Chapter Ten #17
Garrett stood there in a fitted T-shirt and joggers. His hair slightly mussed, but still perfect. Leaning one shoulder against the frame, he gave Flynn a smile built to get away with things.
“Morning.”
Flynn stared at him. “That remains to be seen.”
Garrett’s mouth twitched. “You look cute when you’re grumpy.”
“That’s because I’m tiny and sleep-deprived. Everything looks cuter in miniature.” Flynn braced a hand on the doorframe. “Why are you knocking at my door at ass o’clock?”
A gust of outside air brushed over Flynn’s bare legs. It smelled like wet concrete and somebody’s cigarette from down below. He wished, deeply and sincerely, to be horizontal again.
Garrett rubbed the back of his neck. “Need to borrow your hammer.”
Flynn just looked at him.
Then he looked harder.
Gorgeous neighbor. Chronic mooch. The apartment building’s answer to a raccoon with excellent bone structure.
“You already borrowed my hammer,” Flynn reminded him.
Garrett blinked, as if this fact hadn’t occurred to him. “Did I?”
“Yes.” Flynn shifted his weight and crossed one ankle over the other. “Three weeks ago.”
A pause passed. Somewhere outside, a car door slammed.
Garrett gave a sheepish half-smile and mumbled, “I don’t know where I put it.”
“Probably with my nails and picture wire.”
Garrett huffed a laugh, clearly trying to smooth things over. Flynn wasn’t smiling.
“I swear I don’t have your hammer,” Garrett said, lifting both hands a little. “If I had it, I’d bring it back.”
“Garrett, you have half my apartment.”
“That’s dramatic.”
“It’s inventory.” Flynn started counting on his fingers. “My hammer. My good screwdriver set. A tape measure. Two extension cords. My level. The pruners.”
Garrett frowned. “The pruners were yours?”
Flynn deadpanned at him. “My plants died.”
For a second, Garrett glanced off toward the stairwell with the look of a man trying to remember the location of several stolen goods while still passing as charming. Then he looked back and smiled again, warmer this time, more focused.
Flynn’s annoyance held. Garrett’s charm wasn’t working. Bugging Flynn at six in the morning was a deal breaker.
“No more borrowing,” he said.
Garrett’s brows lifted. “Come on.”
“No.” The word came out firm and steady. Flynn tightened his grip on the door edge, ready to slam it shut.
“Seriously. I mean it. You can’t keep borrowing my stuff and then forgetting where it went. At this point, if I ever need to build a shelf, I’ll have to come do it at your place because all my tools are apparently living there now.”
Garrett tipped his head and gave Flynn a look that no longer work on him. “You’re being harsh.”
“I’m being awake against my will.” Flynn glanced over his shoulder toward the dark hallway and wanted to groan. Bed was ten steps away. “And I’m not being harsh. I’m setting a boundary like a person who recently found self-worth under a pile of receipts.”
Garrett smiled wider instead of backing off. “A sexy boundary.”
Flynn squinted at him. “That phrase isn’t cute.”
With a little exhale through his nose, Garrett let his gaze drift over Flynn, making him want to cover his body. His stare snagged on Flynn’s throat. Then one corner of his mouth lifted.
“Well,” Garrett said. “Looks like somebody had a busy night.”
Flynn went still. “The fuck?”
Heat climbed straight up his face. The love bite Zavier had given him felt suddenly huge. Branded. Neon. A roadside attraction for nosy neighbors.
He straightened. “That’s none of your business.”
Garrett lifted a shoulder. “Just noticing.”
“Go notice your apartment.” Flynn kept his voice even, though he was grinding his teeth.
A beat passed. Garrett’s expression shifted just enough to say he knew he’d pushed and did not care.
Then warmth moved at Flynn’s back.
He didn’t hear Zavier so much as felt him, a quiet heat entering the space behind him. Flynn glanced over his shoulder and nearly forgot every syllable he’d ever learned.
Zavier stood there barefoot and broad-shouldered in nothing but black boxers, hair tousled from sleep, jaw rough with morning shadow. The marks Flynn had put there sat along his throat and collarbone, dark and obvious in the weak kitchen light.
Lord, give me strength. Or water. Something.
Zavier rested one hand lightly at Flynn’s hip, the contact grounding and distracting at the same time. His body was still warm from bed. Flynn could feel it through every inch of space he wasn’t touching.
“What’s the problem?” Zavier asked.
The question came out a little too calm. Flynn was suddenly aware of the hallway, of Garrett in front of him, of Zavier behind him, of himself trapped in the middle wearing sleep shorts and a thin T-shirt and an expression that probably screamed I used to make poor choices based on cheekbones.
Garrett looked at Zavier.
For one heartbeat, his expression changed. His eyes narrowed just a little, quick enough that someone less nosy might have missed it.
