by Ella Frank
He pushed open the door to the office, and as he walked inside he saw the lamp on Logan’s desk switched on, but that was the only light in the room as he shut the door behind him. He glanced around the familiar space, scanning for the man he’d come in search for, and when he landed on the three-seater couch, a slow smile spread across his lips.
Logan was stretched out along the leather cushions with one arm bent back behind his head and the other resting on top of the purple tie he’d worn this morning. His jacket was hanging on the coat rack just inside the door, and his ankles were crossed so that his black Italian leather shoes were propped on the arm of his couch.
Tate’s heart warmed at the sight as he quietly crossed the hardwood to look down at Logan, and when he got there, he took a second to really drink in the sight of him. Logan’s glasses almost magnified the dark lashes that swept his cheekbones, and the day’s dark stubble accentuated those smart-talking lips and chiseled jaw.
God, it wasn’t that Tate ever forgot how attractive Logan was. But after years of living with the man, and seeing him on a daily basis, it was easy, Tate supposed, to get used to somebody. To become accustomed to their face.
He crouched until he was at eye level with the sleeping man, and then reached out and brushed a stray piece of hair from Logan’s forehead. When Logan didn’t stir, not even a little, Tate grinned and rose to place one hand on the arm of the couch where Logan’s head was resting, and the other along the back of it. He then bent down to press a kiss to Logan’s lips, and a low rumble came from him as he shifted on the couch, instinctively angling his body toward Tate. He slipped his tongue out to trace Logan’s lower lip, and as the faint hint of scotch hit his taste buds, the arm that Logan had had bent up and behind his head came down and strong fingers were spearing into Tate’s hair as Logan’s eyes flashed open.
“’Bout time you got here,” Logan whispered, his mouth curving into a sensual smile. “You just missed Mr. Bianchi.”
Huh? Who was Mr. Bianchi? At the look of confusion on Tate’s face, Logan chuckled. “I’ll tell you about him when we go to dinner.”
“Okay…but just for the record, I’m right on time,” Tate said, and nipped Logan’s lip before he raised his head. “You fell asleep.”
“Hmm. I did, didn’t I?”
Tate nodded and brought his hand down from the back of the couch to take Logan’s chin between his thumb and forefinger. “You did. Congratulations on your win today, counselor. But I think we should postpone dinner tonight. You’re exhausted. You’ve been working too hard, Mr. Mitchell.”
Logan opened his mouth to protest, but Tate shook his head and placed a finger against his lips. “Just say, ‘You’re right, Tate.’”
Logan’s eyes flared at the order, but Tate was sure to hold his stare, having learned early on in their relationship that the only way to handle Logan Mitchell was to give him as good as he dished out. Case in point…
“You’re right, Tate,” Logan said, and then, quick as a whip, he sat up and took hold of Tate’s wrist, tugging him in close so Tate had to brace his palm against the back of the couch again. “Why don’t you take me home and put me to bed instead?”
Tate brushed his mouth against Logan’s and then straightened to his full height, holding his hand out. When Logan took it and stood, Tate said, “I’m pretty sure the only thing you’re going to be doing when we get into bed is sleeping.”
Logan frowned, and Tate trailed his fingers down his cheek and smiled. “I like how put out you seem by that notion. But really, let’s just go home. You can get a good night’s sleep, and tomorrow we’ll go out to dinner and celebrate the right way.”
“Are you sure you don’t mind?” Logan asked, placing a palm on Tate’s chest.
“I’m sure,” Tate said. “Plus, it’s been a while since I’ve spent an entire night with you. Call me selfish, but I want you functioning at full capacity when…you know.”
The light that sparked Logan’s eyes was full of devilry as he smoothed his palm down the front of Tate’s t-shirt to the hem and asked, “When…what?”
Tate’s focus shifted to the tip of Logan’s tongue as it flirted with his top lip, and when Logan’s fingers grazed against the bare skin of his abs, Tate took in a shaky breath before reaching down to halt Logan’s hand. “When I finally have your full attention.”
