Page 7 of Jumping In
“Come on now, Ewan.” Clint threaded his thumbs through his belt loops and let his hands hang down, bracketing his cock. “You know you like me in my jeans and shitkickers.”
“The invitation said black tie optional or business formal,” Ewan said, his voice shaky. He licked his lips. “And you know we can’t be together in public.”
Was he supposed to apologize for coming to the party after being invited, for wearing the wrong clothes, or for talking to Ewan after Ewan had initiated the conversation?
“What’s black tie optional business formal?” Clint asked, because he wasn’t going to apologize to Ewan for shit and flirting with him felt dirty and pathetic.
“You need to leave,” Ewan hissed. He quickly darted his gaze around, gulped, and leaned forward as he whispered. “You can call me later and we can …”
“Call you for what?” Clint asked. “You have a fiancée.”
“Keep your voice down. She doesn’t have to know. We can still …”
No fucking way, no fucking how. He hadn’t been willing to keep seeing Ewan in secret before he knew the man was dating someone else. Why on earth would he downgrade from being a dirty little secret to being the other man after Ewan got married?
“Never going to happen, Ewan,” he said, shaking his head, which might have been a mistake because the entire room started spinning. Maybe downing four glasses of champagne followed by a tumbler of scotch hadn’t been his brightest move. “Best of luck to you on the marriage.” He turned around and stumbled toward the door, muttering, “Fuck knows you’ll both need it.”
Chapter Three
“Are you sure about this, sir?”
Was Clint sure he wanted to get the hell out of Dodge? “Yes.”
The valet fidgeted in front of the truck door. “You haven’t been in there very long and you seem a little, uh—”
Though Clint tried to stand patiently and wait until the valet moved, he found himself suddenly tipping sideways. But only his top half. He managed to catch himself by grabbing onto the side of the truck, which left him pressed against the valet.
“Sorry about that,” Clint slurred.
The valet whimpered.
“Did I hurt you?” Clint pushed himself back to a standing position. He gripped the side of the truck bed to help him stay stabilized.
“No,” the valet croaked. “I’m fine.”
“Great.” Clint looked at him meaningfully. When he didn’t move, Clint added, “So, I need to go.”
Still nothing from the valet.
“And you’re blocking the door.”
“You’re really muscular.”
Clint stared.
“I mean hot,” the valet said in a panic, his neck turning red. “Drunk!” he shouted. “I mean you’re drunk.”
“I’m fine,” Clint assured him as he patted his shoulder. He was aiming for the shoulder, anyway. He made actual contact with his chest.
The red moved up the valet’s face all the way to the tips of his ears and he started hyperventilating.
“You look like you’re going to be sick,” Clint pointed out.
“I… I… I…” The guy stopped, took in a deep breath, held it for a few seconds, and then blew it out. “Please, sir. You’re not in any condition to drive and I wouldn’t want you to get hurt.”
Though his natural inclination was to get angry about anyone telling him what to do, Clint took a mental count of how much he’d had to drink in a short period of time and realized the guy was probably right.
“I need to get out of here,” he said, more to himself than the valet. “And it’s not like there are any taxi companies in Hawthorne.”
