Tate was the spitting image of his father—and for a minute, it had made Logan wonder how he would have measured up if he’d ever had a chance to stand beside his own father.
“I was just telling Dad I want you two to meet,” Tate said, interrupting his thoughts.
Logan cocked his head to the side and eyed him. “Pretty sure we’ve met a few times now.”
“That’s what I told him,” Mr. Morrison said before he raised his glass and took a sip of his drink.
“Okay, smartass,” Tate said to his father. Then he faced Logan. “I meant it would be nice if he got to know you outside of a hospital.”
“Ahh, I see,” Logan said. He then turned to Mr. Morrison and extended his hand. He wasn’t sure what he expected, but when he reached for it, Logan decided that it was about time to make his intentions crystal fucking clear. He clasped it in a strong grip and inclined his head. “I’m Logan, and I’m in love with your son.”
He refused to look away from the man who still had his hand. When Tate’s father shook it, his mouth twitched at the side. And he floored Logan by saying, “Yes. I can see that you are, son.”
Logan wondered if he’d imagined what he just heard, but when Tate put a hand on his back and his lips by his ear, saying, “You can let go of his hand now,” he knew he hadn’t.
Did his dad really just call me son? he thought, and released his hold.
When Tate’s father chuckled, Logan reached for the tumbler in front of him and downed it. So Tate poured another glass for him, clearly sensing he needed it, and then started asking questions.
“You said Mom was over at Jill’s? What’s that about? She didn’t know I was coming.”
“No,” his father agreed. “She didn’t. But ever since…”
As his words faded, Logan lifted his glass back to his lips. He didn’t think what was about to be spoken aloud was going to be anything good, and he wanted to be a little more inebriated before it was voiced.
“Dad?” Tate urged. “Just say it. Ever since what?”
Logan cleared his throat, hoping in some way to dissuade Tate’s father from speaking—it didn’t work.
“Ever since you woke up in the hospital and she found out Logan had been coming to see you—that I had been letting Logan in to see you—things changed.”
Tate rested his hands on the counter and asked, “Changed? How?”
“Tate,” Logan warned softly, not at all comfortable witnessing this conversation.
“It’s okay, Logan. He deserves to know. Your mother… She’s staying with Jill right now.”
“What do you mean?” Tate asked, and then he looked over at Logan as if he knew what was going on—which he certainly did not. “She left because of a decision I made? That’s…that’s—”
“Not what happened,” his father interrupted, grabbing the bottle from Tate. He poured himself a much larger serving than before and then turned to Logan and added to his glass, saying, “He can drive you home. I think you need this as much as I do.”
Awesome, Logan thought and sat his ass down on the barstool at the kitchen island.
“Tell me what happened,” Tate said as his father reached for the pack of cigarettes on the table.
He held them out toward Tate, but he shook his head.
“I quit.”
His father turned Logan’s way and asked, “This your doing?”
Logan wasn’t sure if he was about to get in trouble or be praised, so he stammered a little. “I…ahh…may have mentioned something once or twice.”
Tate laughed at that, and when Logan glanced up at him, he caught him rolling his eyes.
“Do you disagree?”
“No. You just make it sound like you suggested it so nicely.”
“Didn’t I?”
“No. You told me to ‘do us both a fucking favor and quit.’ So I did.”
Logan thought about that and then, arrogant as ever, said, “I don’t see the problem. You quit, didn’t you?”
Tate smirked at him in a way that made Logan feel like they were the only two people in the room. “I did.”
“And I only mentioned it twice.”
Tate poked his tongue into the side of his cheek and nodded. “Sure, counselor.”
That was when Tate’s father spoke up, reminding Logan that they weren’t, in fact, alone.
“However you managed it, I’m glad for it.” He then turned to Tate as he lit up. “These things will kill you, you know.”
Tate shook his head and opened the window above the kitchen sink. The gesture seemed routine to Logan, as if the two of them had done this before when Tate had either lived there or visited.
“Dad, what happened with Mom?”
Logan looked between the two of them and then waited silently.
“She moved out a little while ago.”
Tate’s eyes crinkled up on the sides as if he were trying to understand what his father was telling him, and then he got his brain in order and managed to ask. “Why?”
When Mr. Morrison faced him, Logan raised the full glass to his lips and downed the third helping of bourbon. As it burned a fiery path down his throat, he felt a nice buzz start in his head and thought, Yeah, I just love being the reason for families to split. It seemed to be his specialty.
* * *
Tate stared at his father in shock as he waited for an answer. This was the last thing he’d expected when he’d walked in here tonight. He’d thought they would spend the evening trying to get his parents to accept them into their lives. Instead, there he was, sitting in the kitchen he had grown up in, asking where his mother was.
“We disagreed on something that was rather important.”
Tate walked around the counter until he was standing in front of his dad and asked, “Me?”
His father raised his cigarette to his lips, took a drag, and then nodded. “Yes. You, son.”
Tate said nothing as he placed his palm on the counter—he’d even forgotten he had told his father not to call him that. All he knew was that in that moment, the man standing in there was the same one he’d admired as a boy.
