Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
JEREMY
Ispeed walk down the street, my messenger bag slung over my shoulder, a coffee in one hand and a bagel in the other, and come to a halt when I reach the pub’s back door. I stuff the bagel into my mouth to punch in the passcode and then push open the door with my hip.
I practically run down the hallway, past a closed door that I’ve learned is for extra storage, into the dining room, and almost collide with Marcus, who’s just rounding the bar, his phone pressed to his ear.
He stops short, staring at me, his eyes wide in obvious surprise, and I flush because I’m still holding the bagel in my mouth like a dog with a bone. He gives me an amused smirk.
Perfect.
Work has been really weird since the parking lot incident last week, and it’s probably my fault. Being around Marcus all the time is much harder than I thought it would be. I move to one of the nearby tables and drop my bag so I can put down my breakfast and set up my laptop.
Marcus continues his phone conversation, pacing in front of the window.
Out on the balcony, which will eventually showcase outdoor seating, a seagull squawks from the railing.
“No, I’m good. Please don’t do that, Dad.
We can have dinner tomorrow and talk about it.
” He pauses, listening to the response, and then presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose.
“Fine. Thank you.” Another pause. “Yes, I’ll bring the numbers.
See you tomorrow.” Marcus punches the red End button aggressively before glancing up at me.
“Sorry, investors. Gotta keep ’em happy, you know? ”
I raise an eyebrow. “Martin Conner is one of your investors?”
Marcus’s eyes shoot to mine, and I think I see a moment of panic. “He is. Against my better judgment.”
“Well, it makes sense. The guy owns a property investment company. Do you not get along with your father?”
“It’s complicated.”
There’s definitely something emotional behind his words.
Marcus walks over to the table and sits down next to me, his knee brushing mine before he moves away quickly.
I look at him sideways. He won’t meet my eyes.
Instead, he drags a folder across the table, opens it, and studies the contents with great interest.
He’s been “accidentally” touching me like this all week, and it’s a fascinating—and somewhat offensive—thing to watch.
His brain clearly has rules and boundaries that his body refuses to follow.
To be honest, if we didn’t have this obvious underlying attraction to each other, I would think the little touches and looks were innocent, but because of our history and Marcus’s physical reactions to every little thing, they just charge the air between us like a fucking lightning storm.
And as much as Marcus’s actions piss me off, I remember what it was like when I wasn’t out.
I was a kid, of course, and the target of childhood bullies.
But even some of the adults in my life—people I should have been able to trust, like teachers and relatives—were obvious homophobes, and it made the thought of telling anyone terrifying.
I don’t know what Marcus is so afraid of, but whatever it is, seeing him get so worked up over seemingly innocent gestures tugs at my heartstrings.
What would I have done without supportive queer friends? Would I have come out as early as I had? Would I have come out at all?
These are the thoughts that have kept me up at night—besides Marcus’s tree trunk thighs and huge dick, of course.
I clear my throat. “Did you think more about what I said? About a vision board? I know you’d like it to be relatively cohesive to the vibe established in Vancouver.”
Marcus nods hesitantly, clearly out of his element. “I made an old-school list, after I got mad at Pinterest.”
“You got mad at Pinterest?”
“It just . . . wasn’t giving me the search results I wanted.
” He flushes, like he’s embarrassed. “So then I called Sebastian, and he only cares about how the kitchen is designed, so I guess he’s sending you a very specific list next week.
” He sighs, staring forlornly at the papers in front of him.
“And then I called Norah, but she didn’t answer, so then I wrote this list, and it feels—I dunno.
I’m good at logistics and numbers. Fuck, isn’t this why I’m paying you? ”
“Whoa, hey, it’s fine.” I place a tentative hand on his forearm to stop him from spiraling. “Relax, big guy, and show me your list.”
Surprisingly, he doesn’t immediately react to my touch, but I still slide my hand back to the table, tapping my pink nails against the wood.
Marcus leans close, his spicy scent filling my nostrils, as he pulls out a white piece of paper. “I did get Sebastian to email me a few items from the notes that Norah took when she helped us in Vancouver. I forwarded that to you.”
I look over his list, squinting. His handwriting is terrible. “Is this a list of what you do like or don’t like?”
He gives me an annoyed glare. Fuck, riling him up is addictive.
“I just . . . don’t want it to feel fake,” he says finally.
“Tell me more, boss.”
