My breath caught. Clay had just confessed he felt like he was being left behind, and now Travis was asking if he’d be willing to give up his time with me this evening. None of this was in his plans, and he hated when they were changed on him.
But he stared across the table at his best friend and evaluated what was more important, and the dominant in him couldn’t ignore what was necessary. This was something Travis needed, and Clay would put that over his own desires.
“Of course,” he said. “If Lilith is okay being with you tonight instead of me, I am too.”
Emotions came on powerfully strong, so I nodded and squeezed their hands, wishing I could tell them both how I felt at the same moment, but we didn’t have time. Travis needed to go, and I wasn’t going to make him stay while the animal he’d bonded with was suffering.
Yet, he didn’t get up from his seat.
His gaze was fixated on how my hand was linked with Clay’s, and his chest lifted with a slow breath. “What if that’s not what I’m asking?” His gaze drifted up, tracing the line of Clay’s body, all the way until he met his eyes. “What if I don’t want tonight to be about me and her, or you and her,” he paused, “but us?”
My heart lurched.
The men had been scene partners twice, but that had happened before me. Since then, both had respected the other’s role when observing. They didn’t interact or interfere with who was in charge. The closest they’d come was our first night together in the club—with the day Clay had pressed his hand on Travis’s chest coming in as a distant second.
Clay’s expression was guarded, so I couldn’t tell if he loved or hated the idea, but he hadn’t moved. He hadn’t pulled his hand away from me. “Together?”
Travis’s voice was tight. “Yes.”
Light glinted off Clay’s lenses as he turned his attention toward me and searched my expression. Could he see how badly I wanted this? That maybe I needed it as much as Travis did? He must have, because his focus moved on to the other man.
His voice wasn’t loud, but it rang through my body.
“All right.”
We didn’t talk about Travis during dinner, nor did we on the drive back to our neighborhood. After Travis left the restaurant, Clay canceled his entrée with the kitchen, and then Clay proceeded to give me the date I’d been expecting when I’d come over to his house earlier this evening.
We talked about his project ending and the next trip my parents were planning, still undecided if they’d do Europe or Australia. It led the conversation to what traveling we’d done, and from there . . . his family.
His sister was married with two kids and lived on the west coast because she worked for a big tech company. His parents moved to Florida after retiring, so he only saw them at the holidays. He was alone here in Nashville, but didn’t struggle much with loneliness.
He shared personal things with ease now, and I soaked the information up. How he’d toyed with becoming a fulltime carpenter after high school, but a teacher had pushed him to try drafting, and that was it. He loved precision and details and building, plus he was ‘decent at math.’
Conversation flowed freely while we pretended our thoughts weren’t drifting to what would happen this evening. If Clay were drafting a plan in his head, I couldn’t tell, but perhaps he was excellent at multitasking.
Anticipation wound tightly around my body as we returned to his house. Clay was pouring us each a glass of white wine when we received the text message.
Travis: I’m finished. Where are you guys?
Clay: My place. Come over.
His line of text was casual, but it could have just as easily been an order and steam flooded every inch of my body, from my fingertips down to my toes nestled inside the beautiful shoes Clay had given me.
The kitchen renovation was nearly complete, so I pressed my hands to the quartz countertop to try to cool down at least some part of me. It was possible I’d burst into flames when Travis got here, and I frantically looked for something to distract.
“Did you decide on a backsplash?” I nodded to the two samples still taped to the wall.
He stood beside me as we drank our wine and studied the options. “Not yet. Do you have a preference?”
“I don’t know if I can pick one. I like them both equally.” It wasn’t until the statement was out that I heard how it sounded. It could apply to a much larger decision than the decorative bits of ceramic and glass. “I mean, they both look good.”
“Yeah. They’re both attractive,” he conceded. “But you don’t think one is better looking than the other?”