Marc Jillson & The Gazebo (Love Inscribed 2)

“Can’t live in my uncle’s basement forever.”

Hunter turned away from me, pinking slightly. “What did you find in Victor’s house?”

“A picture of the gazebo.”

“That’s it?”

“What do you mean, ‘that’s it?’ It means something.”

“If you say so.”

“I do.” I squinted at him. “What was up with the fake-fucking-grin on the porch?”

Hunter rubbed his jaw. “It frustrated me that I needed your help.”

“That’s it?”

“Your help. Again.”

“What do you mean, my help?”

His chuckle was hollow, exasperated. “It’s not the impression I want to make on you.”

He flushed, gripping the steering wheel.

Oh. “You think it could change my mind about fooling around with you?”

He kept his eyes on his hands. “I think it could change your mind about staying my friend.”

I leaned over, turned his face toward me, and kissed a startled breath out of him. “Good to know I’m not the only idiot here.”

I resumed my seat and turned up the radio. Hunter blinked at me for three long seconds, started the car, and drove.

Chapter Eleven

After a coffee and a sandwich at the Crazy Mocha, Hunter dropped me off. Liam and Quinn needed his van to transport new furniture.

“There’s another party tonight,” he said as I hopped out the van. “If you don’t mind making nice with my friends two evenings in a row?”

I’d walk over burning coal if it meant more time with Hunter.

I spent the afternoon gutting my basement and making it immaculate.

Time ticked with aching slowness, and all studying done, I found myself reading K’s letters and archiving Demon-Slayage chats.

Those were starting to addict me.

I dressed for the party in tight jeans and a fresh green T-shirt the same color as Hunter’s carnation gift.

I upended my bathroom cupboards searching for pre-lubed condoms, which I snuck into my back pocket. I startled when Uncle Ben did a double take through the cracked door.

“Hey, Marc. Looking for the Lysol . . .”

I swallowed the awkwardness. “Uncle Ben, yeah. It’s . . .” I grabbed the spray and stepped out of the bathroom.

Uncle Ben took the Lysol, clearing his throat. “So, you and Hunter are . . .”

“There’s a party tonight.”

He rocked back on his heels. “He’s a nice guy, Marc.”

Was that a compliment or warning? “Yeah, I know. We’re fooling around. Having fun.”

“Nothing serious?”

A trepid laugh rattled out of me. “Nope.”

Uncle Ben, punched with weariness, scrubbed his short beard. He’d not really come downstairs for the Lysol. “I never date?”

My voice stuttered. “Uh, what?”

I sighed, leaning against my desk close to the Archie tin. “You don’t, though. Go on dates.”

“That may be true. Did you have to share that with my best friend?”

I narrowed my eyes. “He’s not just your best friend.”

Uncle Ben straightened a throw blanket draped over my couch. “Why’d you call him?”

“Research for my gazebo article.”

“Cut the crap.” His eyes bored into mine.

Heat and guilt flushed through me. “I wanted to know.”

“Know what?”

“If you two still had something.”

“It’s casual, Marc. I never wanted you attached to the idea of Jason and me, because most of the year, there isn’t a him and me.”

“I could’ve handled it.”

“Are you handling it?”

My stomach heaved with frustration. “Yes. It’s fine. Let him fuck around if it doesn’t bother you.”

“Marc.”

“Fine, I’m not handling it, okay? You give and give. You deserve better.”

“Than Jason?”

“Than me holding you back from him!”

Uncle Ben reeled back and I forced a shrug. “I’ll move out by the end of the month.”

I clutched the edge of the desk.

“Marc, come upstairs. Have coffee with me.”

I blinked against the sting in my eye and kept my chin at my chest. “Was I wrong? About you loving him?”

Floorboards groaned, followed by the roughness of his long sigh. “No.”

“Was I wrong about you staying apart because of me?”

Uncle Ben said nothing, and my heart cracked.

I nodded, then swiveled away from him until he quietly left. I ripped up the letter of apology I’d written to him, and started again.

When Hunter opened the door, I marched right into the kitchen. The front door thumped closed in the distance and Hunter rolled in after me, brow hitched. “You all right?”

“Yes,” I snapped, trying to identify the delicious scents coming from his stove. I lifted the lids of two pots to penne and tomato-basil sauce and helped myself to a spoonful.

Hunter yanked me onto his lap. I dropped the spoon and it clattered to the floor. His arm tightened around my waist and his voice was firm but kind. “Are you all right, Marc?”

No. Yes? Fuck, I didn’t know.

Frustration mounted and I turned my head to Hunter. His bright blue eyes bore into mine. I kissed him, hard and deep, and Hunter matched every demanding stroke of my tongue.

I growled and pulled back. “I’m in a pissy mood.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“No.” I scrambled around on his lap and straddled him. “I want to be dicked out. Hard.”