Chapter One

Following the GPS on his phone through the streets of the heart of the French Quarter was like going on a little adventure. Matt kept his mind from replaying his last conversation with his brother by staying focused on his task. The past few weeks had been some of the worst of Matt's life. First, his father had passed away. Then Matt had been released from his contract with a pro hockey team. Now his brother—who had all the connections in the world—refused to help him find another position with a different team. It wasn't even like he asked for a pro spot. He was fine with returning to the minors. Just fuck. He was thinking about it again.

Matt could hardly blame Rider. Rider was the oldest and cleaned up everyone's messes. Matt's more than others'. Their parents had always treated Rider like a third parent. Somewhere along the line, Rider had become the only level-headed person in the entire family. Their mom was a narcissistic flake. While their dad had been amazing, once all three boys had left the nest, he had turned into a womanizing man-whore who diddled all the help. It was horrific. Their middle brother, Harlan, was exactly like him. At least three women claimed to have children by him. Harlan swore the kids weren't his. The entire family was nothing but exhausting levels of constant drama. It was no wonder Rider wanted nothing to do with them anymore. It hurt, though. At the end of the day, despite Rider's unwillingness to help him, Matt loved his big brother. He wished everything was different, especially him. He didn't want to disappoint Rider anymore.

Matt glanced at the ID inside the wallet in his hand. It wasn't like one he had ever seen before. Maybe his mystery man was from another country. In Matt's rush to get away from Rider, Matt had practically plowed over some poor guy. He had dropped his wallet in the collision and gotten away before Matt could return it. It was just the distraction Matt needed. A good deed for the day. Anything to make him feel better.

According to the ID inside, William Slater White was six-six and had green eyes and brown hair. In the picture, his eyes looked more brown than green. He also looked like an angry person. Considering Matt had been the one nearly knocked on his ass by the guy's massive body, Matt hoped he was nicer than he looked. Or, at least, appreciated getting his wallet back enough not to snap Matt in two. Matt hadn't touched the guy's credit cards or even looked to see if there was money inside.

As the thought flitted through his mind, the intrusive thoughts won. He opened the wallet again. Several hundred-dollar bills stared up at him. Fuck, the guy was probably in a panicked mess looking for this thing. Matt would be if he was the one in the guy's shoes.

A solid punch snapped Matt's head back in his distraction. The wallet was yanked from his fingers. Luckily, they had chosen the right one. Matt had taken much harder blows from bigger people and solid ice. Not to mention, Matt was ready for a good fight. He recovered immediately. Matt spun, catching sight of what looked to be a homeless man, running away with his loot. Thankfully, Matt was in better shape and he had spent the morning wishing a mother fucker would. He snatched the guy by the back of the shirt and had him on the ground in seconds. As soon as the thief hit the hard pavement, he handed back the wallet. Matt ignored his sputtered apologies. He snatched the wallet back. As he did, blood dripped onto the guy's face, making Matt realize his nose was bleeding.

"Fantastic."

Matt shoved the wallet in his front pocket along with his phone. He was close enough to his destination to remember the rest of the directions. Matt used the tail of his shirt to staunch the bleeding as he left his attacker behind. Every step he took felt angrier than the last. His bad luck never gave him a goddamn break. Without warning, the homeless guy came from nowhere again and slammed into Matt from behind. He went flying forward. Unlike the last cheap shot, Matt didn't have time to keep his balance. His forearms and forehead hit the pavement and slid, taking off several layers of skin. As quickly as the attack began, it was over. There was a slight tug on his foot and nothing more.

Matt rolled in time to catch the final wisps of the guy running away at top speed. There was no sense in giving chase. He hadn't gotten the wallet. Matt pushed to his feet, only to find one of his shoes gone. Not both. Just the one. He stared at his feet in confusion. People made a wide berth as if he was the problem. Matt took a deep breath and hobbled toward his destination. Blood dripped from several places. Matt didn't even try to stop it from happening. He had an errand. When that was complete, he would figure out what to do next. He couldn't call his brother. His pride recoiled at the idea. But maybe Matt could call Rider's assistant, Ben. Ben seemed to genuinely like him and care about his plight. It wouldn't be quite as stinging if Ben picked him up and took him to find a hotel. Matt just wanted to take a shower and sleep. Life had officially kicked his ass.

His destination came into view. It was a gorgeous four-story historic home on the corner of two streets. Houses in this area might not seem like a great or quiet place to live, but they went for millions. People either loved or hated the French Quarter. Those who loved it really loved it.

