The Hotter You Burn

Beck swiped up his cue and nearly broke the wood in two, so tight was his grip.

“Careful. What’s with you?”

“I’m fine.” No way he’d dump his problems in Jase’s lap. The guy had carried too many burdens for too long. Beck would die before he added another.

“Don’t lie. Not to us.”

The statement came from West, who rose from the bench press Jase had installed earlier in the week. Though he’d built a workout room in the back of the house, more and more equipment was migrating into other areas of the house, allowing anyone in the mood to exercise to spend time with those who weren’t.

Dark locks of hair were plastered to West’s face, and he used the shirt he’d discarded to wipe his brow. Sweat dripped down the ropes of muscle and sinew in his chest, bypassing his only tattoo: the name Tessa etched over his heart.

He snatched the cue from Beck. “Bad boys don’t get to play the greatest game ever invented.”

At six-two—two inches taller than Beck—West was his staunchest competition in the meat market. Not that they’d ever competed. West only dated for two months out of the year, picking one female and staying with her the entire time, only to dump her for some made-up reason when the clock zeroed out.

He had his reasons, so Beck didn’t fault him. “Okay, all right.” Beck held up his hands, palms out. “You got me. I’m not fine, but I will be. There’s no need to worry.”

“We’ll worry if we want to worry,” Jase said. “We haven’t seen you this worked up since you went parking with Kara Bradburry in the tenth grade.”

West barked out a laugh. “Dude. You were so nervous, shaking so hard, you couldn’t even unhook her bra.”

At the time, his only experience had come from a woman more than twice Kara’s age, who’d told him what to do every step of the way.

Great. Now he needed a drink.

He grabbed a beer from the minifridge and downed half. “Like you guys did any better with your dates.” Back then, the three of them had seen nothing wrong with semipublic make-out sessions, because they were teenagers and teenagers were stupid, the males most of all; they had two brains and the one down south usually made the most important life decisions. It went something like: Her. Her. Not her—fine, she’ll do.

West lined up a shot and with his gaze on Beck, sank a solid in the corner pocket. “Let me guess. This is about Harlow Glass.”

Just the mention of her name proved last night’s limp-wood experience had been an anomaly, and it pissed him off as much as it relieved him.

“She’s pretty,” Jase said, his tone conversational.

Pretty? Like calling an ocean a puddle. “She’s gorgeous.”

West straightened and grinned. A genuine grin, and it was good to see. The past few weeks had been rough for him, the anniversary of Tessa’s death taking a toll. “Are you about to wax poetic about Harlow? Because I don’t have bad poetry penciled into my schedule.”

West lived by the clock, and if he had his way, he would die by it, too.

“I wax poetic about nothing,” Beck said. “Except pie. And cake. Maybe cookies in a pinch, but that’s only on a case-by-case basis. Anything with raisins should be stuffed in a box and delivered to hell with Return to Sender stamped over the top.”

Jase snickered. “How’s this for poetry? ‘Roses are red, violets are blue. Beck wants Harlow, I know this to be true.’”

Beck, in the process of lifting the bottle to his mouth, went still, nearly swept away by a tide of shock. Jase hadn’t cracked a joke in damn near forever, and until that moment, Beck hadn’t realized how much he’d missed the playful side of his friend.

“Beck, my man,” Jase said, frowning at him. “Don’t look at me like I’m some kind of mythical creature. Not after I told you to let go of the past. I have.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I freaking love you, that’s all.” Beck set his beer aside and swiped his cue from West. He lined up his own shot...and like a loser, failed to sink a solid. Usually he could win the game blindfolded with both hands tied behind his back.

Yes, he was that good.

“I freaking love you, too.” Jase patted him on the shoulder before going for one of the only remaining stripes. “But I still want you to admit you’re into Harlow.”

Guy didn’t know his own strength and nearly pounded Beck into the floor, but damn if Beck didn’t adore every second of it, the affectionate gesture somehow drilling through all kinds of dark emotion.

“I’m into her, okay,” he said. “Happy now? I’m curious and concerned about her. I can’t get her out of my head.”

“Well, that’s new,” West said.

“You’re telling me. But she wants nothing to do with me.”

“Dude. You sound just like Jase when he first met Brook Lynn.” West hit another shot and of course, two solids flew into their slots. “You’re all ‘woe is me’ with zero nut power. Just suck it up and make a play for her. She’ll fold. They always do.”

Maybe. But then what? He would casually mention he planned to finance the rest of her life, before walking away from her? He would forget her like all the others and move on to his next conquest, his next moment?

That was where things got tricky. He didn’t want to forget her. He wanted to hang around her, wanted the right to check on her anytime the urge hit, to make sure she had everything she needed... Damn it, he wanted the right to protect her.

Protect someone other than himself? Please.

The ache in his chest returned, a pesky fly he couldn’t kill. He wanted her to have what he never would: a happily-ever-after. But as he well knew, money and security could only do so much. Women like her usually wanted more. They dreamed of falling in love, connecting emotionally as well as physically. Something he’d never done and wasn’t even sure he could do.

He saluted his friends with the beer bottle, then drained the contents.

Jase took pity on him and changed the subject. “You’ll be pleased to know Brook Lynn has claimed responsibility for the soccer banquet.”

“We’re in good hands, then.” The best. For the past eight years, Beck and West had financed and coached a soccer team for underprivileged kids, always ending a season with a big blowout celebration. While they loved the interaction, they hated the planning.

“Brook Lynn is pretty much a unicorn at the end of a double rainbow,” West said. “And since we’re on the subject of parties, I should warn you. I got a call from Charlene Burns. She’s in charge of the annual Berryween Festival, some kind of Strawberry Valley play on Halloween. She asked us to set up a booth.”

“For?” Beck asked.

“Kissing. And if not that, anything we want.”

“Someone doesn’t know us very well,” Jase said. “Otherwise she would have given us a ten-page list of restrictions. To start.”

“I told Charlene we wouldn’t be setting up our own booth, but we would be happy to pay for all the booths,” West said, “as long as You’ve Got It Coming is allowed to cater the event exclusively.”

Jase gave West a pat—drill—on the shoulder. “Good man.”

West tried to play it cool, but his ear-to-ear smile gave him away. “You’re just now noticing? You kind of suck.”

The front door creaked open and closed, a patter of footsteps soon following. “Jase?” Brook Lynn called.

His friend lit up so brightly Beck actually had to look away. “Back here, angel.”

The footsteps quickened, and Jase moved forward. The couple met in the doorway, their arms winding around each other automatically. Beck and West shared a moment of unspoken envy, but also of contentment. Jase deserved this kind of happiness and it was amazing to see.

“Finished with your breakfast deliveries?” Jase asked her.