Simply Perfection (The Perfect Love #5)

Prologue

N iall Roberge lay in bed. Breath shallow and heart still racing, the edges of sleep clinging to him like mist. The dream lingered—sharp, illuminating, undeniable.

Peace and excitement coursed through him in equal measure, a strange and beautiful tension that pulsed beneath his skin.

He had seen them at last. The men destined to share his heart.

One was golden and ethereal, lithe as a dancer, hair the color of ripe wheat beneath summer sun, and eyes as blue and boundless as the sky.

The other was solid, grounded—his presence a steady rhythm in the storm of Niall’s spirit.

His eyes held the depth of forest shadows, dark green and ancient, the kind of eyes that listened as well as they saw.

In the space of a single dream, Niall’s longing had taken shape, and the vision burned in his memory with the intensity of truth.

All his life, his grandfather had spoken of this.

A full-blooded Mohegan elder and keeper of tradition, he had watched Niall grow with the calm assurance of someone who had seen many lives unfold.

“In time, the path will reveal itself,” he would say, tapping Niall’s chest with two fingers.

“Three hearts. One fire. It will come, little wolf.”

As a child, Niall had believed with his whole being. He had sat beneath stars, whispering prayers to Manto, the great spirit of his people. He had begged not for riches, nor fame, but for something rarer: connection. Harmony. Love in its truest form—shared, balanced, and fated.

But time, as it does, had tested that faith.

The world beyond childhood was loud and chaotic, and though Niall searched—on shadowed dance floors, in vibrant galleries, across crowded sidewalks—he found only fleeting sparks, not the soul-deep ignition he longed for.

He had begun to doubt. Had his grandfather been wrong? Had Manto turned a blind eye?

Now he knew.

The dream was no illusion. It was a promise.

A message carried on spirit wind, wrapped in symbols and sensation.

First, that his prayer had not gone unanswered.

Manto had heard the small boy’s voice and carried it forward into the man’s future.

And second—perhaps most important of all—the waiting was over.

A chapter had closed. The quiet, yearning years were behind him. Before him, something new stirred: a trail through unknown terrain, lit by intuition and ancestral fire. His soulmates were near.

He smiled to the ceiling, eyes bright in the dark.

Let the adventure begin.

Matt Lincoln sat at the small table inside the bistro, waiting for his date to show up.

He looked at his watch with a frown. Jaime was twenty minutes late.

As Matt took a sip of his water, he thought, not for the first time in the four months they’d been dating, Jaime was frequently late.

There’d been a time or two when Jaime hadn’t even shown up at all, only to call hours later with profuse apologies and promises for it to never happen again.

Each time Jaime swore his work had kept him late and there was nothing he could have done to prevent it, but deep inside Matt knew those were lies.

Jaime worked as a buyer for one of the major department stores in Brookline.

It’s not like there were fashion crises that happened at all hours of the night.

Maybe Matt was being unfair. After four short months, more of it spent texting than actual time spent together, Matt couldn’t have a real understanding of the demands Jaime’s job made on him. Hell, maybe a devilish boss forced Jaime to run out for steak and coffee at the drop of a hat.

Matt looked at his watch again. Twenty-five minutes late. He’d told his patients countless times to value themselves and their needs in a relationship. Maybe he should listen to his own advice…

This is the last time.

His cell phone buzzed on the table and Matt unlocked the screen to find a text message.

Jamie: soz baby. Can’t make it 2NITE somet has cum up.

Matt scoffed and whispered, “Yeah, I’ll bet.”

Jamie: I'll text u L8R. mebe I cn cum by ur place 2NITE.

Matt’s fingers flew over the touchscreen.

Matt: We need 2 tlk. Call me

He dropped the phone onto the table in disgust at the same moment the waiter stepped up to the table.

“Is there a problem, sir?”

The young blond, who’d introduced himself as Tim when Matt first arrived, had a crease in his brow and the pair of sweet brown eyes tightened.

“No, sorry. I just got stood up for dinner and hit up for a booty call in one fell swoop.”

Tim’s eyes widened, and his jaw dropped. “You got stood up?” Matt nodded.

“I can’t believe … well that is … I mean … look at you! I’d give my left nu— arm to date a guy like you.”