Flynn did not miss it.
Then Garrett smiled again, easy and bright as ever, making Flynn’s skin prickled.
He cleared his throat and kept his gaze on Garrett, though every cell in his body remained tuned to the man at his back. “Garrett wants to borrow my hammer.”
Behind him, Zavier’s hand stayed at his hip.
“Borrow again, apparently.” Garrett gave a short laugh.
“Apparently,” Flynn said dryly.
A silence followed, long enough to feel it. Flynn could hear the coffee pot clicking behind him, the apartment settling, a distant door opening somewhere down the hall. Garrett rocked back on his heels.
“I was just asking,” he said. “Didn’t mean to start a household summit.”
At his back, Zavier shifted closer. Not much, but enough that Flynn felt the line of him along his shoulder and side.
Garrett’s gaze lowered to where Zavier’s hand rested then flicked away.
“Right,” he said. “Got it.”
Flynn nodded once. “Good.”
For a moment, Garrett said nothing. His eyes flicked over Flynn’s face, then lower, then past him toward the apartment. He looked almost thoughtful. Flynn didn’t like that look.
Then Garrett smiled again, all easy charm. “I’ll find your hammer.”
“Please do,” Flynn said.
Garrett gave one small nod. “And the nails. And the screwdriver set.”
Flynn held his gaze. “Great.”
“The umbrella too.”
Flynn narrowed my eyes. “The pruners, Garrett.”
He held up a hand like a solemn oath. “The pruners.”
“Bye, Garrett,” Flynn said.
That finally made him step back. “See you around, Flynn.”
The way he said it shouldn’t have sounded loaded. Maybe Flynn was overthinking. Maybe Garrett was just Garrett, all smooth edges and opportunistic borrowing. Still, that one blink of narrowed eyes sat wrong in Flynn’s stomach.
Without answering, he shut the door.
The latch clicked.
Silence filled the apartment at once. The kitchen smelled like coffee and the faint lingering sweetness of syrup from last night’s postcoital snack. Flynn kept a hand on the knob for a second, forehead almost touching the wood, and let himself sag.
Behind him, Zavier’s palm spread over his stomach.
“You okay?” he asked.
Flynn turned in the loose circle of his arm and looked up. Morning light from the window caught on Zavier’s bare skin, skimming over muscle and dark hair and the sleepy set of his mouth. Flynn’s thoughts immediately took a hard left into a wall.
What a useless time to be horny. Then again, if there were useful times, he’d never met them.
“He’s such a mooch,” Flynn muttered. “A deeply annoying mooch.”
Zavier’s mouth curved. “He was.”
Flynn let out a dry little laugh and reached for the coffeepot.
In the kitchen, he grabbed two mugs from the cabinet while Zavier moved in behind him, close enough that heat pressed along Flynn’s back again. He poured carefully, mostly because being hemmed in by a nearly naked man first thing in the morning made motor skills optional.
Steam rose between them. The mug warmed his fingers.
“He made a comment,” Flynn said, quieter now.
Zavier took the mug from his hand. “I heard.”
Flynn leaned his hip against the counter and took a careful sip. The coffee was hot and bitter. “I handled it.”
“You did.”
The simple agreement settled something in him. He padded toward the kitchen, cold tile under his feet. The rich smell of coffee had deepened. Flynn filled two mugs, turned, and headed back to bed.
Chapter Ten
Flynn was dragging ass as he entered the bookstore, Zavier right behind him.
He hadn’t been able to go to sleep, no matter how hard he’d tried.
Zavier’s offer to help involved lube, a stepstool, and Flynn’s hands against the wall.
He’d loved every second, shouting like an unhinged idiot.
Twice Zavier had to cover Flynn’s mouth.
Sex hadn’t help him fall back to sleep, but it most likely woken up everyone in the building. Maybe even the next block over.
“Gonna make it, kitten?” Zavier wore the goofiest grin, like wrecking Flynn was a proud achievement.
“If I don’t, just place a wet floor sign over me and let me sleep for ten hours.” Flynn winced and muttered as he walked crooked. Fantastic. Zaveri had fucked Flynn into an old man’s body. “I need a walking cane and a case of pudding.”
“Are you really that sore?” Zavier was at his side before Flynn had seen him move. He scooped Flynn into his muscly arms and carried him to the counter. “I can help customers. You just take it easy.”
“You’re not getting a cut of my pay.” Flynn leapt onto Zavier’s shoulders, groaning in appreciation, while squeezing Zavier’s flexing biceps.
“I thought you were sore.” He set Flynn gently on the stool.
“I can be sore and horny at the same time,” Flynn huffed.
With a smug little glance, Zavier braced both hands on the counter. “Need a cushion?”