Matt hobbled his way to the front door and rang the bell. He hoped the guy was home. It occurred to Matt he hadn't thought this far ahead. He had no plan if no one answered. Thankfully, the door swung wide. A red-haired woman with freckles smattering her face and bright green eyes stared at him in horror.

"George! We have another beggar at the door."

She had such a thick Irish accent, it took Matt a moment to make out her words. He held up his hands, as if he could physically stop her from thinking he was there for nefarious reasons. "No. I was attacked." He realized that made him sound like he was indeed there for help. Matt tried again. "A man I crossed on the sidewalk earlier dropped his wallet. The ID inside has this address and the name William White."

She eyed him with more than a little suspicion. "Let me see it, then."

Matt dug the wallet out and flipped it open for her to see the ID.

She spent a moment eyeing it hard. Finally, with a sharp nod, she waved him inside. "That'd be Slater for sure. All right, then. Follow me."

Matt took a step.

Her gaze dropped to his feet. "Wipe your… shoe."

Matt wiped his one lonely shoe on the mat and stepped inside the most beautiful house he had ever seen. That said a lot, since he came from money. His father and grandfather both had played professional football. His grandmother had been an Olympic gold medalist. Matt had lived in some gorgeous places in his life. This was different. The place smelled like old money and rich history. He looked in every direction, trying to take in the polished wood and the narrow set of dual staircases. A grand chandelier hung from the high ceiling. Everything looked polished and just beautiful. Then Matt stood before the same man he had almost plowed over earlier. Apparently, he went by Slater. Matt's brain screeched to a halt past that thought. He was stunning. The house paled by comparison.

"Your Grace, this gentleman here found your wallet on the sidewalk. He's come to return it. I made him show it to me. It looks to be true."

Slater's dark gaze slid the woman's way. "Thank you, Aisling."

She bobbed her head and scurried away. All Matt could do was blink. Your Grace? What the fuck did that mean? Maybe he was a huge narcissist. Not that it mattered. Matt was used to that. His mom was the queen of narcissism.

Slater focused on him. "You found my wallet," he said, pulling Matt from his thoughts. He had a really nice accent. It was like an Irish-British mixture. Matt wanted to hear it again.

"Yes. Sorry. We ran into each other on the sidewalk earlier. You dropped your wallet in the process. I tried to catch you, but I wasn't quick enough." He held out the wallet.

Slater crossed the room. When he got closer, Matt realized his eyes were actually dark green. He reached for the wallet. "Is that why it looks as if you've been attacked by raccoons?"

Matt had gotten lost staring at Slater. "What?"

Slater smiled. "You said you chased me. Is that why you're hurt?"

Matt glanced down at himself. "No. That's not why. A homeless man snatched your wallet, and I had to tackle him to get it back. Then he attacked me from behind and…" Matt hesitated. He felt dumb as hell. "He stole my shoe," he admitted, trying not to blush.

Slater's gaze dropped.

Matt's did too. He eyed his bare foot.

Their chins lifted at the same time, and their gazes collided.

"Well," Slater said, sounding unmoved. "I appreciate your sacrifice. Let me get you cleaned up and my driver will take you home. What's your name?"

"Matt, and that's not necessary. I actually live in Canada. Halifax." He didn't know why he added that last part.

"Sit down, Matt."

Matt shook his head. "I'm just in town for my brother's…" Matt snapped his teeth together. He would not tell this complete stranger all his troubles. Matt had to stop being everyone's burden. He had already lost his oldest brother over it. "I'll call a cab."

"Sit down, Matt. That wasn't a request."

Matt blinked at Slater's sudden hard tone. It was obvious Slater wasn't used to being disobeyed. Matt eyed the room. Every sitting surface was cream-colored. "I don't want to bleed on your furniture." It looked expensive.

Slater's hardened expression was most definitely a man irritated by backtalk. "Do I look to you as if I value furniture over your health?"

Actually, yes, but Matt didn't think he should say that, so he said nothing.

Slater sighed. He set his wallet on a nearby bookcase. The move made Matt realize, even with his earlier inspection of seating options, he hadn't truly noticed anything about the room. His entire focus had been on Slater. He was a big guy with a hard body. The suit jacket he had worn when Matt saw him earlier was missing. His white dress shirt had the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, showing off muscular and tanned forearms. Damn. He was a sexy guy. As a bisexual vers, Matt didn't have a type, really. Sometimes, he preferred a twink. Today, he preferred Slater.

