“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 into 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?”

Tate laughed as he put his napkin in his lap. “Like what?”

“I don’t know. But why else would you fire her?” Logan picked up his fork and pointed it at him. “Did she hit on you?”

“No, she didn’t hit on me.”

“Hey, it’s not that strange of a question.”

Logan was joking, of course, and Tate rolled his eyes. “She was the part-time manager, yes. But I’d been thinking about hiring on someone full time. I offered her the position but she’s going back to school next semester and handed in her two weeks’ notice instead.”

“That bitch,” Logan said with a smile as he put his fork down and brought his napkin to his mouth. “Didn’t you tell her that education rots the brain?”

“Says the lawyer at the table.”

“Hang on, let me get this straight. You want to hire a full-time manager so…?”

“So I can get into bed at a decent hour with you.”

The expression that crossed Logan’s features was a mix of surprise and pleasure. Tate could see that Logan was happy about what he’d just said, but was also unsure if it was what Tate really wanted. It was.

“Are you sure?” Logan asked as he picked his knife and fork back up.

“I am.” When Logan took another bite of his food and glanced at him, Tate smiled. “Business is doing great. The staff are all reliable and well trained. It runs like a well-oiled machine, minus the fact I’ll have to train a new person. But Logan, it’s time.”

Once Logan’s plate was empty, he sat back and contemplated Tate with narrowed eyes. “And you’re not just doing this because of what’s been going on recently? Because that was a one-off—”

“Was it?” Tate asked, genuinely wanting to know if Logan’s taste of the big cases, the glory, had made him want more of it.

“Yes, it was. I was just telling Cole how exhausted I am.” Logan shook his head. “I sound like an old man.”

“Thirty-seven is not old.”

“Shit, don’t remind me,” Logan said, wincing. “But the truth is, this case sort of stumbled its way into my lap. It started with Renate and then snowballed.”

“But now more people with similar cases will seek you out. Are you sure you don’t want—”

“Tate?”

“Yes?”

“I’m sure. I don’t want that. Yes, it was an incredible feeling sticking it to Berivax and Paul Bishop in his horrible tweed suit. Actually…” Logan leaned over and fingered the hem of his vest. “Is this tweed?”

“It is.”

“Okay, I’ve changed my mind. Not all tweed is horrible, this is really…” Logan seemed sidetracked as he played with one of the four black buttons running down the center of Tate’s body.

“Logan?”

“Oh, right.” Logan sat back and removed his hand. “It was a once-in-a-lifetime case. One I don’t wish to repeat anytime soon. But Cole and I need to talk about a few things regarding the business, and then we’ll sit down with you and Rach. But trust me, I don’t want that to become the regular.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. You aren’t the only one who missed this. Missed us.”

“Glad to hear it,” Tate said as their plates were cleared away, and Logan reached for the bottle of wine and refilled each of their glasses. “So, okay, if you’re not going to be working any more crazy-big cases, I won’t work past…eleven.”

“Someone else will close for you?” Logan asked.

“Yes,” Tate agreed. “And every other weekend off.”

Logan’s eyes widened. “Are you serious?”

“As a heart attack.”

“So Monday through Friday you’ll be home before midnight, and every other weekend off?”

“Yeah. That’s the plan. Is that all right with you?”

Logan appeared completely gobsmacked, and when he finally recovered, he said, “In all the time we’ve been together, I’ve never had you on the weekends.”

“Now that’s not accurate. I’m pretty sure you’ve had me on every day of the week at some point.”

Logan’s lips curved. “True,” he said, and then took Tate’s hand. “You really mean it, though, don’t you?”

“Yep. We’ll be just like normal people.” As soon as the word normal left his tongue, Logan frowned and Tate interlaced their fingers. “There’s nothing wrong with being normal, you know.”

“I never said there was.”

“You don’t have to. It’s written all over your face. There are certain words that make your warning bells go off.” Tate laughed. “And that’s one of them.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Logan said, and freed his hand.

“Yes, I do. Remember, I know you.”

“Oh yeah. Then what are the others?”

