Emerett Has Never Been in Love (Love Austen 1)

Knight beheld Lake with patient bemusement. “Dads aren’t allowed intimacy?”

“No! Yes. No, that’s not what I meant.” Could Lake mess this up any more? “Yes, of course dads can be intimate.” He felt stupidly aware of the goose bumps covering his body. “It’s just . . . Know what? Let’s just brush our teeth.”

Lake paid more attention to dental hygiene than he ever had. Each tooth held his full attention. The mirror spitting back their mostly naked bodies crammed close? Not even a glance.

A loud ping sounded from Lake’s room, followed by another sharp ping on glass. What the hell?

Lake yanked open his window and peeked out in time for a stone to flick his nose. Lake blinked through the sting. Philip spoke from below. “Oopsies.”

“What are you doing?” Lake hissed.

Philip grabbed hold of the trellis, gave it a testing shake, and heaved himself up. “The ultimate grand gesture.”

Lake’s stomach sickened with realization. He attempted to stay calm, but with each foothold and upward purchase on the trellis, he seized with discomfort.

Not to mention the prickly awareness of Knight watching from the bathroom.

“You’re drunk, Philip. You mean to do this for Harry.”

“Harry?” Philip scoffed. “Why would I climb a trellis to Harry’s room, besides the fact he’s on the ground floor.”

“Because you like him. Like-like him.”

“I don’t like-like him, I like-like you.”

Lake jerked back when Philip reached the top.

“No, you don’t like me. This is the alcohol talking.”

“I had a few, so I could finally get the guts to express myself. I’m tipsy, not drunk.”

“But—but Harry! You’ve spent the last weeks flirting with him!”

“You’re joking,” Philip cried. “Not once have I thought of him as anything other than your friend.”

“But you gushed over his pictures! You sent him that subtext-rich monologue.”

“I gushed over pictures you took. I sent you the monologue—to inspire feelings in you.”

Lake’s stomach dropped to his knees. He’d never felt so sick. Realizing he was wrong, that all Knight’s concern had been warranted . . .

God, it was hard to breathe.

Philip hefted himself a foot higher, chest at the windowsill now. “I promise you, I’ve never wanted Harry. I was sure you were giving me signals.”

“Signals?” Lake fervently shook his head. “There were no signals.”

“You invited me to dinner after work. You chose that responding monologue.”

“Outrageous. Well, technically you’re right, but it was on Harry’s behalf.”

Philip reached into his shirt and pulled out a lemon. “You gave me this.”

Lake blinked. “So?”

“It’s your lemon.”

Where was this going? “Yes?”

Philip held it up triumphantly and waggled his brows. “The catholic symbol for love and fidelity. You gave me your lemon. You wanted me to suck it dry.”

Philip gave it an obscene squeeze.

Lake gaped. Unpleasant, awkward sensations overwhelmed him. He hated how sexual Philip made it all sound. Hated that Knight must have heard it.

“I-I didn’t say I wanted you to suck it dry. I mean, I did, but I’m not Catholic. Neither are you.”

“I read it somewhere, and the way you insisted on me having it . . .” Philip frowned. “You’ve eyed me, you’ve winked at me, you’ve texted me every other day. You practically told me you wanted to be alone with me. I think you do like me but you’re freaking out.”

Speechless. Lake was speechless.

Philip started climbing over the sill. “Let’s try it. Let’s fool around and see if it’s good.”

That bolted Lake into action—into leaping backwards. “No! I’m sorry if I looked at you the wrong way. Very sorry for sending unintentional messages. But I was trying to set you up with Harry.”

“You’re kidding,” Philip said tightly.

Lake shook his head. “I’m not.”

Philip let out an angry, hurt huff. “Harry is nice, in a buffoonish kind of way. But he’s not a nine, like you and me.”

Philip’s gaze darkened with resentment as he clambered over the sill. He fell forward; Lake reached to steady him, only to be shaken off.

In mutual mortification, he watched as Philip let himself out of the bedroom and stomped down the stairs.

The front door slammed, and Lake winced.

The absurd moment played painfully over in his head as he turned away from the door to Knight, leaning cross-armed against the bathroom counter. Profound embarrassment zigzagged through Lake, making it impossible to meet his eyes.

He tried to find his voice, but only a croak came out.

That was it. Lake was done.

He flung himself across his bed.

The pillow scratched Lake’s cheek where he buried his head, miserable.

He couldn’t decide what felt worse—his embarrassment, or his disappointment. Believing he was uniting two socially awkward guys had given him ridiculous pleasure.

Harry would be gutted.

That was the worst part. Way worse than how utterly humiliated he was. He’d screwed with Harry’s feelings. Given him false expectations; told him Philip was crushing on him.

God, he had screwed up so bad.

Breezes gushed over his bare skin, a cool reminder of the embarrassing events at the window. He shuddered.