Read Worth the Wait for Free Online

brain finally came back online and he took it. The handle was warm from the other man’s grip.
    “Look, I have to deliver some glitter pens, but I’ll be right back, okay?”
    Glitter pens? “Okay.”
    “Great.” He vanished down the line, and Tate watched him go, so bemused that he didn’t realize the line had moved three whole inches before the woman behind him pointedly cleared her throat. Tate started, shuffled forward, and contemplated the umbrella in his hand, a bright yellow promise that, for a little while at least, he had something to look forward to. That helped his mood a lot more than the umbrella itself, which was a nice gesture but a bit too late to really do him any good. He exhaled heavily and watched for any sign of his breath turning to mist. Nothing yet. Tate moved forward another inch or so, wanting to move around more but not willing to risk spilling his books again.
    His umbrella fairy turned up a few minutes later with two paper cups from the Tattered Cover’s café in his hand. “I should have asked you what you wanted before I left,” he said a little ruefully, “but I figure everyone likes a latte, right?”
    “That’s for me?” Tate asked, then felt unforgivably slow when the man tilted his head and looked him up and down with concern.
    “You’re not getting hypothermic, are you?”
    “No, I’m fine. A latte sounds perfect.” They carefully negotiated the hot-beverage-umbrella handoff so that Tate could keep hold of his book bag, and then he took his first sip. Oh, God… he hadn’t even realized how cold he was before there was something hot to contrast it to, but oh. The coffee tasted amazing and felt even better, burning a blissful path of heat down his throat and into his belly.
    He opened his eyes again—Tate didn’t even remember closing them—and met the umbrella man’s gaze. He looked at Tate like he’d just done something shocking, eyes a little wide, mouth agape. Ah. He’d made the coffee noise, then.
    “Was that loud?” Tate asked sheepishly.
    “Kiiind of,” his companion drawled. “Do you like lattes that much, or is it the circumstances?”
    “Both,” Tate said. “And listen, uh… can I have your name? So I stop thinking of you as Umbrella Man in my head?”
    “Right, sure.” It was his turn to look a little sheepish. “Brandon Halling. Nice to meet you.”
    “Tate Beckinsale. Don’t laugh,” he cautioned when he saw Brandon’s sudden grin. “I get asked that all the time, and no it wasn’t deliberate, and no we’re not related.”
    Brandon looked him up and down again, and this time he wasn’t assessing whether or not Tate was about to drop from the cold. He didn’t look disgusted, which, considering Tate was wearing a battered Broncos hoodie over his wrinkled button-down and wet-through slacks, was pretty nice.
    “You could be,” Brandon said after a minute. “You look kind of like her. I could definitely see you fighting werewolves in skintight leather and high heels.”
    Tate almost snorted his next sip of coffee and burst into laughter a moment after he swallowed. “Jesus, what? No way, I can’t balance in heels. I’d break something.”
    “The heels? That’s your objection to the whole thing, that you’d have to wear heels? ’Cause I can throw those out of the picture if it means I get to see the rest of it.”
    Tate grinned, the warmth of the coffee warring with the heat that unfurled along his spine at the playful flirting from a cute guy. It was flirting, it had to be—someone who wasn’t interested wouldn’t play with him like this. “Well, maybe I’ll consider it for next Halloween, but until then you’re out of luck.”
    “Aw, really?”
    “Really.” Tate shrugged. “Sorry to disappoint.”
    “I can probably bear it,” Brandon replied, then sipped his own coffee. “Man, that’s nice. How long have you been in line?”
    “For—” Tate consulted his watch. “—almost two hours. And we’ve moved about