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)
Ansel blinked.
“Things change. That’s life,” Fitch continued. “We grow, we learn, we keep moving forward. It’s scary as fuck, but all we can do is hold on to what’s important. You know who you are. You have known since you were young. You left home because of it. You’ve gone through so much, fought so hard, to have that kind of freedom. Don’t go trying to be normal now. Normal is boring.”
With sure fingers, Fitch reached around and untangled Ansel’s hair until it fell in a smooth golden wave. Then he slowly gathered the strands and twisted them around his wrist and gently tugged until Ansel’s shocked green eyes snapped up on a gasp.
Fully aware of Z watching them from a few feet away, Fitch leaned close enough to graze his lips over Ansel’s cheek.
“Go change, Angel,” he whispered. “Just be you. You are amazing. But hurry, or we’ll be late.”
Ansel bit his lip, indecision swirling in his eyes. Not wanting to give his lover time to argue, Fitch kissed him. He took his time exploring the lips he loved, and the tongue he’d come to crave, until they were both out of breath. When he was done, he released Ansel’s hair and turned him by the shoulders.
With a pat on the ass, he shoved Ansel toward the hall. When the bathroom door slammed, Fitch turned to raise an eyebrow at Z.
“Impressive,” the smart-ass said. “I knew I liked you.”
“Glad you approve.”
“When are you going to tell him you love him?”
Fitch shoved fingers through his hair and eyed him with a questioning squint.
“Just because I’m immune to that particular disease doesn’t mean I can’t recognize the symptoms in other people,” Z answered the unspoken inquiry.
Fitch sighed. “It’s too soon.”
Six weeks. It was so difficult to believe it. Just a little over a month and Fitch felt like he’d gone through hell and was holding on to paradise with his only pinky finger. One false step and he’d fall into the pit and never find a way out. Every night he sat in his empty bed knowing the man he loved was dancing for other guys, and the jealousy ate at him. He’d struggled with the irrational fear. And knew he’d be struggling with it for a lot longer.
Because Ansel would run again.
And Fitch would chase him. He’d be chasing Ansel for the rest of his life.
* * *
The Donovan house was just as Ansel had pictured. A quaint little three-story single-family home with an adorable bay window and perfectly manicured shrubs. As Fitch pulled into the drive and shut off the motor, Ansel admired how welcoming and warm it looked. Not for the first time, nerves threatened to freeze him in place. It was one thing for Fitch to say it would be okay, but another entirely to face the potentially disapproving looks.
What happened to all his bravado? Christ, he felt like he’d gotten his balls chopped off. Even wearing his favorite black patent-leather pumps with the red bottoms and his killer ruby lipstick, he was out of sorts. Though changing out of the suit was probably for the best. If the Donovans were going to judge him, he’d rather know right up front. Still, he had toned it down a little. He’d kept the suit pants on but chose a simple white camisole and black sequined shrug. He’d forgone the majority of his jewelry but had kept the tie, which hung loose around his neck to highlight the green in his eyes.
Fitch squeezed his knee to draw his attention away from the house. “It’s going to be good. I promise.”
“I trust you.”
Fitch’s brown eyes softened and his dimples appeared. “Thank you.” He leaned over and pressed a chaste kiss to Ansel’s lips. Exactly the same way as the last time he’d confessed his trust, like Fitch knew how hard it was for him to it give away. How difficult it was to earn.
But it was so easy to trust a man like Fitch—he was solid and sincere. He’d never once given Ansel any indication he was untrustworthy, but his parents were a completely different story. No matter. For his lover, he would face them and hope they were as honorable and accepting as their son believed them to be.
They got out of the truck and walked to the front door hand in hand. It swung open before they’d climbed the stairs and an aging, big-bosomed woman appeared.
She wore a calculating expression and an apron she twisted in her hands, but her energy wasn’t hostile.
“Ma, this is Ansel. Ansel, this is my mom, Marge Donovan.”
“Nice to meet you.” Ansel extended his manicured hand.
Marge shook it. “I’m glad you accepted the invitation.”
“Thank you for inviting me.”
The corner of her lips tipped up just enough to be called a smile, but not enough to portray true happiness.