Chapter 10

Reece

I don't think I thought through the intricacies of standing in Asher's home with him and his husband. As a concept, it sounded perfectly fine. In reality, it's like I've landed myself in a German fairytale, and I'm the lone traveler seeking food and shelter from an old married couple who have eyes only for each other.

Rightfully, I feel out of place. An intruder. I find myself pulling at the sleeves of my jersey, unsure of where to place myself while they get on with preparing for dinner. I do my best not to stare at Asher, but it's nearly impossible.

He's still so beautiful. If God created him, then he's God's favorite. He is magnificent to look at, as far as magnificent men went: tall and broad. Strong features coming together attractively on his perfectly symmetrical face – a prominent nose, square chin, well-cut jaw and intelligent eyes. He still has his baseball cap on that he had when I arrived, and now, as Sawyer passes him, he reaches up and turns that cap backwards. They share a moment, laughing lightly, and Asher shakes his head, removing the cap altogether. As always, Asher's dark brown hair is cut neatly and styled away from his face

To distract myself, I focus on the small dwelling, admiring the simplicity of it all. I doubt there are more than two bedrooms in this cottage. It appears to have an upstairs. It feels cozy and safe. Like his house back home when we were kids, only here, everything is made of wood.

On the kitchen counter is a large bowl with odds and ends in it: keys, yarn, a nail clipper, and other things I can't make out. A very lived-in thing to have. Asher's mom used to have one of those bowls on her kitchen counter too.

On the mantle above the fireplace are three framed pictures. One of Sawyer and Asher – presumably the day they got married. Next to it, a picture of a set of twin girls. Teenagers. Sawyer's family? The resemblance is there. And the third picture is of a baby. Newborn. I've avoided looking at that photo since I arrived. I've come up with several reasons for why that baby can't be Asher and Sawyer's, starting with the fact that he'd have mentioned something by now. Or the fact that you can't see any other evidence in the immediate vicinity that a baby lives here. I don't know why the thought of Asher having a baby hurts so much.

When Sawyer returns, he's changed into a pair of jeans and a white t-shirt, and he's got an armful of logs pressed against his chest.

His hair is wet and some strands stick to his forehead. The effort it takes to take my eyes off him surprises me. If someone were to point me and Sawyer out as two men Asher has loved, they wouldn't be able to pinpoint his type.

Sawyer and I are polar opposites.

He's, maybe, an inch shorter than Asher, but bigger. Where I'm lean and hardly muscled with a clean-shaven face, Sawyer has broad shoulders, thick arms. Rough hands. And the scruff on his face is . . . attractive. His black hair is a little misbehaved. My hair is long too, but, well, I brushed mine.

Sawyer makes quick work of getting the fireplace going and I'm grateful because it's fucking cold in here. His back is to me and when he reaches forward his t-shirt rides up, exposing the bare skin of his lower back. They must have the best sex.

Oh my God. What the f—?

If they ask, I'll say the redness in my face is because of the fire.

I remove my scarf and remaining glove just as Sawyer straightens up and turns around. He looks at the items in my hand. "Better?" he asks with a smile.

My heart stutters. He started the fire for me? No. I don't think so. "Uh, yes. Thank you."

When he passes me to go to the kitchen, I have to turn in the direction he's walking to follow the scent he's left in the air.

He smells like . . . He smells like Asher. Asher must have not changed his body wash. And of course they must share things.

Involuntarily, I inhale deeper. I could never forget Asher's scent. I used to rub myself all over him so I could take his smell home with me after seeing him so when I slept, I would have him in my bed with me. We were only seventeen but we loved each other like we had lived lifetimes already. And now, inhaling Asher's scent as it radiates from another man makes me—

What am I thinking? It's not sexy smelling Asher on someone else. I put my unsettling thoughts away and step toward the counter. I should ask if they need help.

Watching them, my stomach is sick with feelings I can't yet make sense of. I knew what coming here entailed. None of this is something I haven't thought about and expected. Still, the familiarity with which they move about their home rips into me like giant claws. I'm bleeding on the inside, watching someone else move in such close proximity to the man I still consider my best friend, if not something more.

It's cringe-worthy to think I would come here and not feel like dragging Asher away from his husband and telling this Sawyer that he's my best friend. Sawyer didn't know Asher the way I did.

But it's all shit. I'm the one who doesn't know Asher.

