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The kitchen is small and clean, with what look like drawings taped to the far wall, and chrome cupboards and dark counters. Very masculine somehow.
Just like the sight of Joel making pancakes.
Oh my God. Hottest pancakes, hottest chef ever. The way he’s rolled up his sleeves to whip up the ingredients, revealing ropey, muscular forearms, and the look of concentration on his face… I’m staring, standing there all useless and drooling at him.
He sends a distracted smile my way as he reaches for a pan, and I lean back against the counter, my knees weak.
“Thanks for bringing him home.” He puts the pan on the fire, pours the pancake mixture in it, his movements sure and fluid. Experienced. “I wish he’d told me he needed a ride.”
“Why didn’t he? You two are tight.”
His smile slips a little. “I dunno. Sometimes he gets this strange idea that he’s imposing on me. That he’s a nuisance.”
“Why would he think that?”
Joel takes out one perfect, golden pancake and pours in another. “Hell if I know. He’s my best friend. He’s pain in the ass sometimes, but I love him.” He swallows hard. “Not that way. As a friend. Fuck.”
He almost burns the pancake, and I watch, fascinated, as color seeps into his cheeks.
“Got a problem with guys loving other guys?” I ask.
“What? No, of course not!” Now he looks horrified, and I chide myself for pushing him.
Then I wonder if that was that what Jet did—pushed him into an uncomfortable zone. It sure seems like an easy feat with Joel.
Right on cue, an amused chuckle comes from the kitchen door.
“Talking about me?” Jethro leans against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, head tilted to the side. He’s grinning like a wolf.
“Go get the bananas,” Joel snaps. “Cut them up.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Joel sure is bossy. And Jethro sure seems to enjoy it, judging by his easy grin and prompt response.
My mouth is dry. I lick my lips, wondering how that would translate in bed.
Oh for God’s sake.
I walk over to the drawings and study them, trying to take my mind off the two very sexy men trapped in the tiny kitchen with me.
They’re… pages from a comic. Or seem to be. Fight scenes between superheroes and chases through dark alleys. A cat with arched back stands against the full moon. A fanged mouth opens in a wordless cry.
“Holy shit, these are good.” I’ve read my fair share of comics—even more so since I started working at the bookshop, and the art of these ones is exceptional. “Which comic book were they taken from?”
“Doesn’t have a name,” Jet says. “Not published yet.”
I trace a female silhouette hurrying down a torch-lit corridor, the curve of her hips, the way her long hair flows. “Awesome artist. Friend of yours?”
“You could say that,” Joel says, laughter in his voice, and I turn to find them both smirking at me.
“What?” I’m obviously missing something.
“They’re signed,” Joel says, turning off the stove and placing a bottle of syrup beside the perfect stack of pancakes he’s made.
I raise my brows and turn back to the drawings, searching for the signature. There it is, at the right bottom corner. “JE. Or JC?”
Jet laughs. Joel curses.
