Page 74 of Dangle

“No.” Why did I sound so small?

“No, what?”

“No, sir.”

He pulled me into his arms, and I melted against him. We were of similar heights and builds, but somehow it felt like he enveloped me. His lips pressed against my temple as he rocked us from side to side. I should be stark raving mad. I should pull away, but I couldn’t bring myself to do so. This felt nice, being cared for and valued.

“I’m sorry.”

“I know you are, baby boy. I know you are.” He pulled away and cupped my face, his eyes roaming my features while his thumbs brushed my cheeks. “You’ve spent your life competing, being told you weren’t doing things right or that they could be done better. I get it. The military isn’t much different, but boy, you are not stupid. You are not an idiot. You are bright, sensitive, and caring.”

“You don’t know…”

“I know you well enough to know those three things, and I hope to get to know you even better.”

“I hope I get to know you better, too.”

He smiled. “Then we’ll make sure of it. Now, go sit down so I can cook for us. Then what do you say we sack out on the couch and watch some television?”

I smiled and nodded, scurrying back to what was fast becoming my spot at the island, if sitting on the same barstool twice in a single day counted toward making it mine, that is.

He picked the knife up, his focus turning back to the food, but before he made a single cut, he pointed the knife at me and said, “FYI, first offense treatment is hugs and kisses. Do it again, and your ass will pay the check your mouth wrote. And I’m not watching Ridiculous or Jackass or anything where a bunch of idiots do stupid shit.”

I laughed so hard I snorted at the description of shows the boys loved to watch. Me, not so much, and I told him so. “Agreed. Not a fan. I have a huge TBW, though. I don’t get a lot of time to watch television. The guys are big gamers, and when we’re on roadies, I usually read.”

He smiled, turning back to the food. “Okay. Two questions: what’s on the watch list and what book are you reading right now?”

“The team loves theUnchartedgames andThe Last of Us, but I’ve not watched either the movie or the TV series, and I really want to.Game of Thrones—I loved the books. George R. R. Martin is amazing.House of the Dragonis on there, too. As for what I’m reading, right now it’s all school shit. But, other than Martin, I like thrillers and murder mysteries.”

“Have you read any of Jack Hunt’s books?” Slone asked.

A wide grin turned up the corners of my mouth. “I love his stuff.”

“Me too. Frieda McFadden and Tess Gerritsen are good too, but I’m reading Chad Robichaux right now.”

“What does he write?”

“Military—both fiction and non-fiction. He served in the Corps as a Recon Marine, same as my buddies you met and me.”

Conversation died away as he continued prepping food, though not in any way that made things awkward. Occasionally, he popped a pepper in his mouth before offering a slice to me, refusing to let me take it and feed myself. Despite the bit of shyness that weaseled its way in as I leaned over to take the food from his hand with my mouth, I was actually more comfortable around another human being than I can ever remember being. He wanted me. Just Trey. Unless he had a very hidden agenda, he seemed to have zero interest in the name, the legacy, or the prestige surrounding my family. Just me. And that scared me shitless.

Slone—I just realized I didn’t even know his full name—held a worldly quality. He’d been a United States Marine. A Recon Marine, whatever that meant. Something else about him to drop me into a rabbit hole searching for clues about what made him tick. What I couldn’t wrap my head around was why me? The man had to have guys falling at his feet, and if that didn’t work, stripping naked and offering their asses. Tall, gorgeous, friendly, funny, with a hint of danger and mystery, and a cock made to make a bottom boy bend over and beg.

All of which brought me back to—why me?

Then add in the caretaker vibe he gave off. The knife he wielded chopped through veggies and garlic—that’s what the white, papery, covered ball was—like a professional culinary school-trained, Michelin-star chef. No hesitation. Just quick rat-a-tat-tat sounds that stayed perfectly on beat once he started until he finished.

I still couldn’t believe he was cooking for us again. And not even warmed-up leftovers, but made-from-scratch, freshly cooked fajitas because Slone had all the ingredients on hand. But who the fuck complained about being fed fajitas that smelled so good that if I closed my eyes I could easily pretend I’d popped down to Texas for a quick snack. Not me that’s who.

Sliding off the barstool, I walked to the fridge. Before I could ask to open it, he said, “Mi casa es su casa. Help yourself.”

Speaking of worldly. Did he speak other languages? If so, how many? Every question answered added at least two more to the list of things I wanted to know about the man.

I grabbed a couple of Coronas because fajitas and twisted off the caps before setting Slone’s down on the counter next to the cutting board.

He smiled, kissing my lips quickly. He wiped the knife, grabbed a lime, quartered it, and dropped a piece in my bottle and then another in his. When he picked it up, he tilted the neck of the bottle toward me and said, “Excellent choice.”

Glass clinked as I responded, “Well, I mean, you didn’t have margs in the fridge, so I went with the second-best option.”