Matt’s laughter went no further than between them, but the tension in his body floated away into the open space of the restaurant. “Thank you. I’m flattered but think I’m a bit old for you.” The waiter’s face turned a charming shade of pink.

“Oh, come on, you can’t be that much older than me. Besides, there’s nothing wrong with a little seasoning, in my opinion. Not that I’m trying to hit on you or anything, I’m just saying.”

“I can’t decide if that’s a compliment or an insult.”

Tim looked over his shoulder and whipped back to the table, pad at the ready. “I’m sorry, sir. I’ve let my mouth get away from me. Will you still be dining with us this evening?”

Matt looked over Tim’s shoulder and saw a middle-aged, pencil-thin man with a permanent scowl on his face staring in their direction.

He’d been so eager to try this place after Logan and Clay raved about the food and service.

“You know what … yes. I’ll have the flattened lemon chicken with za?atar and Turkish cheese pancake.

I’d also like a glass of the Boutari Moscofilero. ”

“Excellent choices. Do you wish me to remove the other place setting?”

“Please. Who aspires to be reminded of unpleasantness with a delightful meal in front of them?”

The waiter removed Jaime’s place setting with a little wink, and Matt had to smile. Tim seemed like a good kid, and Matt would leave him an extra large tip for the ego stroke.

When Matt’s wine appeared, he took a sip. The cool spicy flavors and aroma filled his senses. Perfection. Matt nodded his head in appreciation. Despite dining alone, Matt was determined to make the most of the evening, and come tomorrow, he sort out his love life—or lack thereof.

Man, the cold bit outside. Trevor Mitchell shivered as a gusting north wind made its way through a gap in his coat.

He jogged across Dorchester, clutching the warm bag of takeout from his favorite barbeque place.

Because he didn’t want his dinner to get cold and because he hoped to absorb some of the heat leaching from the bag.

Fall, winter, spring, or summer didn’t matter, he easily got chilled.

At work, an efficient air conditioner frequently sent him running for a jacket, which always made Logan laugh.

Logan always told Trevor if he would put a little bulk on his frame, then he’d have some extra insulation.

However, despite Trevor’s life-long efforts, the top of his head never crossed beyond five foot nine, and the scale never tipped over a hundred and fifty.

He’d tried godawful protein shakes that tasted like chalk and working out till his legs collapsed beneath him, but nothing helped.

Now that Trevor was twenty-eight, he'd accepted the fact that Rambo he never would be.

One benefit of his smaller stature was it allowed him to catch the eye of some seriously hot, bigger men, and Trevor did like them big. The bigger the better, in his opinion. Unfortunately, those wonderfully big bodies often came with enlarged egos and attitudes.

A shiver, not from the cold, raced over Trevor’s body when he remembered some of his previous relationships.

Not that he minded a little rough sex occasionally.

However, more than one of them wanted to take the games out of the bedroom and make them real.

Trevor had no intention of being a part of that scene. It wasn’t only with sex either.

His smaller stature might explain why dates often infantilize him, attempting to control his life. It annoyed Trevor when they would demand to know where he was at all times, call constantly to check up on him, or try to tell him what he should eat and wear. He’d been on his own for years!

Logan had been livid when he’d caught sight of bruises around Trevor’s wrist a few times at work. Trevor dismissed it, but his friend, a former Army Ranger, vehemently refuted his attempts at justification.

Trevor stopped and looked over his shoulder when he heard heavy, fast-paced footsteps behind him.

Nothing was visible. Not one person. When he turned, all Trevor saw was darkness.

Despite their valiant effort, the warm glow from the spaced streetlamps did not dispel the harshness of the fall night.

Maybe the weather had driven everyone inside and only Trevor was foolish enough to be out and about.

When walking alone at night from the ‘T’ station, Trevor was always on guard.

He didn't consider the area around his apartment crime-ridden, but he always believed in the motto, 'better safe than sorry'.

Safety played little in Trevor’s decision to sign the lease in Dorchester after getting his first job at the crime lab, though. More like the cheap rent.

He shook off the heebie-jeebie feeling and increased his pace. Fortunately, his place was only another couple of blocks down Greenwich.