Chapter One
I T WAS childish, that was true, but at the moment, with my adrenaline pumping, the flush heating my body, and my heart pounding in my ears, I couldn’t think of a better option.
I ran. Fast.
I had been strolling on my way to The Colonial, one of the many bed and breakfasts along the seashore in Mangrove, when I walked by the patio of Brenner Manor, one of the most exclusive B&Bs, the high end of the lot, and saw him.
It was just a quick glance, but as I would have known him anywhere, the man’s features forever stamped on my memory, I’d jolted to a stop and stood there staring like an idiot. Blessedly, my brain kicked in and I got control of my muscles back. I had pivoted and run down an immaculate alley paved in brick, past white picket fences to the street on the other side. Now I flew by The Lighthouse, that good bar where they mixed handmade cocktails, then by Cuppa Joe, where everyone got their coffee all day, and around the side of Wick and Wand, which sold spells and supplies to both Wiccans and posers. When I cleared Schnapsidee, the German restaurant that made the best Jägerschnitzel I’d ever had—German dumplings with mushrooms—I stopped running and ducked into another alley, this one shaded though still stunning, and leaned up against a wall.
It took long minutes for me to catch my breath and then parse what I’d seen.
Holy. Shit.
After ten years, there he was, Britton Lassiter in the flesh. What the hell was he doing in Mangrove, Florida?
The last time I’d seen him was in New Orleans. He had just graduated from college and had taken a road trip with some buddies from his home in Scarsdale, New York, down to the French Quarter before he started Harvard Law School in the fall. I learned that information walking with him while his buddies were drinking on Bourbon Street. He’d been different from the others—or so I’d thought. In the end his only agenda had been to satisfy his curiosity about being in bed with a man. What I’d taken for more—which was stupid after only two days—had been meaningless to him. I learned that the hard way when he wasn’t where he’d promised to be.
Britton had asked me to go to Boston with him. But when I’d shown up, bag packed, ready to start my dream, he was nowhere to be found. At the time I thought it was the end of me, but it turned out to be only the beginning. Because, really, no one rode in on a white horse and saved you from your life; everybody had to do that for themselves. I was no exception.
The Army took me and trained me, and four years later I was out and made it to Florida as fast as I could to see a buddy who was medically discharged before I finished my tour. When my friend’s mother asked me about my dreams for the future, I had an epiphany, one she was more than happy to help me with.
I heard a car close to me, but even though it broke into my memories, I didn’t look up until I heard a question fired at me. “What the hell are you doing?”
Turning to the sound of the voice, I found that same friend, Cosimo Renaldi—Coz—staring at me from behind the wheel of his Crown Victoria. “Resting,” I answered.
“I thought you were being chased by a hellhound or something, when I saw you blow by,” he said, scowling, putting the car into Park in the middle of the street before getting out. As he came toward me, I took a moment, as I always did, to admire his height, his hard, muscular build, the V-shape of his torso and the breadth of his shoulders. I had always been an aficionado of gorgeous Italian men, and Coz was a classic in every way but for his skin, a beautiful rich bronze. I’d seen him naked enough times to know that he was a deep tan all over. It made my mouth dry just to think about it. He was sex on two legs and I never got tired of looking at him.
“I thought you had to check on the Italian cypresses at The Colonial this morning.”
“Yeah,” I gasped, still trying to suck in oxygen, made
I T WAS childish, that was true, but at the moment, with my adrenaline pumping, the flush heating my body, and my heart pounding in my ears, I couldn’t think of a better option.
I ran. Fast.
I had been strolling on my way to The Colonial, one of the many bed and breakfasts along the seashore in Mangrove, when I walked by the patio of Brenner Manor, one of the most exclusive B&Bs, the high end of the lot, and saw him.
It was just a quick glance, but as I would have known him anywhere, the man’s features forever stamped on my memory, I’d jolted to a stop and stood there staring like an idiot. Blessedly, my brain kicked in and I got control of my muscles back. I had pivoted and run down an immaculate alley paved in brick, past white picket fences to the street on the other side. Now I flew by The Lighthouse, that good bar where they mixed handmade cocktails, then by Cuppa Joe, where everyone got their coffee all day, and around the side of Wick and Wand, which sold spells and supplies to both Wiccans and posers. When I cleared Schnapsidee, the German restaurant that made the best Jägerschnitzel I’d ever had—German dumplings with mushrooms—I stopped running and ducked into another alley, this one shaded though still stunning, and leaned up against a wall.
It took long minutes for me to catch my breath and then parse what I’d seen.
Holy. Shit.
After ten years, there he was, Britton Lassiter in the flesh. What the hell was he doing in Mangrove, Florida?
The last time I’d seen him was in New Orleans. He had just graduated from college and had taken a road trip with some buddies from his home in Scarsdale, New York, down to the French Quarter before he started Harvard Law School in the fall. I learned that information walking with him while his buddies were drinking on Bourbon Street. He’d been different from the others—or so I’d thought. In the end his only agenda had been to satisfy his curiosity about being in bed with a man. What I’d taken for more—which was stupid after only two days—had been meaningless to him. I learned that the hard way when he wasn’t where he’d promised to be.
Britton had asked me to go to Boston with him. But when I’d shown up, bag packed, ready to start my dream, he was nowhere to be found. At the time I thought it was the end of me, but it turned out to be only the beginning. Because, really, no one rode in on a white horse and saved you from your life; everybody had to do that for themselves. I was no exception.
The Army took me and trained me, and four years later I was out and made it to Florida as fast as I could to see a buddy who was medically discharged before I finished my tour. When my friend’s mother asked me about my dreams for the future, I had an epiphany, one she was more than happy to help me with.
I heard a car close to me, but even though it broke into my memories, I didn’t look up until I heard a question fired at me. “What the hell are you doing?”
Turning to the sound of the voice, I found that same friend, Cosimo Renaldi—Coz—staring at me from behind the wheel of his Crown Victoria. “Resting,” I answered.
“I thought you were being chased by a hellhound or something, when I saw you blow by,” he said, scowling, putting the car into Park in the middle of the street before getting out. As he came toward me, I took a moment, as I always did, to admire his height, his hard, muscular build, the V-shape of his torso and the breadth of his shoulders. I had always been an aficionado of gorgeous Italian men, and Coz was a classic in every way but for his skin, a beautiful rich bronze. I’d seen him naked enough times to know that he was a deep tan all over. It made my mouth dry just to think about it. He was sex on two legs and I never got tired of looking at him.
“I thought you had to check on the Italian cypresses at The Colonial this morning.”
“Yeah,” I gasped, still trying to suck in oxygen, made
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