When he stood, Tate snagged the bottle and said, “We’ll be back in a minute, Dad.”
“No rush. It’s your house too.”
Tate nodded, and when he turned back to Logan, he raised his eyebrows impishly and said, “Follow me.”
* * *
Logan felt as though he’d had the carpet pulled out from under him. He’d come here expecting one thing and been totally blindsided by another. Tate’s father had welcomed them into the house, given them booze, and then sent them upstairs with his blessing.
Okay, so maybe not the last part quite how I’m thinking it, but close enough, Logan thought as he concentrated on the tight ass in ripped jeans walking up the stairs ahead of him.
He was relaxed enough to acknowledge that the thought of being taken up to Tate’s childhood bedroom was doing all kinds of inappropriate things to him. Add in the playful look Tate had aimed at him before they’d left the kitchen and, yeah, he couldn’t wait to see Tate’s old room.
When they were at the top of the stairs, Tate turned left and made his way down a narrow hall, past an old bookcase and several doors, to the one at the end, which was shut. As Tate reached for the handle, Logan made sure he kept his distance. He knew that, if they touched, he wouldn’t want to stop, and considering they were in Tate’s parents’ house, he figured that it was best to keep his hands to himself.
Before Tate opened the door though, he turned to face him, and Logan wondered what the problem was.
“Wait a minute. Do you have your glasses?” Tate asked.
The question was so left field that Logan couldn’t even think of an answer. Why do I need my—
“Can you put them on?” Tate asked and then scooted around him.
Logan reached in the top of his sweater pocket, and as he put them on, Tate came back and stepped around him, pressing a hardcover book to his chest. He looked down at it and then back to the man whose eyes were full of devilry.
“You’re almost exactly how I imagined you.”
Logan’s brow rose.
“I mean, you’re wearing a sweater, not a polo shirt. And I’m pretty sure that, if you were shy, you’d be looking at your feet and not my lips. But the glasses, the book, the way your hair is perfectly done. Yep, you’re looking pretty nerdy there, Mr. Mitchell.”
Logan’s mouth practically fell open at that, and as he took a step forward, Tate brought the bottle of alcohol to his lips and took a swig.
Fuck, he’s hot. In his ripped jeans, black T-shirt, and jacket, Tate was anything but nerdy. He looked rebellious, sexy, and downright dangerous as he continued to check him out like they were standing in their own house—not his father’s.
Loving his “broody musician,” Logan chose to play his part the best he could and lowered his eyes. He pretended to drum his thumb nervously on the cover of the book in his hands, and when he looked up from behind his glasses at Tate, the devious smile that met him made his alcohol-hazed brain go into high lust alert.
Get it together, Mitchell.
“Come on, Tate. You said if I helped you with your homework today, you’d show me your guitar.”
Tate didn’t turn away as he twisted the doorknob to his room. He kept their eyes locked, opened the door, and waited for him to pass.
As Logan stepped forward, he made sure to give his best imitation of a “shy” look from under his lashes, and if the way Tate clenched his jaw and shut his eyes was any indication, he’d nailed that fantasy for him good and well.
Feeling pleased with himself—and somewhat buzzed—Logan stopped once he was in the middle of Tate’s old bedroom. Over by the window was a narrow bed with a red-and-black-striped cover. The walls were plastered with throwbacks to their musical generation—as well as the classics, of course. And when Logan turned around to see Tate lounging back against his closed door, checking him out, he really did feel that rush of nerves mixed with excitement. The only difference here was it had zero to do with the fact that he liked a boy and was unsure if he liked him back.
No, this had everything to do with the boy he was looking at practically daring him to touch him—and there was no way he was going to do that with his father downstairs.
“My guitar is right over there,” Tate told him, gesturing toward the foot of his bed with a tilt of his head.
Logan glanced over at it and was about to move closer when Tate pushed off the door and suggested, “Why don’t you sit down?”
Logan looked for a desk chair, anything but the—
“On my bed.”
“Tate…” he said, his pulse starting to race.
Tate regarded him as he picked the guitar up and came around to him. “Yes?”