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Chuck considered the offer. Staying meant waking up next to Niall, maybe sharing breakfast, having to face whatever this was becoming in the unforgiving light of day. It was intimate in a way that sex wasn’t always.
“I’d like to stay,” he confirmed, surprising himself with how much he meant it.
Niall smiled, relief evident in his expression. “Good. But we should clean up first.”
They took turns in the bathroom, and Chuck borrowed a pair of Niall’s sweatpants to sleep in. When they settled back into bed, Niall turned out the light and then hesitated, as if unsure how close to get.
Chuck solved the dilemma by pulling him close, arranging them so Niall’s head rested on his chest, their legs tangled together beneath the sheets.
“Is this okay?” he asked, his hand stroking up and down Niall’s back.
“Perfect,” Niall murmured, already sounding half asleep. “Night, Chuck.”
“G’night, Niall.”
As Niall’s breathing deepened into sleep, Chuck stared at the medallion on the ceiling and tried to make sense of the tumult of emotions inside him. He’d come back to Candle Bay to hide, to figure his crap out and plan his next escape. Nobody had told him to expect Niall.
Staying meant he could fail here too, in the one town that would never let him forget it. Roots were just another thing that could rot.
But leaving meant walking away from this—from Niall’s warmth against him, from Winnie’s excitement about her treehouse, from the possibility of building something real and lasting for once in his life.
Chuck tightened his arm around Niall and listened to his steady breathing in the darkness. One day at a time, he reminded himself. That was all anyone could promise. One day at a time.
With that thought, he closed his eyes and let sleep claim him, more at peace than he’d been in years.
Chapter 7
NIALL WOKE to the unfamiliar but not unwelcome sensation of another body pressed against his back, a muscular brown arm draped heavily across his waist, fingers twitching against his hip. For a disorienting moment, he couldn’t remember where he was or who was in bed with him. Then the events of the previous night came flooding back—the sketching, the beer, the kissing that had led to so much more.
Chuck. Chuck Mitchum lay in his bed, pressed to his back, breathing deeply and evenly against the nape of his neck, and Christ, did his warm weight feel like heaven.
The realization should have unraveled him. None of this was him—Niall Ashworth didn’t invite former juvenile delinquents upstairs into his bed after what amounted to two dates. He didn’t take sexy, crazy, delicious risks like this. Not anymore. Not since Elise wasted the last of his trust and confidence.
Yet here he lay, and far from panic, the only thing pressing was the full, warm firmness of Chuck’s entire length down the right side of his body. Somehow Niall had worked his way back to morning wood, and it wasn’t even morning yet, or at least not sunrise yet. Chuck’s hand had gone slack on his hip, and Niall didn’t move it.
Careful not to rouse Chuck, Niall extricated himself from his dozing embrace with exaggerated caution and slipped out of bed and onto the creaky floor, holding his boner against his leg. He paused to glance back at the sleeping figure—Chuck’s face relaxed, younger somehow in the night-light glow, vulnerable in a way he never was when awake. Asleep, Chuck looked about nineteen. Niall made himself look away before he did something stupid.
In the bathroom, Niall got himself calmed down enough to pee, then splashed water on his face and stared at his reflection.
How we doing, Ashworth?
He looked happy for sure, but not pulled inside out, even though he’d woken up someone slightly different than he’d been when he went to bed. Same dark hair needing a proper cut, same guarded eyes, same stubborn chin. His body showed some delicious reminders—some stubble-rough patches, a couple scratches, a bite mark low enough to hide, and a huge goofy grin like he’d won the lottery. Fair enough. That was from getting truly, properly, and thoroughly laid.
Hold up. Something new in the glass—a light around his eyes, a softness to his lips he could only ascribe to Mr. Warm-n-Horny out there. He grinned at the mirror like an idiot and let himself. For once, the morning didn’t feel like a countdown to a crisis. He wanted to do it all again right now, and he wanted to hide. He wanted to confess his feelings, and he wanted to fake amnesia so he didn’t screw anything up.
“Big trouble. You’re in huge trouble, mister,” he scolded his addled reflection.
Back in the dark bedroom, Chuck slept on, sprawled now across the entire bed, one arm flung over his head. Niall allowed himself a moment to admire the view—the strong line of Chuck’s shoulders, the thick curve of bicep Niall remembered biting the night before, the sheet draped low across his hips, the thick ridge under it.
Help.
Before he got crazier, he headed downstairs for coffee and space to get himself back in his right mind. Sex was great. Chuck was nice. They’d had fun. Nothing had to change.
Right? That was right, wasn’t it?
He distracted himself by cleaning up from last night—dishes, living room. It was early enough that the sky still held its dark blue. This was his life, his home, his kid. He didn’t have room for a big sexy complication who unraveled him so easily. For all he knew, nothing would change. For all he knew, they’d both be extremely adult about it.
By the time Chuck padded through the kitchen doorway, sleep-rumpled and adorable in the borrowed sweatpants hanging low on his hips, Niall had the coffee brewed and eggs scrambling in a pan.
