“Come on! I’m dying here. Is he into beards? Muscles? Lumberjacks in general? Specifics!”
I turn my face into the spray, let the water pound my forehead. “You’ll meet him tonight. Woody Hollow. Eight. Stop asking questions and just show up.”
Trask groans dramatically. “You’re killing me. At least tell me if he’s got that same giggle Taron does. That little breathy one? Fuckin’ lethal, man.”
I smile despite the ache between my legs. “Yeah. He’s got it. And he uses it like a weapon.”
“Goddamn. I’m in love already.”
“Slow down, Romeo.”
He laughs. “Can’t help it. Good ones don’t come around often. You know that better than anyone.”
He’s right.
I do know.
Because Taron’s the best one. The only one.
My cock pulses again… insistent, demanding. I turn the water colder. Not all the way—I don’t want to freeze my balls off—but enough to take the edge off. It helps.
I finish rinsing, shut off the spray. Towel off quick, wrap it around my waist. Trask’s already out, drying his hair, still grinning like an idiot.
“You good?” he asks, eyeing me.
“Yeah.” I force a smirk. “Just thinking.”
“About Taron?”
“Always.”
He claps me on the shoulder. “Good. Lock that down, man. Boys like him? Once in a lifetime.”
Trask may have a great line in fast talking and bullshit, but he’s right about this. He knows it, and so do I.
Tonight at the tavern, Robbie will be there. Taron will be there. And maybe—maybe—it’s time to stop dancing around it.
Time to tell the boy how it is.
Tell him in no uncertain terms that he’s my Forever.
And I’m his.
Trask and I dress in silence after that. Jeans, fresh T-shirts, boots. As far as Trask is concerned, tonight might be all about fun and flirting with Robbie, but for me it’s something else altogether.
Tonight I’m going to lay it all on the line, you see if I don’t.
The Woody Hollow is packed wall-to-wall tonight—fun, good times, and wholesome smalltown energy in full swing. Every stool at the bar is taken, booths overflowing, laughter and clinking glasses rolling over the jukebox like waves.
Even a grump like me can see it’s a great vibe.
Trask and I are leaning against the high-top near the back, each nursing a pint, watching the chaos unfold over by the dartboard.
And, trust me, it is absolute chaos.
Taron and Robbie are total mayhem.
They’re taking turns throwing—mostly missing, mostly laughing so hard they’re doubled over. Robbie is in a tiny black top and ripped jeans, his arms swinging like a weapon every time he lines up a shot. Taron’s in that soft cream sweater again, sleeves pushed up, cheeks flushed from cider and giggles. They’re terrible—hilariouslyterrible—but having the time of their lives, so who am I to complain? My only worry is that a dart goes so far astray that it ends up hitting the bartender!