle-fest.”
Emerson wipes his eyes and sits up, and I get another opportunity to take in his bare torso, no longer blanketed by Bobo’s fur coat.
Besides the hair that my hands seem to have a magnetic attraction to, I now see just how firm his pecs are.
He’s a big boy but in a “working on a farm so much has made my body look like I’ve been working out all the time” way.
I’d need to open both hands wide and do my best baseball mitt impression to hold both of his pecs securely.
And I’ve just made a sports reference. Surely, this is the first sign of the Apocalypse.
His lips curl into a lazy half-smile. “Was he on the bed? Guess I was so tired I didn’t realize.”
“Seems you’ve been adopted.”
Bobo throws his head back, tongue hanging out. I’m pretty sure it’s because he feels bad about abandoning me in the night and not because he was just thrust up against Emerson’s beefy farm-boy chest.
“Was he in here all night?” he asks, now looking at me, and I make sure to keep my eyes above his neck.
“I’m not sure.” To keep my fingers busy, I reach down and scratch Bobo’s head. “I went to sleep with him on the floor and woke up to him … with you.”
“Oh. Sorry. I mean, I guess he’s my roommate now, too.” He sits up, running his fingers through his messy hair and showcasing his flexed bicep and delicious armpit.
“No, it’s fine. As long as you don’t mind. Anthony didn’t like him on the bed. Can you imagine not letting this guy snuggle with you? Right, my bestest boy?”
Bobo knocks his skull against my thigh in agreement. Or to remind me he’s overdue for breakfast.
Emerson throws the covers off his lower half, revealing navy sweats, and my eyes zero right in on what must be morning wood. Hello, Dolly!
He adjusts himself, and I can’t tell if my eyes are playing tricks, but it appears to have simmered down as he secures his glasses and hearing aid, and stands.
Bobo heads to the kitchen. Emerson gives a big stretch, using both arms. I know he’s not trying to put on a show for me, but between his perfect pecs, pits, and stomach—just round enough for both hands to get lost on—yeah, we might need to discuss sleeping attire.
“So, I guess we need to talk about the house rules,” he says.
“Huh?” The word fumbles out of me, and shit, is my mouth hanging open?
“Rules. If you’re staying, we need to have some boundaries. Understandings.”
A sudden lightness washes over me. Staying. At least for now. “Yeah, of course. Absolutely. First, no dog on the bed. Your bed. I’ll keep him out with me. We can shut your door when we go to sleep. That will help.”
“Bryce.” Still shirtless, he takes a step toward me. “I’m not your ex. And Bobo’s a dog. He just wants to be comfortable.”
Emerson lifts the shade, the sunlight pouring in, giving me an even better view of his physique.
He’s muscular but not too bulky—and those shoulders—broad like a tank.
In the light, I can see his thighs stretching the fabric of his sweats.
If I met him in a bar, I’d ask what his momma fed him to make him so thick.
Damn you, Portia, for pouring naughty ideas into my head.
“Yeah, sure, um, comfortable. Dog. Bobo. Bed.”
My brain seems to have short-circuited.
“But yeah, probably not a good idea for him to get used to bunking with me.”
“Exactly, um, could you … uh, put a shirt on?” I ask, turning toward the kitchen. “Please.”
Bobo sits next to his vacant bowl, gazing at it as if food might magically appear if he stares long enough.
“Hungry, boy?” Emerson asks.
YES , I say to myself before realizing he’s talking to Bobo.
I take the bag of food from the lower cabinet and fill his bowl to the brim, as relief pours over my entire body.
Sure, the couch isn’t ideal. Yeah, this apartment isn’t meant for a co-living situation like this, but one of my coworkers at the Met shares a tiny studio with another guy.
Two twin beds stacked on top of each other, a tiny chair and table, and they make it work. This will be a breeze.
Emerson emerges from the bedroom, tugging a Hoosiers T-shirt over his torso.
“Better?” he asks.
“What?”
He points to the word Hoosiers sprawled over an orange ball on his shirt.
“Emerson, I don’t do sports.”
A small laugh escapes his lips. “No, the shirt. I put one on.”
“Yeah, much better. I think Rule Number One should be—fully clothed in front of each other at all times.”
