"Yes," I replied flatly. "It's broccolini and salmon for me tonight."
Wes cocked his head to the side and rubbed his hand down his abs. Down the thick trail of blond hair and under his waistband. It took real strength to keep from reaching out and petting him. I knew if I did, I'd call him a good boy while I did it and we could not have that. Not at all. And it was bad manners to pet men without their permission.
"You're sure about that?" He tucked his thumb behind his waistband, tugging his jeans down just enough to expose paler skin and muscled grooves and dusky hair that made me stupid. Just fucking stupid.
With a sigh, I asked, "What do you want?"
"I'm sure I'll be happy with anything you give me," he drawled.
"Oh my god, stop it," I snapped, holding up my palm at him.
"Stop what?" he asked, all sweet and innocent.
"You know," I warned, jabbing a finger in his direction. "You know what you're doing."
Those jeans slipped down another quarter of an inch. "Is it working?"
More than it should.
Missing In Action is now available.
An Excerpt from Fresh Catch
If you enjoyed Max and Jory, you’ll love Cole and Owen in Fresh Catch.
"May I join you?" I asked, leaning through the doorway to the porch.
Owen was kicked back in his chair, a book in his lap and a tumbler of whiskey by his side. If there wasn't an interesting ball game to watch after dinner, Owen often settled on the porch and I holed up in my room. I'd made good progress with a handful of new ideas I was testing out, but I was climbing the walls tonight.
I didn't mind the routine we had going here-awake before dawn, on the water all day, fish market followed by work fixing up my boat in the afternoon, dinner around sunset, bed shortly after-but I needed something more tonight. Back in California, most of my days were spent talking. Taking calls, sitting in meetings, hearing from my coders, arguing with my board. There was always someone or something that required my attention, and being here with Owen was still strangely quiet for my tastes.
Gesturing to the open seat beside him, Owen said, "Yes, but I have some conditions."
"Anything," I said, dropping into the open rocking chair. Before coming to Talbott's Harbor, I would've ascribed rocking chairs to grandmothers and nurseries, and nothing much else. But these were just right.
"No questions," Owen said. I bit back a groan at that. "You've asked all the questions necessary, and I need a break." I opened my mouth to reply, but he held up his hand. "No. No, this isn't an opportunity to ask why. Just live with it."
"I'll try," I said, rocking back in the chair. I could see why Owen enjoyed this. It was just like being on the water. "It would be really terrible if I died of curiosity, though."
Owen snarled and slammed his book on the table beside him. "How would that even happen, McClish?"
I held out my hands, shrugging. "I can think of a number of ways," I started, "but I'll keep them to myself. I don't want to bother you."
He hissed out a breath and I was convinced he grumbled, "Oh, for fuck's sake."
I had to suck my lips between my teeth and bite down to keep from laughing. "We don't need to talk," I said. "We've got the ocean and the stars, and there's no need to talk. This is great. You do you, Bartlett."
I glanced over at him. He was actively growling, and that was probably fine for him because he couldn't turn himself on with that sound. I did not possess the same immunity. With my hands folded over my crotch as casually as I could manage, I gazed out over the water and focused on identifying all the constellations I could find. It was good, distracting work, and it would've kept me distracted if not for Cole's huffing and sighing and snarling.
Such a moody one, this Owen Bartlett.
"All right," he said, finally breaking free of his growl-fest. "How would one die of curiosity?"
"Marie Curie comes to mind," I mused.
"How do you figure?" Owen snapped. "She discovered radium."
"Oh, yes, and polonium," I agreed. "It killed her."
He reached for his whiskey and took a hearty gulp. "Right. You're not discovering new elements tonight."
I nodded toward him. "And the cat."
Owen waved his glass in front of him. "What cat?"
He was getting riled up, and I loved that shit. A few days ago, I pretended I didn't know the difference between flat head and Phillips head screwdrivers for the simple pleasure of his exaggerated reaction.
"The one killed by curiosity," I replied. "That cat. Poor bastard."
Owen sighed as he shook his head, but it morphed into a chuckle. Soon, his shoulders were shaking as he laughed. I laughed too. I couldn't help it. The deep, full-bodied sound was contagious.
"I don't know about you, McClish," he said as he patted his belly. "I just don't know."
"What do you want to know?" I asked.
He considered his whiskey for a moment before saying, "You're from California? That's where you grew up?" He sipped, and then shot me sharp glance. "It would explain a lot."
"I am," I said carefully. I longed for a drink to occupy my mouth and hands. I hadn't thought that far ahead before venturing out here. "But-I mean-not the California most people associate with California."
Owen regarded me over his glass, an eyebrow bent. "There are multiple Californias?"
I murmured in agreement. "Northern and Southern," I said. "But there's more to it than that. It's a collection of ecosystems more complex than anything contained within conventional notions of statehood." Both of Owen's eyebrows were arching up into his hairline now. "When people think of California, they think of Los Angeles and San Diego. Surfing, beaches, girls rollerskating in bikinis. But that's not the whole story. You have the South Coast but also the North and Central Coasts. There's the Sacramento
