I knew her from work. She does the sales and marketing for the LGBT e-zine I write for, and we’d shared email on a weekly basis and lunch once a month or so for editorial meetings. That was our only connection until that night.
When she’d reached out for help, I was the one who answered the phone. I put her up on my couch, helped her get in touch with my landlord and loaned her enough pocket change to get the basic essentials until payday.
It’s not as big a deal as Toni makes it out to be, but she’s wanted to do something for me ever since, which is how I ended up in this situation. Maybe I could convince her to bake something instead. Teach me to crochet. Anything.
“She’s fired,” I swear. “Though the winners she’s been picking have definitely made the series more popular. Maybe she’s a mole for my editor. If I’m laid and happy, my dry spell will end and he might lose ad revenue.” I tsk and shake my head. “This is really his fault when you think about it. We should TP his house for being a cock blocker.”
“I don’t think I’d go that far, hon.”
Ken’s jaw drops while Fiona is talking and I realize I over-shared. I quickly look away, only to find myself snared by the black gaze of Zeus.
Dark coffee. Rich, potent espresso. I’d wondered what color his eyes were and now I know. I also know his lashes are thick and black, his laugh lines are deep and expressive, and once again I’m mesmerized.
It’s like staring at the sun.
There’s a herculean effort to resist my urges going on inside me. The ones that want me to climb his beefy body like a jungle gym and nibble on his neck while he takes me right here against the bar.
Did I mention it’s been a while?
Ken taps my shoulder and I flinch in surprise, but at least it distracts me from my more depraved impulses. “You’re that JD Green? Go For Green? We read you all the time.”
“You’re a writer?” Zeus reveals that rasping voice again, the one that makes my balls tingle. Does he gargle with broken glass and whiskey? And do I detect a barely there southern drawl? Despite my bad experience with Rod, a southern accent is still one of my weaknesses. When this man speaks, I instantly think of front porch swings and carriage rides and our bare-assed, sweaty bodies slipping against each other in the heat.
He asked if you were a writer. Stop staring and answer. I nod dumbly, finally tearing my gaze from his and turning back to Fiona.
“Cut me off,” I demand dramatically. “My secret identity has been compromised.”
“Sorry about that.” Liar. She isn’t sorry at all. She isn’t even trying not to laugh.
“Isn’t Go For Green what Tasha’s been reading at the dinner table lately? The Finn Fan Club guy?”
“There’s no fan club,” I tell Wyatt quickly.
At least, I don’t think there is.
But if there were it would be my fault and I’d be the president.
Yes, okay, I mention their names in my column every once in a while. Who wouldn’t? They made being gay in this city look good. Marriage, kids, sexy billionaires… The Finns are basically the Kennedys of the neighborhood. A family full of gorgeous Irish overachievers that keep hooking up with equally impressive and newsworthy partners.
The latest love match was the best so far, since it included my favorite YouTube personality, Essie Mills. Well, her brother, I guess. But he works with her so he’s cool by association.
The point is, they were local legends before they started coming to the dark side. Now that they have, they’re more popular than ever.
If you lived in Metropolis, would you not want to read about the way Superman fills out his tights or what he likes to do on his nights off?
I rest my case.
Ken turns toward the man that still hasn’t been introduced. “JD writes a relationship advice column. The Dry Spell Diaries are a more recent addition where he goes on dates—specifically bad ones—and writes it down for our enjoyment. We never miss an entry.”
Zeus is still watching me as he takes that in. “So the man you were with tonight was for work.”
“You could say that.” Putting it that way makes me feel like less of a loser…but a little more like a male prostitute.
Fiona chuckles. “I like the way you think, buddy. Just for that, your next beer is on me.”
“I wasn’t expecting it to become a regular feature,” I explain stiltedly, feeling his attention like a physical caress on my skin. “And believe me, I’m not agreeing to bad dates on purpose. It’s hell on my brand. Who wants romance tips from a guy that keeps striking out?”
“It’s relatable,” Brady assures me. “Everyone knows you give good advice, but that doesn’t mean you automatically get a happy ending for yourself. And from the comment section, your readers love it.”