Logan leaned in so his cheek was resting against Tate’s and whispered in his ear, “You have it now.”
“Stop it.” Tate chuckled and turned to look Logan in the eye. “There’s a conference room full of clients three doors down from us, and you need a full night’s sleep. So quit teasing me.”
“But it’s so much fun,” Logan said. “And it’s been so long since I had the time to follow through in a way we’ll both remember.”
It really had been, and Tate was enjoying this teasing side reemerging from Logan as the burden of the past months melted away, but…
“One more night won’t kill you.”
“It might.”
Tate took Logan’s hand in his and shook his head. “It won’t. Now grab your things. The quicker you sleep tonight off, the quicker you can take me out to…”
“Spiaggia?” Logan suggested.
Oh, nice. He really is in a celebratory kind of mood. Tate and Logan had been talking about Spiaggia with Rachel the last time they’d been over at her and Cole’s for dinner. The both of them had raved about a dessert there that was, according to them, to die for. “That Italian place?”
Logan stopped by the coat rack to put his jacket on, and then he picked up his briefcase and said, “Yes. That’s the one.”
“But that place is booked solid, from what Rachel said.”
“It is, but Rachel has connections.”
Of course she does, Tate thought. Rachel and her brother, Mason, knew all the ins and outs when it came to the foodie scene in Chicago, since their restaurant, Exquisite, was one of the top dining experiences about town.
“So how about it?” Logan asked, reaching for Tate’s shirt and walking forward until he could kiss him lightly on the lips. When Logan pulled away, Tate made a grab for him, but Logan smirked. “Sorry, that’s all you get for now. Don’t want to be accused of teasing you.”
Tate’s eyes narrowed on Logan’s sinfully handsome face. “You fucker.”
Logan chuckled and opened the door, and as he walked out with Tate following behind, he called over his shoulder, “Not tonight I’m not.”
Tate couldn’t keep the ridiculous grin off his face at the smartass comment. It was so inherently Logan, and it wasn’t until right then that he realized how starved he’d been for his company, and tomorrow night he was going to be sure to let him know.
Chapter Three
“TO ALL OF your hard work finally paying off,” Tate said as he turned to Logan and raised his wine glass.
The twinkling lights of the art deco chandeliers reflected off the glass of Merlot the sommelier had just poured for Logan, as he angled his head toward the man seated beside him in one of the plush booths of Spiaggia.
Logan swirled the contents of his drink, letting the aromas blend together as he took in the way the candlelight from the table flickered over the bronze hue of Tate’s skin. “I’ll drink to that,” Logan said. “And to your patience throughout the months of prep and these last crazy weeks leading up to trial.”
Tate inclined his head, their eyes never wavering from each other, as they each took a sip of their wine. The night sky had enveloped the Windy City around an hour ago, and the large windows that flanked their side of the restaurant showcased a breathtaking view of Lake Michigan. Not that either of them seemed to care as they sat there enjoying, for the first time in months, a night out with no interruptions.
Tate placed his glass back on the table as Logan took another sip, closed his eyes, and hummed, savoring the smooth flavor.
“I assume you approve?” Tate asked, his raspy chuckle drawing Logan’s gaze.
As Logan lowered his glass, he allowed himself the pleasure of giving his date a thorough once-over. He had had to go to the office early that morning to get all the paperwork sent off for this case to finally be over, and the two of them had agreed to make the dinner reservation for tonight at eight. So, once Logan had gotten home and ready, he’d waited for Tate, who arrived a short time after.
His date for the evening had quickly showered and changed and then stepped out of their bedroom, and it had been all Logan could do not to tell him to turn the hell around and get back in there, because Tate looked…well, “fucking gorgeous” about summed it up.
