Page 48 of Ship Happens

“You wish.” Owen rolls his eyes, opening the door further. “I think he was doing permanent damage to my back,” he says, rubbing circles into his neck.

“You signed up for a massage?” Jacob asks, surprised.

“No, my masseuse got me mixed up with Kevin.”

“He mixed up a stick-thin white boy and a Vietnamese gym rat,” Jacob says smarmily. “Yeah, the two of you look so alike.”

“Hey!” Owen glowers, unable to keep himself from smirking at Jacob. “Whatever.”

“I’m just not sure where he could’ve gone.” Brandon’s voice echoes down the hallway again.

“Okay, well, just wait for him. He’s probably in the bathroom or something,” another voice replies.

In one swift movement, Owen grabs the collar of Jacob’s robe, pulling the both of them into the storage closet. It’d been cramped enough when it was just Owen hiding in here, but with Jacob, Owen has a choice to make.

Let the bin filled with damp laundry continue to dig into his back, sending a sharp pain all the way down to his ankles? Or keep his body right up against Jacob, unable to keep their stomachs from pressing against each other?

“You know, I always told myself I’d never go back into the closet,” Jacob jokes, the angle they’re stuck at forcing him to look right down at Owen. Owen can feel the heat of Jacob’s laughter on the bare skin of his throat.

Meanwhile, Owen is forced to stare at Jacob’s round pecs, the top of the robe opened just enough to give Owen the perfect view of his bushy chest hair.

Jesus Christ. Owen swallows before shushing Jacob. Quiet, he mouths.

“I don’t think it’s that—” Jacob starts to say before Owen reaches up with a hand, cupping it around Jacob’s mouth to silence him.

“Shhh!” Owen shushes as the voices get closer.

“You gonna do anything fun while they’re all off deck tomorrow?” Brandon’s friend asks him.

“Hell yeah, dude. Caroline’s coming to my room, she’s got her stash with her, and we’re not leaving till she’s walking crook—”

Owen’s grateful that he misses the last part of Brandon’s grand plans.

“So . . . come here often?” Jacob asks, voice muffled by Owen’s hand.

Owen’s brows furrow. “You’re not funny.”

“Hey, you pulled me in here with you,” Jacob so helpfully reminds him. “You know you could just . . . tell the guy that you don’t want the massage.”

Owen glares up at Jacob, all too aware of how close they are, careful of where he rests his knee as it starts to feel tighter. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

“Right, you never were the best at that.”

“I’ve made strides,” Owen says. “I’m not afraid to send my coffee back when a barista mixes up my order.”

“Wow! Color me impressed,” Jacob says with this sort of enthusiasm that feels as genuine as it does sarcastic.

Owen hates how warm the words make him feel. Growing up he barely heard those kinds of things from his parents. In the earliest days of their relationship, Owen had been so embarrassed every time Jacob called him cute or said that he had done a good job, the words stirring such a confusing cocktail of shame and euphoria that Owen didn’t know what else to do besides shut down.

“Thanks.” He swallows, moving his knee again, resting his ass against a pile of robes.

Then Jacob grunts.

“What is it?” Owen asks.

“You, uh . . .” Jacob stammers. It’s hard to tell in the light, but Owen’s sure the man is blushing. “Your knee is in my crotch.”

“Oh, fuck! Sorry!” Owen reacts too quickly, stumbling back and nearly falling. Again. This time, he catches himself on the cart, which forces him to fall back onto the pile of discarded towels waiting to be cleaned.