Slater gently took his arm. "Come."

Chill bumps rose on Matt's skin at the order. He could already hear that demand under much better circumstances. Still, he tried putting distance between them. "Your clothes are too nice to ruin."

The look Slater gave him could have frozen even the city of New Orleans to ice. "I generally don't repeat myself."

Matt pursed his lips and tried to be quiet. It was obvious he was insulting Slater with his arguments. Matt had just felt so useless and like the biggest of fuck-ups lately. He didn't want Slater to see him as those things. Matt wanted to leave there with Slater, seeing him as a guy who would fight for his wallet—not the loser he actually was.

Slater led him to a wingback chair and urged him to sit. Matt silently obeyed, hoping to speed up his leaving. He watched as Slater crossed the room and pushed a button on the wall.

"Aisling, please bring some hot water, towels, and the first aid kit. Tell George to find Matt a clean t-shirt and bring some slippers."

"Right away, Your Grace."

Curiosity won. "Why does she keep referring to you as Your Grace?"

A sexy smile flashed his way. Butterflies stirred in Matt's stomach. Slater made a dismissive gesture. "Because I am the Duke of Kilshire."

"Where?" Matt heard the disbelief in his voice. Life had never been more surreal. He wondered exactly how hard he had hit his head.

"Ireland." Slater didn't sound insulted. Merely matter of fact.

"It didn't say that on your license."

Slater laughed. "I suppose it doesn't."

Matt felt dumb as hell. "What does that even mean? I mean, I realize that's some sort of royalty, right?"

A soft chuckle fell from Slater's lips. Every time Matt thought he couldn't get sexier, he did. "Honestly? It means very little in Ireland and even less here. To me, anyhow."

Matt had no idea what that meant. Truthfully, he knew next to nothing about Ireland. He hadn't even known people still had titles there. Matt didn't know how to act.

Thankfully, Aisling came busting into the room, followed by a tall, lanky guy. Matt assumed he was George.

"I'll take those."

With a bob of their heads, they handed several items to Slater before disappearing again. Slater returned to his side. He set his haul on the coffee table and went down on one knee, making them eye level. Matt couldn't look away from his face. Most of it was covered in thick hair, but still didn't hide how sharp his lines were. Matt couldn't think of a single thing to say. He was mesmerized.

Slater gently moved Matt's arms, turning them so he could inspect them. From there, his gaze moved over Matt's face. Matt stayed still as Slater dipped a hand towel in hot water and began carefully wiping dirt from Matt's wounds.

A slight smile touched his gorgeous lips. "You're not even flinching."

"I play—" Matt paused and corrected himself. "I played professional hockey for the Canadian league. Ice isn't more forgiving than pavement. This is nothing compared to having half my teeth knocked out in one blow."

Slater didn't look away from his task. "You said you're here to visit your brother."

His tone and accent were so soothing. Matt found himself saying things he never intended. Things he didn't want to admit. "Actually, it was a bit of a panicked trip. I was unexpectedly released from my contract yesterday. My brother is the Chuckers' general manager. I don't know what I thought he could do." Sadness washed over Matt. "I guess I just didn't have anywhere else to turn."

Slater nodded. He delicately cleaned Matt's face, wiping away the blood. The kindness at his lowest had Matt fighting back tears. "Does your brother intend to help?"

"No." Matt nearly choked on the word. He hoped Slater didn't expect him to explain. Matt didn't think his throat would work any longer.

Slater's gaze met his. Everything fell away. Matt forgot why his chest hurt. He forgot everything. "Where are you staying?"

"Nowhere yet. I'd hope to stay at my brother's, but I guess that's out now."

Slater nodded. "Okay. Do you have luggage somewhere?"

Matt blinked. In a flash, he realized how truly pathetic he was. He swallowed past the lump growing in his throat. "Um." He sniffed. "No. I kind of jumped on a flight with no real plan." Matt blinked, trying not to cry. "I guess it was pretty stupid of me to think I could count on family."

Slater's hand ran down his arm until he held Matt's hand. He felt steady. Matt breathed easier with Slater holding him, even in the smallest of ways. "You'll stay here."