“When you first came to us with Logan, it was a shock. A big shock. It was hard to comprehend that you’d gone from being a married man to being—”
“With a man?” Tate supplied.
“Right. And we didn’t react well at all,” his father admitted as he turned away from him, almost as though it were easier to say it if he didn’t have to face him. “I’m ashamed of how we acted that day, and I’m even more ashamed of the way I treated you when you came back to see me.”
Tate glanced at Logan and found him sitting still as a statue on the stool as if he were afraid to breathe. He knew the feeling. He wanted to know where his father was going with all of this, but he was also terrified to hear the truth. So he waited patiently.
When his dad got to the sink and pressed the butt of his cigarette into it, he hung his head as if feeling the shame he’d talked of. “When I saw you lying in that hospital bed, I knew there was nothing that was going to stop me from having a relationship with you again.” He leaned up against the sink, crossing his ankles out in front of him. “I couldn’t believe that I might lose you, and the last thing I’d ever said was—”
“I was no longer your son,” Tate whispered as he approached him. “Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“What happened with Mom?”
“She…”
Tate nodded and said softly, “She doesn’t agree with you, I assume?”
“No. She and Jill still feel as they did before.”
“But you don’t?”
As his father stood tall, he reached out and clasped his shoulders. He wrapped his arms around him, and Tate felt his heart break a little as he said in his ear, “You’re my son. And this man—he loves you.” When he pulled back, Tate saw the tears in his eyes. “He wants you safe and happy. I may not fully understand it, but how can I not support that?”
He loo
ked over Tate’s shoulder, and when Tate turned to search out Logan, he saw that his blue eyes were glassy—from tears or the third drink, he wasn’t sure.
“She needs to decide what’s more important to her. But my family comes first, and Tate, you’re family.”
Tate hugged his father, and as he stepped away, he raised a hand and swiped at a tear that had managed to escape. Then he had a thought, one he knew would take not only his mind off all of this, but Logan’s too.
“Is my guitar still upstairs?”
“Yes,” his father replied. “It’s in your room.”
As Tate walked over to the island, he asked Logan, “Want me to show you the guitar I brooded over as a boy?”
Logan gazed past him to his father as if seeking permission, and the gesture was so unlike him that Tate thought that it was absolutely endearing.
When he stood, Tate snagged the bottle and said, “We’ll be back in a minute, Dad.”
“No rush. It’s your house too.”
Tate nodded, and when he turned back to Logan, he raised his eyebrows impishly and said, “Follow me.”
* * *
Logan felt as though he’d had the carpet pulled out from under him. He’d come here expecting one thing and been totally blindsided by another. Tate’s father had welcomed them into the house, given them booze, and then sent them upstairs with his blessing.
Okay, so maybe not the last part quite how I’m thinking it, but close enough, Logan thought as he concentrated on the tight ass in ripped jeans walking up the stairs ahead of him.
He was relaxed enough to acknowledge that the thought of being taken up to Tate’s childhood bedroom was doing all kinds of inappropriate things to him. Add in the playful look Tate had aimed at him before they’d left the kitchen and, yeah, he couldn’t wait to see Tate’s old room.
When they were at the top of the stairs, Tate turned left and made his way down a narrow hall, past an old bookcase and several doors, to the one at the end, which was shut. As Tate reached for the handle, Logan made sure he kept his distance. He knew that, if they touched, he wouldn’t want to stop, and considering they were in Tate’s parents’ house, he figured that it was best to keep his hands to himself.
Before Tate opened the door though, he turned to face him, and Logan wondered what the problem was.
“Wait a minute. Do you have your glasses?” Tate asked.
The question was so left field that Logan couldn’t even think of an answer. Why do I need my—
“Can you put them on?” Tate asked and then scooted around him.
Logan reached in the top of his sweater pocket, and as he put them on, Tate came back and stepped around him, pressing a hardcover book to his chest. He looked down at it and then back to the man whose eyes were full of devilry.
“You’re almost exactly how I imagined you.”
Logan’s brow rose.
“I mean, you’re wearing a sweater, not a polo shirt. And I’m pretty sure that, if you were shy, you’d be looking at your feet and not my lips. But the glasses, the book, the way your hair is perfectly done. Yep, you’re looking pretty nerdy there, Mr. Mitchell.”
Logan’s mouth practically fell open at that, and as he took a step forward, Tate brought the bottle of alcohol to his lips and took a swig.
Fuck, he’s hot. In his ripped jeans, black T-shirt, and jacket, Tate was anything but nerdy. He looked rebellious, sexy, and downright dangerous as he continued to check him out like they were standing in their own house—not his father’s.
Loving his “broody musician,” Logan chose to play his part the best he could and lowered his eyes. He pretended to drum his thumb nervously on the cover of the book in his hands, and when he looked up from behind his glasses at Tate, the devious smile that met him made his alcohol-hazed brain go into high lust alert.
Get it together, Mitchell.
“Come on, Tate. You said if I helped you with your homework today, you’d show me your guitar.”
Tate didn’t turn away as he twisted the doorknob to his room. He kept their eyes locked, opened the door, and waited for him to pass.
