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much time to yourselves lately, right?”
    Ander shrugged as the doors opened. “It’s just for a little while longer,” he said, his tone flat.
    Daniel opened his mouth to say something else, but Ander was already moving down the hall, head thrown back and voice loud.
     
     
    DANIEL LAY on the white Muppet fur half couch, half gynecologist’s chair thing in Ander’s office, waiting for his meeting to end. The light was great, the ceilings high, but the clean space died in the hands of Ander’s creative imagination: white walls covered in fabric swatches and magazine covers; pictures of Ander with famous people wearing his designs; the first thing he had ever designed—a tux jacket in an alligator print—mounted and framed.
    The only thing that drew a smile on Daniel’s face was the far left corner near the window, where two boy-size ties in gray-and-blue stripes were tacked up under a picture of them from the summer of 2001, fresh-faced and smiling on the dock of the Pennsylvania lake where Daniel’s grandmother lived. It was the first of four glorious breaks spent in Grandma Constance’s care—acting like actual kids, reality far away for weeks at a time, replaced by bonfires and smelling like a lake before bath time. If they could map out the complicated trajectory of Daniel Green and Ander Valios, this would be the part highlighted in happy reds and pinks.
    It had ended too soon—Grandma Constance died unexpectedly four and a half years later, ending the respite from a family-less existence for both of them.
    Having returned all his calls and e-mails, Daniel lay back on the soft fuzziness and stared up at the ceiling fan. It didn’t take long for his thoughts to circle back to the deliciousness that was Owen Grainger.
    The insides of his thighs clenched and he willed an embarrassing boner to go away; if Ander walked in on that, Daniel would end up in a hotel room with a paid escort, and no one wanted a repeat of his eighteenth birthday.
    The fantasy of fucking away the attraction between them, then being able to work together was just that—a fantasy. Daniel didn’t consider himself a romantic; one didn’t reach the age of almost twenty-five without having been in love and still believe in the fairy tale. Even his genuine gladness for Ander and Rafe didn’t erase the facts he knew to be true: Ander was an emotionally neglected child who desperately wanted someone to decide he was worth it and shower him with attention. And Rafe, fifteen years his senior, yearned for someone with vibrancy and a love of life to rescue him from a mundane existence of boring meetings and uninspiring conversation.
    They were perfect for each other, matching core wounds and all.
    That wasn’t romance, however—that was psychology.
    “Ugh, you’re thinking so loud it’s turned your aura pee-in-the-snow yellow,” Ander said as he breezed in, door slamming behind him. “We’re getting drunk tonight.”
    “Is the drunk for me or because your meeting was annoying?”
    Ander gave him an exasperated glance. “Both.” He started to gather things on his endlessly messy desk, pens and folders and clippings, stuffing them all into his leather messenger bag. The frantic snap of the movements clued Daniel in to just how unsettled Ander was.
    Which meant a little self-sacrifice.
    “You know, maybe you’re right. Maybe I should consider just going for it with Owen. What could it hurt?” he asked, stretching, then rolling off the contraption with a thump.
    “I appreciate your placating me by pretending you’re going to fuck someone.”
    “See how much I love you? Also, I totally got laid in Fort Lauderdale over the summer.”
    Ander stopped packing his bag. He raised one hand to his forehead, then covered his eyes. “Do you hear yourself? Do you hear the horror story that is your life? It’s March! No sex in like a year is terrible.”
    “I fear for your ability to measure time. Also, I have an impressive collection of sex