The Right Words by Lane Hayes Page A

with his hands resting on his thighs. Not a good sign. Brandon was perpetually in motion. His stillness indicated he was extremely worried.
    “Luke, are you okay? Neil didn’t contact you or—”
    “No, of course not. I’m fine. It’s not me. It’s Michael.”
    “Whew. Damn, you scared me! So what the hell is going on with choosing tile that’s got you so wound up?”
    When he gave me an expectant look, I spilled the beans. Or half of them. I didn’t mention anything about Jamie’s blackmail letter, but I could use Bran’s unique take on how to process some of the unexpected twists in my new job. Specifically that Michael was gay, Jamie was a man, and the masseuse was most likely his new lover.
    “Geez. Everyone’s gay these days!”
    “Not helpful, Bran.”
    “Hmm. He must be deep in the closet. Poor boy. He plays a professional sport, he’s Latin, and religious… or at the very least comes from a religious background. It all points to a deep, dark cave-like existence. Complete with steamy sex from late-night callers like the hunky masseuse. If you hadn’t shared a glass of wine you wouldn’t have even known he was expecting anyone later, let alone heard them in the throes of passion.”
    “Throes of passion? Where did you get that line?” I scoffed.
    “A romance novel of course. Or maybe it was The Bachelorette .” Bran shrugged good-naturedly. “Whatever. He’s a closet case. So he’s gay. So what? You have to respect that he isn’t ready to be out and proud. Just because you caught him kissing his beau doesn’t mean he’s going to want to be your new gay buddy.”
    “You’re right. I know. I just wish he was old and ugly instead of tall, Latin, dreamy, and slightly intimidating. Deadly combo for me.”
    “You have a crush! Already?”
    “A little one. Don’t worry. I’ll talk myself out of it.” I sounded more confident than I felt.
    “Well, you’re a professional. You’ll get his house in order, and if things don’t work out with the masseuse and there is magic to be made… who knows?”
    “What? You’ll sell him a couple of ocean-blue pillows to match the color of my eyes?” I teased.
    Brandon gave a hearty guffaw and flashed a brilliant smile at me. “Exactly!”
     
     
    M ONDAY WOULD be awkward. I knew it. I tried hard to keep my head from playing out possible scenarios of how the morning might go, but it wasn’t easy. The therapist I’d been seeing since my summer “episode” had been quick to identify my tendency to guess and worry about other people’s reactions in an effort to control or minimize a negative response. She was right, of course. I’d played a game of mental combat for two years with Neil. I was finding it a challenge to remind myself I wasn’t responsible for anyone else’s reaction or how they processed conflict. Real or perceived. Maybe someday I’d get there.
    I was practically vibrating with nervous energy when I knocked on Michael’s front door Monday morning.
    No answer.
    I tried again, knocking a little harder. The door was opened a few moments later by a disheveled and very tired-looking Michael. Great. My heart sank as my mind began wandering. Maybe Jovan was back in the bedroom. Maybe I was responsible for coitus interruptus. Maybe he decided—
    “Coffee?”
    I gulped once and pasted an overly bright smile on my face.
    “Yes. Thank you. That sounds great.”
    Michael gave me a ghost of a smile before pivoting skillfully on his crutches and turning toward the kitchen. I took stock of my surroundings as I followed him to see if there were any traces of a lover who hadn’t made his exit yet. The Jeep wasn’t out front, though, so chances were good Jovan was long gone. I wondered if he’d just left and was instantly pissed at myself. This was not my business. I had to get a grip.
    I found Michael staring bleary-eyed at his commercial-grade coffeemaker as I entered the awful kitchen. It was funny to see the state-of-the-art appliance