Matt held Slater's stare. He didn't hear a single word Slater said. Peace settled into his soul. Matt savored it while he could. He didn't know what it was about the man, but Matt felt safe. Matt didn't want to move or blink. Slater White was a dream come true. With Matt's luck, that meant he had a concussion.

Holy gorgeous sky-blue eyes. Slater kept forcing himself to focus on everything but Matt's face. He was a bloodied mess. But every inch of skin Slater cleaned uncovered the sweetest beauty. Matt looked beat up and defeated. He was obviously the hottest of messes. The guy had jumped on a plane to a whole other country without even an extra set of underpants.

"Let's get this off you." Slater urged Matt to let him have his shirt. The gray t-shirt was completely covered in blood.

Matt lifted each arm as Slater undressed him. Wow. He was… whoa. Matt had said he played professional sports. Slater believed it. A feeling Slater hadn't experienced in years—one that had disappeared when Shea destroyed him—rose in his chest. He cleaned the blood from Matt's hard chest and rippled stomach. Matt had done this protecting Slater's wallet. He obviously needed a keeper.

"No amount of money was worth you hurting yourself like this."

Matt looked vulnerable. His sweet eyes were holding back tears. "I may be useless, but I did something right today."

That quiet confession broke a wall inside Slater. Matt needed him. An old character trait he had tried to bury roared to life inside him. Matt said he had gone to his brother for help and been told no. That enraged Slater. This was obviously a good man with a kind heart.

With his wounds cleaned, Slater coated them in antiseptic ointment. He removed Matt's remaining shoe and socks before sliding the slippers onto his feet. With Matt as patched as he could get, Slater stood. "Come on. I'll show you where you can stay. You can rest, if you'd like."

To his surprise, Matt stood without argument. Matt struck him as the prideful type. He wondered if the shock of the day had finally set in. Slater headed for the stairs and then changed his mind. He wouldn't make Matt climb the stairs after the day he'd had. Slater led Matt into his office, where he had a private elevator. It only went to one floor: the third—where his bedroom was located. Slater tried not to look at Matt. His thoughts raged. The feeling in his chest wouldn't wane. He hadn't cared to protect anyone since he had wasted his time on another lost boy. Since he had been played by a master was more like it. Shea had only pretended to need him. All he really wanted was Slater's money… and brother. This was different. It wouldn't be the same. Matt's surprise at learning Slater's title had been real. There was no orchestrating the circumstances of their meeting. Slater didn't need to panic.

He forced his brain on lockdown before his fury got the best of him again. It had been almost two years since Slater caught Shea in their bed with someone else. He shouldn't still be this angry. Slater would help Matt for one night. That was the least he could do. The tightness in his chest and shoulders grew by the minute. He nearly growled in frustration at himself. Then the lift door opened on the third floor and Slater glanced Matt's way. His heart squeezed. The tension inside him dissipated. Matt was broken. Life had beaten him. It was in his eyes. Slater could fix him.

Internally, Slater shook his head. One night. That was it. He would do what he could for one night. Slater pulled back the covers on the bed in the bedroom next to his. "Rest." He moved to the window and pulled the blackout drapes. "You've had a rough day. A nap will make a lot of things look better." Slater turned to find Matt standing next to the bed, shifting from one foot to the other. He looked uncomfortable.

"You don't know me. Why would you help me?"

That was a good question. "Why did you bring me that wallet, even endangering yourself along the way?"

Matt shifted from foot to foot again. He looked away. "It was the right thing to do."

"Yet most people still wouldn't have made the choice you did."

Matt met his stare. His broken expression made Slater wish he could hold him. "I don't get the chance to feel good about myself often. For once, I wasn't the fuck-up."

The confession spoke to Slater on a level Matt couldn't realize. Slater was the black sheep. The disappointment. He was the son refusing to play the pompous fool in Ireland. The way his station demanded, according to his mother.

"I think you were amazing today. Please rest. It seems as if you haven't slept for a while."

With a nod, Matt climbed into bed. He moved awkwardly, obviously trying not to get blood or ointment on anything.

With a barely suppressed sigh, Slater moved to the bed and covered Matt, tucking him in. "There. Snug as a bug in a rug." A pain sliced through Slater as the words left his lips. This wasn't Shea. Matt wasn't his boy. "Sleep." Even Slater heard the gruff note in his tone. He walked away before he did anything else dumb. Matt would sleep. Slater would build a wall against this new complication in his life. He had always been weak when it came to needy men. Slater had promised himself he wouldn't do this again. He had to keep that vow.