He swallows, his throat moving in a very distracting way.
“Remember what we talked about at our first meeting? When you said you wanted this to feel like the place people want to go after work? It was like you read my mind.” He pauses and looks out at the bay.
“Especially in the fall and winter around here, you know? Everything is so damp and gray, and it gets dark at, like, four. I just want—”
His whisky eyes find mine, and for a second, they drop to my lips. I feel something click between us. I nod encouragingly, trying to ignore the longing in his eyes that has my dick hardening. “You just want . . .”
“I-I just want a place where anyone is welcome. Where they feel safe. When the city outside is depressing and cold, I want this to be their warm, cozy space.”
I study him like I can peel away his layers with my eyes. The passion in his voice makes me feel like he’s talking about more than a pub.
“What?” he asks, his cheeks flushing beneath the scruff of his beard.
I shake my head, trying to dismiss the feeling. “Nothing, it’s just . . . for someone who started this place for his brother and wants to leave the business world behind, you seem very invested. It’s . . . surprising.”
Marcus chuckles, the sound deep and raspy, and my stomach does a weird flip. “What? You thought I was just a shallow businessman?”
I shrug. “A little.” He raises an eyebrow. “Okay. A lot.” I give him a coy smile. “But since we’re talking about stereotypes, you thought I was just a ditzy, dramatic—”
“Twink,” he finishes for me. “I looked it up.”
“I was going to say brat.” Then I realize what he said, and I laugh. “You googled twink? Why?”
He looks uncomfortable. “I don’t like . . .” He pauses as if considering his response. “I like to feel in control, so if I don’t understand something, I learn about it.”
“What? You like to be in charge?” He gives me a dark look, and I wink. “So maybe you’re not totally shallow, but did you change your mind about me?”
Fuck, I’m flirting.
“Nope.” He pops the p in a snarky way that raises my hackles. “You are a dramatic brat. You’re wrong about one thing, though.”
I prop my chin on my hand and narrow my eyes. “And what’s that?”
“I never thought you were ditzy. You’re smart, Jeremy. I don’t hire people who aren’t good at what they do.”
My face warms with the compliment, and I see Marcus’s eyes bounce between my cheeks, which are probably very red. The weird, prickly tension between us suddenly feels even more fraught, and I lean back, trying to get some air.
“So, circling back to the pub.”
After work, I meet Marion at a bar, determined to talk to someone about Marcus.
I feel like I’m finally connecting with the grumpy asshole, which only makes him even more infuriatingly attractive, and I don’t really know what to do about it, if anything.
I’ve honestly never been so horny in my life.
“I’ve never been so horny in my life,” I moan, dropping my face to my hands.
Marion takes a sip of her drink and gives me a sympathetic look.
“I literally had to hide a boner all day. Again. And it got so painful today that I finally had to jack off in the bathroom.” I peek up at her. “It was mortifying.”
Marion laughs, throwing a ringed hand over her mouth to keep from spraying liquor across the table.
I look at her deadpan. “You think this is funny?”
She swallows and gives me a wide grin. “I do.” I stare moodily at my now-empty wine glass, and Marion sighs. “J, I’ve never seen you like this with anyone.”
“Right? It’s messing with my winning personality.”
“You might need an intervention.” She places her hand over mine and gives it a gentle squeeze. “If you can’t fuck him out of your system, maybe you should let this job go.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You honestly think I should be fucking around with my client?”
She shrugs. “I don’t see the problem. He’s older. He’s exactly your type—”
“My type?” I scoff. “You don’t know my type. You only think you do.” Despite Marion being my best friend, I don’t talk about my personal conquests often. This is new territory for me.
“Actually, I do. The minute you swooned over Hugh Jackman as Wolverine, you gave yourself away.”
“Hugh Jackman? I-I-I mean . . .” Marion gives me a knowing smirk, and I cross my arms and look the other way so that I’ll stop sputtering like an idiot. “Whatever. I’m just jealous that Hugh’s actually got body hair, and he’s growly when he talks.”
Marion shakes her head. “No, you want to fuck him because he has body hair and growls.”
I drop my arms and glare at her. She’s still smiling. Asshole. “And Marcus is almost thirty. He’s not that much older than me. A real age gap is like ten years. I’m twenty-six for fuck’s sake.”
“Jeremy,” she says, leaning across the table. “Fuck. Him. What’s the worst thing that could happen?”