As Logan stepped forward, he made sure to give his best imitation of a “shy” look from under his lashes, and if the way Tate clenched his jaw and shut his eyes was any indication, he’d nailed that fantasy for him good and well.
Feeling pleased with himself—and somewhat buzzed—Logan stopped once he was in the middle of Tate’s old bedroom. Over by the window was a narrow bed with a red-and-black-striped cover. The walls were plastered with throwbacks to their musical generation—as well as the classics, of course. And when Logan turned around to see Tate lounging back against his closed door, checking him out, he really did feel that rush of nerves mixed with excitement. The only difference here was it had zero to do with the fact that he liked a boy and was unsure if he liked him back.
No, this had everything to do with the boy he was looking at practically daring him to touch him—and there was no way he was going to do that with his father downstairs.
“My guitar is right over there,” Tate told him, gesturing toward the foot of his bed with a tilt of his head.
Logan glanced over at it and was about to move closer when Tate pushed off the door and suggested, “Why don’t you sit down?”
Logan looked for a desk chair, anything but the—
“On my bed.”
“Tate…” he said, his pulse starting to race.
Tate regarded him as he picked the guitar up and came around to him. “Yes?”
Logan chewed his bottom lip and then pushed his glasses up his nose.
Tate chuckled. “Nervous?”
“No,” he dismissed immediately, but when Tate took a step toward him, Logan backed up.
“I don’t believe you.”
Logan’s legs hit the side of the bed, and as Tate brushed a soft kiss across his lips, Logan groaned. Damn, this fantasy was pushing every single button of his, including the one inside his chest.
When Tate raised his head and licked his lips, he moved even closer, and Logan had no choice but to sit down. Then Tate sat beside him, giving him an oh-so-innocent look.
“Relax, would you? I’m not going to make you do anything while my father’s home. I’m a good Catholic boy, remember?”
Logan’s eyes narrowed on the tease next to him, and when Tate started to play the guitar, he thought how lucky he was that the cheeky flirt was his.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Monday afternoon, Tate found himself on the phone with Logan, trying to decide if he wanted to go out to dinner or have people over. He looked at the dining room table and scratched his chin. “Do you think we can fit that many people in here?”
“Ten? Yeah, I think we can squeeze them in. Adults in the dining room, and if they don’t all fit, I’ll just make Cole eat with the other kids by the coffee table.”
Tate walked over to the new table Logan had bought a couple of weeks ago and agreed. “Okay. That could work. What about food and drinks? Do you need me to go and pick up supplies?”
“Rachel assured me that she is taking care of dessert, and Mason is bringing the food. If you want to go and pick up some drinks, I can’t think of anyone more qualified.”
Tate glanced at his watch and asked, “What time is everyone coming over?”
“We were thinking around seven or eight? What do you think?”
Tate laughed. “I’m good anytime.”
“I agree with that most definitely,” Logan told him, his voice dropping until it felt like a smooth caress over his skin. “You’re good for morning, nooners, and night.”
“Yeah, yeah. Get your mind out of my pants. I’ll have everything ready by seven. You can decide on the time, but, Logan?”
“Yes?”
“Give yourself an hour leeway, okay?”
“Why’s that?”
Tate walked into the bedroom to grab his wallet so he could head out to the liquor store. “I’ve been a little stiff to
day. I might need your help getting ready.”
“Is that right? In that case I’ll be there at five thirty and not a minute later.”
“I think that’s more than enough time,” he joked.
“Trust me. There’s never enough time for that.”
“I’ll see you at five thirty, then?”
“Yes, you will,” Logan promised.
“Hang up the phone, Logan.”
“You hang up the phone.”
“I’m going. Goodbye.”
“Bye.”
Tate laughed and felt a stupid smile stretch his lips as he made himself hang up, and then he slid the phone into his back pocket. Okay, I can do this, he thought as he looked around the room. A night with Logan’s family wasn’t something that would generally stress him out. But the thought of seeing Rachel was making him anxious.
He just needed to get it over with, talk to her, make sure she knew he was okay, and then everything could get back to normal. Right? He grabbed his coat off the rack and made his way out the door to purchase some of his and Logan’s favorite men.
* * *
“Hey,” Logan called out as Cole walked by his office.
He stopped and stuck his blond head in the door, his eyebrows raised.
“Eight work for you tonight?”
Cole glanced down at his watch and stepped inside. “Eight works. You sure he’s up to this after the trip? If he’s not, we can wait and do it next week.”
Logan lowered the pen he was writing with to the desk. “He said he’s fine. I think he’s looking forward to it. Having friends around. Speaking of…” he began, and when Cole looked at him expectantly, Logan continued. “Is Rachel going to be okay with him tonight? He’s noticed the weirdness going on there.”
Cole wandered farther into the office and shut the door. When he turned back to face him, Logan sat back in his chair, this time waiting on him to speak.
“I honestly don’t know how she’ll be tonight.”
Cole’s expression was one Logan hated to see. It was also one he recognized—one full of worry. His brother sat on the couch and looked over at him for a few silent seconds before continuing.