Page 92 of I Think They Love You

Even now.

Still, Denz can’t help saying, “It’d be different this time.”

No matter who wins, Denz and Kami will have each other’s back. They can ease into wedding planning. A new client every few months; rekindle that magic spark that made them who they are.

“The company’s fine,” Kami says. “We’re good.”

“But we could be better.”

“Yeah, and my brothercouldbring me better muffins,” Kami teases, tossing the crumpled wrapper at him. “Sometimes, things don’t need drastic changes to be better. Subtle tweaks. Remembering what made it great in the first place.”

He fake-yawns. “Boring!”

“Anyway, how’s Braylon?”

A familiar tingling sinks into Denz’s cheeks. Memories rush him: kisses against his throat. Calculated fingers tickling along the inside of his thighs. Braylon coming apart seconds after Denz did.

“Oh, um, good?” He shifts anxiously in the chair. “Alive?”

“Wow.” The smile on her lips is peak Auntie Cheryl after discovering a new piece of gossip. “You’resmitten. You’ve got it bad, Denzel Carter.”

Yeah, no. He doesn’t.

“So,” Denz says, by way of deflection, “when’s Suraj proposing? Isn’t it about time?”

“All right.” Kami shuffles the papers on her desk. “You’re excused. Go away.”

Denz wishes his thoughts would go away that easily. Things like maple syrup drizzled on brioche bread. The pleasant burn of stubble against his chest. His old sweatshirt, the one Braylon’s kept all these years. The unnerving number of times his mind drifts back to one silly night while he’s having an afternoon espresso or answering an email, pacing around the parking garage three times looking for his car before realizing he’s on the wrong level, is absurd.

Which is how he ends up at Twist-n-Salt, another one of Jamie’s bars, with a bowl of nachos and whatever drinks his best friend slides in front of him.

The bar’s vibe aims for upscale chic, but lands somewhere left of an elevated Applebee’s.

First, the visual nightmare of neon signs hanging everywhere. Then there’s the tacky upholstery on the booths. The wobbly high-top tables. Christmas tinsel on the shelves of alcohol bottles behind the bar. Denz is certain the staff left that up out of pure spite rather than negligence.

“Okay,” Jamie says between customers, resting his elbows on the stained-wood bar. “Tell me how it happened.”

Denz picks at his nachos. The cheese is radioactive orange and, despite what the menu advertises, the soggy jalapeños are from ajar,not fresh.

“Again?”

Jamie grins. “I need to get inside your head to understand.”

Denz doubts that. They’ve traded sex stories before. He’s heard all the messy details of Jamie’s first time. In return, he overshared about that one hookup who was fiercely into foot play and dirty talk.

But this isBraylon. Fake-boyfriend Braylon. There shouldn’t be a sex story about him, at least not a recent one.

Denz sloshes his drink around. It’s a suspicious shade of purple.

“I went to his place for a grilled cheese. We talked about London. I word-vomited about my stressful week at work—” He clocks the sharp eyebrow raise and makes a mental reminder to apologize for not coming to Jamie first about his problems. “Blah, blah, blah. He thought a blow job would calm me down—”

“And it did!”

Denz refuses to agree.

“And then,” Jamie says eagerly.

“I found my old sweatshirt under his bed,” Denz says.

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