“To be fair, you entered the bedroom while I was sleeping. I can’t sleep with a shirt on. Too confining. And I thrash in my sleep. I’d get all tangled.”
I dip my head, peering over the imaginary glasses I really should buy, if only for moments like this.
“Fully clothed in front of each other.” He gives a firm nod, pushing his very real glasses up. “Got it.”
“Rule Number Two,” I say, but Emerson interrupts me.
“Maybe try to not let him live on the bed.”
“I’ll work on keeping him on the cushions next to the sofa. Right, Bobo?”
He’s too busy inhaling his kibble to pay attention to the two grown men negotiating their forced living situation.
“He’ll be fine out here with me,” I say. “Right, boy? No more spooning with the hot professor.”
“Pardon?” Emerson takes a bowl from the cupboard.
He reaches up and adjusts his hearing aid, a sharp noise zipping through the room. When it’s quiet, he looks at me. Waiting .
“Spooning. Spoons. Right here.” I pull open the drawer, revealing the few silverware items.
“Rule Number Three,” Emerson says.
“Wait, who said you get to make all the rules?”
“My name’s on the sublet. I’m paying the rent. I get to make the rules.”
I nod, unable to argue with his point. “Rule Number Three?”
“We share the food. I’m not overly picky, but I prefer organic produce.
Peanut butter. Honestly, everything should be organic or at least natural.
I grew up on a farm, and the pesticides in most of our food would shock you.
We shouldn’t be ingesting that nonsense.
So if you buy things, I’d appreciate keeping that in mind. ”
“Oh, I don’t cook.” I tap the display case over the stove, and Megatron shakes his little gun at Emerson.
“And that’s another thing. I enjoy cooking, so please move your … toys.” He picks up Bumblebee, in his original yellow VW Beetle form, and places him on the counter. “Thanks.”
I take a deep breath and use the bottom of my shirt to collect them all.
“Sure, I can just put them …” I carefully release them onto the small coffee table. “Here.”
I let out an enormous sigh. I might have been dumped by letter. My apartment may have been rented out from under me. Bobo may have left me last night to spoon with the hot nerdy professor who uprooted my life. But at least we have a roof over our heads. For now.
“And thank you again. For letting us stay. I’m going to buy some groceries.
For us. Natural. Organic. No nasty chemicals.
Maybe I’ll buy some kale. Not exactly sure what it is, but I hear it’s healthy.
I’m picking up an extra shift at the Met.
Gotta make some extra cash if I ever want to get out of your hair. ”
This grabs Emerson’s attention. “The Met? You work at the Metropolitan Opera?”
“Yeah, it’s not as impressive as it sounds. I sell subscriptions and ask for donations. Basically, I sit in a giant room in the basement and beg rich people for money. No glitz, no performers. It’s like … the opposite of what you probably imagine.”
“Huh. That’s … interesting. I mean, still, it’s the Met. You’re there.”
His tone suggests that he’s piecing something together in his mind. I’m not sure what it means, but I’ll file that curiosity away. It might come in handy later.
“In the dungeon. Yeah.” I shrug. “Anyway, Rule Four: I’ll keep Bobo out of your hair. He’s my responsibility. You have enough on your plate with a new job and us squatting in your apartment.”
I shake my shoulders and present my best smile. The one Portia says could melt the polar ice caps.
Emerson glances at Bobo, who’s now lying between us on the floor, sprawled out ready for an after-breakfast nap.
“Anyway, thanks again for being so understanding about …” I motion to Bobo. The apartment. All of it. “I appreciate it.” I flash my winning grin, feeling a rush of relief. “You’re a lifesaver, Em. Seriously.”
“Yeah, sure. I’m not about to kick you out on the street.”
“You okay if I get in the bathroom first?” I ask.
Emerson nods, shoveling his breakfast into his mouth.
“Amazing. I’ll be quick.” I shoot him a wink, and he nods, swallowing and pointing at his breakfast. “Gotta finish up.”
He pats his stomach and scoops up another spoonful of cereal and flashes me a huge grin. I chuckle, even though I’m pretty sure he’s not trying to be funny, but with that big, full-mouthed grin on his face, I can’t deny how ridiculously cute he is. I can’t help but smile back.