With his curls brushing his forehead, ears, and collar of Tate’s light blue dress shirt, Logan’s fingers itched to spear through them and mess them all up as his eyes shifted to the sleeves Tate had casually rolled up his forearms. Around his neck, he wore a black tie with tiny white polka dots that was being kept in line by an elegant silver tie bar. But that wasn’t what had Logan’s mood going from the relaxed vibe he’d eased into at the thought of a night out to not so fucking relaxed. Oh, no… That had everything to do with the finely checkered charcoal and white vest and pants set that fit Tate’s lean torso and long legs in ways that made Logan’s cock hard and his desire to peel him out of the outfit the only thing on his brain.
“I do approve,” Logan said, finally answering Tate’s question. “It’s not too…sweet.”
“No?”
“No. It has hints of a sweet sophistication but an underlying raw earthy quality.” Logan winked. “It’s got spice.”
Tate laughed and raised his own wine back to his lips. He took another sip, and as he swallowed Logan followed the path the wine took down that strong throat. Then Tate placed his glass back on the table and picked up the menu. “You got all that from a sip of your wine? I’ll never understand you people.”
Logan reached for his own menu and flipped it open. “You people?”
The side of Tate’s lips quirked, but he didn’t take his eyes off the choices in front of him. “Yeah. You fancy wine-tasting people.”
Logan scoffed. “You’re a bar owner. You should be one of those people. It always astounds me that you’re not.”
“I mean, I like a glass of it,” Tate said, and then looked at the bottle on the table. “Or a couple of glasses. But all the tastes and flavors… I’ll leave that to your discerning palate.”
“I do have very particular tastes.”
Tate’s eyes crinkled at the edges. “Are we still talking about the wine?”
“Of course.” Logan looked back to his menu before he did something crazy like pull Tate across the table and—
“What are you thinking of having?”
You, was the first thing that popped into Logan’s head, but he shoved it aside, determined to have this night the way it should be had. That meant dinner, conversation, and then—
“Logan?”
Logan cleared his throat and studied the menu before looking up at Tate, who was watching him with an expression Logan figured matched his own. The heat and desire swirling in Tate’s eyes told him loud and clear that there was no way the man currently focused on him was bored or unhappy.
No siree. That look said something else entirely. Then Tate leaned over and brushed his lips against Logan’s, and…yeah, okay, maybe they should’ve gotten the physical part of the night out of the way first, because keeping his hands to himself right then was one of the hardest things Logan had ever done.
When Tate sat back and brought his menu up to read through his choices once more, Logan tried to remember how to breathe.
“So, what are you thinking?” Tate asked again.
“Give me a minute. I’m trying to remember how to think.”
Tate smirked, and Logan shifted in his seat.
“How about you sit back and let me order for you?” Tate said. “It’s not like I don’t know what you like. And tonight is supposed to be a celebration in your honor.”
“Oh, I like the sound of that,” Logan said, and shut his menu, curious to see if Tate would pick what he had decided on.
“I’m pretty sure I know what you like.”
“Really?”
“Yep. I know you very well, Mr. Mitchell,” Tate said, as Sergio, their waiter, stopped by their table with his hands clasped behind his back.
“All right, gentlemen. Have you made your choices?”
Tate nodded, turned toward the waiter, and pointed to the menu. “For an appetizer, can we please have the Polpo?”
Score one for Tate. The octopus with the sunchoke, blood orange, and jalapeño had been exactly what Logan had been looking at.
“Certainly, sir. And for your mains?”
Logan already knew that Tate would pick the—
“Gnocchi for me, thanks,” he said.
“Ahh yes, with the black truffle and ricotta. That’s one of my favorites,” Sergio said, and then turned in Logan’s direction. “And for you, sir?”
“I believe my fate lies in his hands tonight,” Logan said, aiming a smile up at Sergio. Yes, he’d let Tate direct this portion of the evening. But later…
“Oh, very well.” Sergio looked back at Tate, who pointed to the menu and said, “He’ll have the Bistecca alla Fiorentina. Cooked medium rare.”
