“What are you saying?” I ask, but it’s a rhetorical question.
He’s saying Declan’s family cabin is our hotel room for the night.
Just the two of us.
All alone.
But if that happens, temptation will spiral to the roof. It’ll pull me into its tantalizing grip. Surely at some point, I’ll tell him I want him, and then shove him against the wall. Slam my body against his, jerk him close, yank his hair, and kiss the breath out of him.
And my heart will go wild. It’ll throw a parade and toss confetti as my lips crash down on his.
It’ll cheer me on and shout more, more, more.
That’s the problem.
Just because Owen and I are going to a cabin doesn’t mean I can do those things to him.
Or that he wants me to.
We made the pact for a reason.
At the time, it was because the end of Ansel hurt too much. I didn’t want to risk that pain again.
But over the years, Owen and I became closer and the pact became a symbol to me. It’s a declaration of who we are to each other.
Important.
Necessary.
Steady.
Plenty of men, straight or queer, sleep with friends, and do just fine. More power to them. But that’s not me. I’m not a just sex guy. Pretty sure Owen isn’t either.
Now, our deal is a statement of how precarious happiness is, how easily life as we know it can capsize when a relationship or even a fling becomes too heavy for it to hold.
Hell, the man just talked me through the last few miles of rough driving like an air-traffic controller chatting with a tired pilot, guiding him home to a safe landing.
But a cabin in the snow isn’t a safe landing.
This is not a parallel-universe cabin.
It’s not a sex cabin.
It exists in the all-too-real world. I want to leave the cabin with our friendship intact.
And this cabin is . . . a holy fuck cabin.
“Wow,” I say turning onto the road where a two-story wooden home with a peaked roof looms boldly at the end of the street.
Owen stretches out his left arm, pointing like the cabin is the Emerald City. “Calling that a cabin is like calling a lion a pussycat.”
My eyes drink in the majesty. “More like a chalet. I was stupidly picturing a little rustic thing in the woods. I should have checked out Redfin,” I say, as I pull onto a gravel driveway, stopping at the top.
If we get snowed into the driveway, it’ll be harder to leave.
And we must leave.
But first . . .
I cut the engine, relief flowing through me as the car quiets. “Ugh,” I say, slumping over the steering wheel. Then I lift my face. My pulse skitters, then starts to settle. I peer at Owen, a crush of gratitude hitting me again. “You told me about the ducks and parallel parking to distract me from the shitty conditions.”
“You were tense. I just wanted to help take your mind off things.”
“That was officially not fun. Those last twenty minutes.”
“But did it help? The ducks and pink lights?”
“Yes. You were great, and I’m so lucky,” I say, and there I go again—letting my hungry heart get away from me. This man knows me so well, and does all these little things that make a day . . . better.
I can’t be in this cabin with him, or I will do something I’ll regret.
Kiss him. Touch him. Taste him.
Have him.
But I can’t lose him. Owen Hayes makes my whole life better.
“Thanks for driving. You should relax for a bit,” he says.
“I need to stretch my legs. And then we need to hit the road again.”
Owen rubs his ear, and his brow creases. “What? Hit the road again?”
As I unlock the door, I wave my hand behind us, indicating the snow-covered streets. But it’s only an inch or so. It’s not slick yet.
I plaster on a can-do grin. “We’ll just do our thing here, but we can still make it to Nisha’s tonight, don’t you think? We can hang out with them, pour some wine, have a charcuterie board. She makes great charcuterie.”
Owen pulls a you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me face. “Seriously?”
I scoff, gesturing dramatically to the cabin. “Well, she does, and we don’t want to be stuck here. Our friends are waiting for us. I mean, do you want to be stuck?”
Owen says nothing. He gets out, shuts the door.
I get out too. “Do you?” I press.
“It’s not as if I woke up this morning thinking please let me be trapped in a fucking chateau tonight.”
That only bolsters my point. Neither one of us wants to be here. “So, we’ll be in and out. And get back on the road.”
We walk through the coating of snow to the front steps, then he says, “Yeah, whatever you say.”
Yup. This will be a quick trip, and we’ll be on our way.