Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 97417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
“But, but, Gracie said she was—”
“Yeah, he gets that a lot. His name is Ansel, he’s my boyfriend. And yes, he gets mistaken for a girl all the time because he’s fucking gorgeous. But I can assure you, he’s one hundred percent male.” He waggled his eyebrows at her, just for fun.
At this, Annie turned red as the sliced meats in Enrico’s cooler. But Fitch barely paid attention because the confession seemed to take the weight of the world off his shoulders. All of a sudden he felt free and calm, and the only thing he wanted to do was see Ansel and kiss the daylights out of him.
He knew the gossip train had been set in motion, and in no time everyone in town would hear about what happened, he might have just lost a big client, maybe he’d return to the site and no one would be there—but he couldn’t work up the energy to care.
He’d made his choice. He chose Ansel fucking Becke.
Glitter and all.
Chapter Thirty-Four
A suit. He actually bought a fucking suit. And a tie. Christ, he was either an idiot or...nope, just an idiot. Ansel readjusted the shopping bags as he approached the entrance to Z’s apartment. Ever since Fitch invited him to dinner, his heart hadn’t stopped the insane tap dance. It was driving him crazy. How long could a guy be this nervous and not die of a goddamn heart attack?
He was in serious danger here.
And he’d bought a fucking suit.
Gray. A gray suit.
Gross. Who wears gray? Boring, normal, straight people, that’s who.
And if he wanted the Donovans to like him, he needed to fit in and be boring and normal too.
He pushed the key in the lock.
“Ansel?”
With one hand full of purchases and the other on the door, he turned toward the familiar voice.
“Lars, what are you doing here?”
He had the insane urge to check behind him to make sure his mother wasn’t about to attack. His brother pushed off the wall and came over to help him with the bags.
“Your landlord said this is where I could find you. Why did you move? I’ve been trying to call the number you gave me, but it’s out of service.”
With a sigh, Ansel pushed the door open and led the way into Z’s quiet apartment. “You shouldn’t be here. Mother will be pissed.” His stomach clenched painfully in remembered anguish, but he swallowed it back and concentrated on his new strength.
“Maybe, but I don’t care.”
Ansel locked the door behind them while Lars dropped the bags and crossed to the window.
“I heard her on the phone with you,” Lars said to the glass.
Ansel had never heard his brother’s voice so full of fury. He wrapped his arms around his middle. It didn’t matter that it had been weeks since the call, it still hurt. He still held on to the regrets from everything that followed.
“I’m sorry for putting you in that position. She had no right to speak to you that way.” Lars turned to meet his eyes.
“It wasn’t anything new. You know that. It just took me by surprise.”
“I should have known better. Hell, I should never have kept it a secret in the first place. You’re my fucking brother and I have every right to know you.” He was practically vibrating with determination.
Warmth filled Ansel’s chest. “Thanks, but I don’t want you to lose your education just to hang out with me.”
“They’d never do that. I’m their last chance so, basically, I hold all the cards. I told them I’m coming to school in the fall and I will talk to you whenever I want. Our relationship is none of their business and unless they want to lose another son, they’d better leave it alone.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah, man. We’ve already missed too much of each other’s lives. I don’t want to miss any more.”
He didn’t smile, but he did pull his brother in for a hug.
When they separated, Lars looked him in the eyes. “So are you going to tell me why you moved and what happened to your phone?”
On a groan, he crossed to the refrigerator. “I fucked up.” He stared into the cooler and right there on the top shelf was a six-pack of beer. His fist closed around a bottle before he’d even realized what he was doing. The glass felt cold and familiar—comforting. The urge to take it out, twist it open, and guzzle it down was so strong he shook with it. He could imagine the taste, bitter and hoppy, and his tongue watered. It was a good brand. Z tended to be a snob about things like that. It would be smooth and full and satisfying.
It would make him feel better.
He could be numb again.
His stomach clenched and he forced his fingers to release the bottle. With a deep breath he grabbed two cans of soda and quickly shut the door. His pulse raced and he’d started to sweat, but his mind was clear.