“That’s a great choice. The porterhouse with the truffle hollandaise is one of our most popular items,” Sergio said, taking the menus from Tate. “You picked well. I’ll go and get your orders in and they should be out soon.”
As their waiter left, Logan looked over to see Tate take a slow sip of his wine before placing it back down and asking, “Well, how’d I do?”
Logan scoffed. The smug fucker grinning at him knew damn well he’d just nailed it, and that confidence made Logan love Tate even more. Never had he expected when they’d first met that four years later Tate would be the one person who knew every single thing about him. Including, apparently, the exact meal he would pick for himself at an upscale Italian restaurant.
And what exactly did that mean? That he’d become too familiar? Too…predictable? A shiver raced up his spine at the thought. God forbid. “You were spot-on.”
Tate lounged back in the booth and raised an arm to rest it along the seat, then he winked. “Told you I know you.”
“That you did.”
“Just like I know you’re sitting there wondering what it means that I do know you that well.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.” Tate chuckled. “It just means that I pay attention. It means, Logan, that whenever I’m with you, I’m watching to see what you like and what you don’t. And not just when it comes to eating.”
Logan’s mouth opened, and then he cleared his throat and said, “Is that right?”
“It is. But it’s been a while since we’ve gone out to dinner, so I wanted to make sure I still had it.”
Logan barely contained a groan as Tate’s fingers flirted with the hair on the back of his neck. “Oh, you’ve still got it. Trust me.”
Tate’s eyes lowered to his mouth, and when he said, “Good,” Logan had a feeling they had definitely moved on from discussing Tate’s ability to pick out his meal.
TATE COULDN’T KEEP his damn hands to himself as he sat in the restaurant inches away from the one man who never failed to make his heart thump and his cock hard.
Logan looked unbelievably hot tonight. Not that that was anything new, but damn. No one wore a suit the way he did. He was in all black, from his leather shoes, to his pants, to the pressed dress shirt he’d left open two buttons down so that Tate kept catching a glimpse of his chest. And with his coal-colored hair styled as preferred—neatly parted to the left—Logan looked like a wicked, dark promise of sex and sin wrapped up in a polished shell. A shell that Tate knew firsthand housed a filthy side unlike that of anyone he’d ever met.
As Tate continued to run his fingers up and down the back of Logan’s neck, Logan shut his eyes and arched back a fraction int
o his touch, and Tate said, “God, I’ve missed you.”
Logan turned his head, and when he opened his eyes, Tate said, “We need to talk about this, work out our schedules. Because I’m sick and tired of only seeing you for a handful of minutes here and there each day.”
“I know. I’m sorry. This case was—”
“Important,” Tate said, and removed his fingers so he could reach for the hand Logan had resting on the table. “I’m not just talking about you. I’m as much to blame as you are for our ships-in-the-night routine.”
Logan frowned. “No, you’re not. Your hours never changed. Mine did.”
“I know. But my hours are hardly conducive to a normal life.”
“We both knew that when you bought the bar,” Logan said. “That’s why the loft is so handy. It allows us to meet up and stay in the same place the nights you work until closing.”
That had been the arrangement, and it had worked perfectly for the first three years. He could be on hand as much as was needed, and as a new owner, Tate had wanted to do everything in his power to make sure The Popped Cherry ran smooth and was a success.
But that want had been realized. During the week, the bar was a hot spot for the young and middle-aged business crowd, and on the weekends, it was packed to the walls with anyone and everyone. He couldn’t have been prouder, and a lot of that success was due to Logan helping him in any way he was able to, and being one hundred percent supportive and understanding of the dream Tate had wanted to fulfill. Even when that had meant long nights and staying at the loft above the bar. But now it was time for them. Time to let their success enhance their lives, not hinder it.
Tate sat forward and looked at the man beside him. “I want to hire a manager for the bar.”
Logan was about to respond, but before he could, Sergio appeared and placed their appetizer on the table between them. They each served themselves a plate, and then Logan said, “Isn’t that what Amelia is? Did she do something wrong?”