Page 42 of Catching Flynn

He cleared his throat and kept his gaze on Garrett, though every cell in his body remained tuned to the man at his back. “Garrett wants to borrow my hammer.”

Behind him, Zavier’s hand stayed at his hip.

“Borrow again, apparently.” Garrett gave a short laugh.

“Apparently,” Flynn said dryly.

A silence followed, long enough to feel it. Flynn could hear the coffee pot clicking behind him, the apartment settling, a distant door opening somewhere down the hall. Garrett rocked back on his heels.

“I was just asking,” he said. “Didn’t mean to start a household summit.”

At his back, Zavier shifted closer. Not much, but enough that Flynn felt the line of him along his shoulder and side.

Garrett’s gaze lowered to where Zavier’s hand rested then flicked away.

“Right,” he said. “Got it.”

Flynn nodded once. “Good.”

For a moment, Garrett said nothing. His eyes flicked over Flynn’s face, then lower, then past him toward the apartment. He looked almost thoughtful. Flynn didn’t like that look.

Then Garrett smiled again, all easy charm. “I’ll find your hammer.”

“Please do,” Flynn said.

Garrett gave one small nod. “And the nails. And the screwdriver set.”

Flynn held his gaze. “Great.”

“The umbrella too.”

Flynn narrowed my eyes. “The pruners, Garrett.”

He held up a hand like a solemn oath. “The pruners.”

“Bye, Garrett,” Flynn said.

That finally made him step back. “See you around, Flynn.”

The way he said it shouldn’t have sounded loaded. Maybe Flynn was overthinking. Maybe Garrett was just Garrett, all smooth edges and opportunistic borrowing. Still, that one blink of narrowed eyes sat wrong in Flynn’s stomach.

Without answering, he shut the door.

The latch clicked.

Silence filled the apartment at once. The kitchen smelled like coffee and the faint lingering sweetness of syrup from last night’s postcoital snack. Flynn kept a hand on the knob for a second, forehead almost touching the wood, and let himself sag.

Behind him, Zavier’s palm spread over his stomach.

“You okay?” he asked.

Flynn turned in the loose circle of his arm and looked up. Morning light from the window caught on Zavier’s bare skin, skimming over muscle and dark hair and the sleepy set of his mouth. Flynn’s thoughts immediately took a hard left into a wall.

What a useless time to be horny. Then again, if there were useful times, he’d never met them.

“He’s such a mooch,” Flynn muttered. “A deeply annoying mooch.”

Zavier’s mouth curved. “He was.”