Chapter 3

He did have a shot of scotch at the bar across the street, but the getting laid part of the plan wasn’t going great.

Not for lack of opportunity. For all Justin’s jokes about his arrogance, it wasn’t based on nothing. Peter simply didn’t suffer from false modesty: he knew he was attractive, and other people knew it too. He was tall, he worked hard to keep himself in shape, and his dark hair was still thick and without a hint of gray. Peter had never had trouble getting laid even when he’d been an awkward teenager. As a successful lawyer of thirty-nine wearing a bespoke suit, he certainly didn’t lack for offers that evening, both from women and men alike.

He just wasn’t interested.

Peter scanned the bar with his eyes, silently observing over the rim of his glass, but no one caught his interest, despite the low hum of need under his skin. He wanted something, but he wasn’t sure what. He wasn’t even sure it was sex he wanted.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

Peter looked at the tall blonde who had just taken the seat next to him. She was his type—gorgeous, elegantly dressed, and confident—and from the way she was smiling at him, he could tell that she was looking for a good night and nothing more. She was practically perfect in every way.

But there was still nothing: he didn’t feel even a flicker of attraction, his body completely uninterested, as if he didn’t have an objectively stunning woman trying to pick him up. It was starting to unsettle him. He’d never had a problem with his sex drive. He was a healthy man in his prime.

“Sure,” Peter said, pushing away his unease.

She signaled the bartender to refill his drink. “I’m usually not so forward,” she said with a smile. “But you have really striking eyes. So blue. I couldn’t resist. I’m Karen.”

Peter smiled back. “Peter.”

Over the next hour, he smiled and flirted, going through the motions of a mating dance and trying to ignore the strange urge to move and do something.

By the time they got to his penthouse, he was more than a little buzzed, the alcohol dulling the sense of wrongness and the urge to be elsewhere. She was shivering and moaning against his mouth, her hands roaming all over his shoulders and back.

He still felt nothing—nothing but the urge to pull away. His cock remained soft. That never fucking happened to him.

Trying not to freak out, Peter gently pushed the woman away. “Look, I’m sorry about this, but I don’t feel good. Raincheck?”

She stared up at him with a mix of disbelief and annoyance. “Figures,” she said with a sigh. “I knew there must have been something wrong with you if you were alone at the bar looking the way you look.”

“Thanks,” Peter said wryly. “It’s not you, really. I’m just not in the mood. I thought I was, but I was wrong.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Is it the soulmates thing?”

“What?” Peter laughed. “No. I don’t believe that bullshit.”

She studied him thoughtfully. “Maybe you should. I’ve heard that some people are having problems down there if they aren’t with their soulmates. I thought you were like me—people lucky enough not to be affected by that spell, but maybe you aren’t.”

Peter frowned, starting to get irritated. “I don’t have a soulmate. That silly spell doesn’t work on me.”

Karen just shook her head, picked up her purse, and left.

Peter’s mood went downhill from there.

Shrugging off his suit jacket, he walked to the mini-bar and poured himself another shot of scotch. He stared at its surface.

Maybe it was just the alcohol. It was possible that he couldn’t get it up because of the alcohol. Yes, that must have been it.

Feeling relieved for finding a plausible explanation for tonight’s failure, Peter set his drink down and walked to the floor-to-ceiling window.

Christmas lights made the city look even brighter than usual. The view was unbeatable, but he was so high up that people looked like small ants, moving in groups. He could imagine the bright smiles on their faces as they did some last-minute Christmas shopping.

He’d never felt more removed from them.

Peter sighed, his shoulders hunching. He didn’t hate Christmas, but he had to admit he didn’t love it, either. This time of the year never failed to make him feel like an outsider, an observer watching life pass him by.

Grimacing at his bleak thoughts, Peter turned away from the window. Even if he were the type to be happy with 2.5 kids and a house with a white picket fence—which he wasn’t— there wasn’t a person in the world he wanted that American dream with.

He glanced at his phone, wondering if Justin was asleep already.

Fuck it. Even if he was, Peter was his boss. Justin’s time belonged to him.

Unlocking the screen, Peter brought up his most recent contacts and tapped on Justin’s name.

Justin picked up on the third ring. “No,” he said, sounding half-asleep. “I won’t come back to work. You gave me permission to sleep in my bed. I’m in my bed, in my favorite Batman pajamas, and you aren’t allowed to ruin it with a work emergency.”

“There’s no work emergency,” Peter said, kind of wishing there was.

“Then why are you calling me at ass o’clock?”

“It’s barely ten.”

“I don’t care, Peter. God, I can’t escape you even in my dreams… I was having a beautiful dream starring two gorgeous women and me on the beach. We were having so much fun, but then you appeared like the worst kind of cockblocker, in your Tom Ford suit—on the beach!—and you ordered me to clean your fancy Italian shoes with my tongue. And the worst part was, I did it—while those gorgeous women were watching. I’ve never been more ashamed of my subconscious.”

Peter cleared his throat a little, his stomach clenching from the mental image of Justin licking his shoes. There was something... almost appealing about it.

He said with a smirk, “It’s not my fault your subconscious knows whose bitch you are.”

“I hate you,” Justin grumbled. “You’re the worst boss I’ve ever had.”

“I’m the most lenient boss you’ve ever had. Anyone else would have already fired you for your lack of respect.”

“There’s no lack of respect,” Justin mumbled. “You’re the best lawyer I’ve seen, but sometimes I don’t think you’re human. I’m convinced you were born in your fancy suits, with your smug, stupidly handsome face and arrogant smirk. Do babies smirk?”

Peter snorted, amused despite himself. “I’d ask my parents—well, if I spoke to them in this decade.”

“I’m sorry,” Justin said after a moment, his voice disgustingly soft.

Peter grimaced. “Nothing to be sorry about, Danvers. I’m hardly the only person in the world with estranged parents. It’s fine.”

“Do you know that you call me ‘Danvers’ when you feel uncomfortable? It’s a tell.”

“Quit psychoanalyzing me and go to sleep,” Peter said with a smile. “You’re making even less sense than usual.”

“Whose fault is that?” Justin murmured before hanging up.

Peter was still smiling as he put his phone down, relieved that the tension building under his skin was gone.