Sawyer turns away from the cupboard where he's been gathering cutlery. He hands me a handful of forks, knives and spoons. "Could you set these on the table, Reece?" he says. His smile . . .

I give myself a mental shake. "Sure," I say, thankful for a chance to be of some use.

Asher, who's been checking on the steak on the opposite side of the kitchen, brings the pan to the island and slides it across the surface. "Sawyer, you can take this."

The dinner table is small. Just enough to fit the space provided for dining. We sit down to eat, forks clinking as we help ourselves. Asher pours each of us a glass of wine.

"Have you been to Iowa before?" Sawyer asks me once we've all settled down with our plates.

"Uhm, no, actually. I've been to a lot of places but not Iowa."

"It's quiet out here. Not like the big cities you're probably used to in Arizona."

"Yeah, but . . . I think – I think I like the quiet. It's different, yes. But nice." Asher smiles at me across the table, but he's yet to participate in the conversation. To try and ease some of the awkwardness, I tell Sawyer, "I'm staying at the Fairway Guesthouse . From what I saw online, it looks like a nice, quiet place to spend a week or two. I liked the rustic feel."

"Awesome."

"Sawyer chopped up plenty of wood for the construction of that guesthouse," Asher says.

I switch my gaze back to Sawyer. He just shakes his head. "Nothing to it," he mumbles.

"Sawyer is a logger. Most hard-working logger in these parts," Asher continues. The pride in his voice makes my chest ache.

While we eat, I watch with interest, as Asher fills Sawyer's plate as he finishes his food. Replacing pieces of meat and adding vegetables to his plate several times. Sawyer hardly seems to notice as he eats the infinite supply of food magically appearing on his plate. It's odd, and also none of my business.

Eventually, curiosity is killing me about the picture on the mantle. "The picture of the baby . . . ?" I start, but don't know how to finish.

Sawyer turns his head in the direction of the mantle. "That's Ezra. Our nephew. My sister's baby."

"He's two months old," Asher says.

I wish I was friends with them so I could ask to see the baby one day.

After dinner, it is slightly less uncomfortable. I help clear the table. Sawyer loads the dishwasher. It's very . . . domesticated, and it's impossible not to feel out of place.

"Are you alright?" Asher asks when he hands me a tube of hand cream after I've washed and dried my hands.

"Yes, of course. Thank you for dinner. Everything was great."

His gaze lingers. Does he have something to say? Something important? I understand that this isn't a catch-up. I understand that this is just a courtesy Asher has extended to me – for which I'm very grateful. But is there something still left unsaid?

If there is, he doesn't share it. Instead, he asks Sawyer, "Dessert?"

Sawyer nods.

The smiles between them make me rage with jealousy and shake with a sadness so deep my bones feel fractured. The fact that I cannot find a single thing wrong with this picture makes my heart bleed with blood and tears. Asher used to look at me the way he's looking at Sawyer now.

I hate the fact that there is someone else in this world who loves Asher the way I do – did. Do .

"No one will ever love you as much as I do," I told him one day.

Yet, right here, right before my eyes, there's someone who does.

"Cake, Reece?" Sawyer asks me.

"I really should go," I say. But the thought in my head when I decline the invitation is about how Sawyer's scruff might feel against Asher's palm. Or . . . his thighs. Does it burn? I clench my teeth against the unintended visual.

Asher was always clean-shaven – still is, it seems, given his clean look today. I have never felt the scrape of a man's scruff.

"Stay for dessert," Asher says.

I try to decline again, but Sawyer is already on the other side of the island, pulling dessert plates out of a drawer.

"It's chocolate with caramel filling. Asher said it's your favorite," Sawyer says. And, with a smile, he adds, "It's Asher's too."

Of course, I know that.

"Stay," Asher tells me again.

I dip my head. "Okay."

We eat dessert in the living room. Sawyer hardly eats the chocolate cake, but he eats every crumb of the apple pie slices on his plate, including the slices Asher replaces. Sawyer hardly seems to notice that his plate now has an endless supply of apple pie.

Sawyer tells me that I'll like the Fairway Guesthouse . He knows the owner so if there's anything I need or something isn't up to standard I can just tell him and he'll have a word with Mrs. Dawson.

It takes a great deal of effort to avoid thinking about how well Asher has chosen a husband.

I might have chosen someone like Sawyer Reed too, if it were not for my endless love for Asher.