Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 65437 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 327(@200wpm)___ 262(@250wpm)___ 218(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65437 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 327(@200wpm)___ 262(@250wpm)___ 218(@300wpm)
Owen’s head snapped up, his hand still pouring their coffees.
Jason leaped across the kitchen and tilted the carafe upright before caffeinated goodness overflowed from the mug.
“Visit you?” He didn’t sound keen. Maybe Jason had gone a step too far, thinking this was anything more than a fake-boyfriend gig with an expiry date.
“You don’t want to know what my life looks like in Wellington?”
“No.”
So . . . emphatic.
Jason grappled for a grin but it felt weak, waning by the millisecond. “Are you coming to the stag night after work?”
“Jason—”
Jason’s phone rang. Pete. For the fifth time that morning. He’d become more and more nervous as the days went by and had called Jason increasingly for his thoughts, his input, his assurance the replacement band wouldn’t pull out at the last minute.
Jason took the calls with amusement and sometimes—when snuggly with Owen—reluctance. Right now, he took it with relief.
“Pete!” He left Owen and Mary and found a patch of sun out on the front porch. Warmth over the lingering shiver.
“I know, I know. I just want to make sure you’re okay being designated driver.”
“Oh no, fine. I absolutely don’t care for drinking and all the distraction that comes with it.”
“At least you’ll have an advantage with Angus.”
Did he want an advantage with this Angus? “Uh, right. Yeah.”
When Pete rushed to his next call, Jason stood in his sunshine, acutely aware of Owen and Mary moving around in the house. He thought he heard the creak of a floorboard close to the door, and hurriedly dialled Carl.
Who . . . who was entertaining someone in the background. He sounded a little out of breath. “Jason here.”
Definitely entertaining, and playing Jason while he was at it. But this wasn’t the time to ask. “Just wondering . . .”
“Wondering?”
“Exactly who is Angus? . . .”
The answer had him pressing the phone against his throbbing forehead.
Another floorboard. Owen or Mary or both were close.
Stomach hoppy, Jason fiddled with his phone, working the appearance he was concentrating hard. Not to be interrupted. His fingers slipped to his Grindr app and then he was scrolling through those messages with Daniel, before Jason knew.
Call Me Carl: That’s the gist of it all
* * *
Daniel: I could swing that. If you’re absolutely sure it’s only a few weeks. That this would be fake.
* * *
Call Me Carl: Kinky promise
* * *
Call Me Carl: Pinky Promise!
* * *
Call Me Carl: Probably should warn you I get myself into unintentional trouble sometimes
* * *
Daniel: No worries. I know how to navigate trouble
Thinking back on it, that might’ve been a clue. Owen was a cop after all, dealing with trouble was his actual job. The rest of the thread went into specifics about the when and where of their date, all to the point and frank.
If you’re absolutely sure it’s only a few weeks. That this would be fake.
Jesus. There it was, clear as crystal.
A low rumble and a warm shadow. “Why are you sniffing?”
“I’m not.” He sniffed again.
“Sweetheart.”
Jason shoved his phone into his pocket and scratched his finger on the house key he’d slipped into these clean, tear-free pants earlier. His finger came out bleeding, and Owen curled an arm around his shoulders and steered him into the kitchen. He was careful as he wrapped a plaster around the torn nail.
The thing was, Owen had drawn the lines and it wasn’t his fault if Jason had stomped all over them, made them barely recognisable. The lines were still there.
In a week this fake boyfriend act would be over.
He had a choice: get all sniffy about it, or—
He curled a determined hand around Owen’s nape and crushed him against his lips.
“Jason,” Owen murmured. “I think we should talk.”
Jason stiffened and shook his head. “I don’t want to talk. I want to . . .” He dropped to his knees and looked up. “Please?”
Desire flashed in Owen’s eyes and he shut them with a hard swallow. “Do you know how hard it’s been for me to resist you in this position?” A hand pushed through Jason’s hair; nails skidded lightly over his skin, scattering goosebumps. Those dark eyes on him again. “On your knees in front of me.”
Jason butted his head against Owen’s hand, wanting more.
“You’re not playing fair, Jason.”
“I’m not the Libra, Sergeant Owen Stirling. Sir.”
Owen hissed in a breath, really gripping Jason’s hair now, like he was desperate to give in. There was a tremor vibrating through him, and Jason leaned in and nuzzled his head against powerful thighs. “Let me start here?”
“Start?”
“I’d finish you off here, too, except . . .”
Owen stroked his hair back.
Jason flashed him a pre-emptively sympathetic grin. “I might need you still hard to help me with something?”
Fingers paused. “What?”
Jason slid his fingers up Owen’s jeans. He popped open a button, and then worked the zipper. “I’m in a little pickle? Speaking of pickles.”