Tate was about to answer when Sergio arrived with their main course, so he waited while their plates were placed in front of them, and then he turned to Logan and said in much the same manner one would check off a checklist, “Settled. Domestic. And committed.”

Logan held Tate’s gaze for one, two, three seconds, and then reached for his wine and swallowed it down. A loud laugh leaving Tate. Ahh, there’s my little commitment-phobe.

“Eat your damn food, Tate.”

That only made him laugh harder. Because while those three words made Logan nearly hyperventilate, Tate knew that Logan loved him more than anyone ever had or would. He’d proven it time and time again in his actions, even if the words still freaked the guy out.

But, for now, Tate would let him think on it and eat his dinner, content in the knowledge that whether Logan wanted to admit it or not, he was extremely pleased with the new normal that was about to become their lives.

* * *

THE ENTIRE WAY through dinner, Logan could feel Tate’s gaze on him. After their little discussion, he had decided it best to keep quiet for a while. He was caught somewhere between fucking ecstatic that he would finally be able to plan things to do with Tate on the weekends, and having an anxiety attack over the fact he liked the idea of the two of them finally settling down. Jesus, that even sounded weird in his head.

As he finished the final mouthful of his steak, Logan rubbed a hand over his stomach and sighed. “That was delicious.”

Tate was still finishing off the last couple of bites of his gnocchi, but he nodded in agreement.

“I can’t believe we’ve never been here before.”

“I know,” Tate said, tossing his napkin by his plate now that he was done. “The food was amazing.”

“It sure was.”

Just as they settled back against the cushioned booth, Sergio arrived at their table and looked at the empty plates. “I see you’ve both finished.”

“Yes. Thank you,” Logan said. “We were just saying how delicious dinner was.”

“That’s what we like to hear,” Sergio said as he stacked up the plates and then dug a small menu from the pocket of the long black apron he had wrapped around his waist. “Do you have room for dessert?”

“Oh God,” Logan said, and looked over at Tate, who’d taken the menu.

“Yeah, let us take a look and see what you’ve got.”

Sergio smiled. “Take your time.”

As he rushed off, Logan said, “You’re ambitious.”

Tate waggled his eyebrows as he scanned the menu and then turned it Logan’s way, pointing. “That’s what Cole and Rachel were talking about.”

Logan read the description of the Torta Opera. An Italian-style opera torte with salted caramel gelato, namelaka, and gold leaf accents. Yep, that sounds right up Cole’s alley.

“Share a piece?” Tate suggested.

“Sounds good to me,” Logan said as Tate turned the menu back to himself, then, right before he closed it, he spotted something, opened his mouth, and then shut it again before looking over at Logan.

When Tate didn’t say anything, Logan asked, “Something wrong?”

“No,” Tate said, and shook his head. “I just saw bianchi on the menu and it reminded me of something you said last night. That I’d just missed a Mr. Bianchi when I got to your office.”

“Oh,” Logan said, remembering his own surprise from the brief meeting he’d had yesterday. How had he forgotten to tell Tate about that? “When I got back from court yesterday, Sherry said someone was waiting in my office for me, and you’ll never guess who it was.”

Tate frowned. “Who?”

“It was Robbie.”

Logan could see the wheels turning, and then Tate said, “Sucks-like-a-Hoover Robbie?”

And Logan lost it, a booming laugh leaving him before he could stop it. “Yes,” he said, trying to control his hilarity at Tate’s blunt recollection of a certain barista. “That Robbie. Except he goes by Robert now.”

“Robert,” Tate said, still trying to put all the pieces together. “Robert Bianchi?”

“Yes, and he’s…” Logan paused as he tried to think of how to say what he was thinking.

“He’s what?” Tate asked before Logan could come up with anything, and the slight edge to Tate’s voice made Logan laugh all over again.

Boy, does he have the wrong idea. If only he could stop laughing long enough to tell Tate so. Finally getting himself under control, Logan said, “He’s changed a lot since we last saw him.”

“Changed? How?”

Logan pictured the well-dressed man who’d been waiting in his office and said, “He’s…grown up, I guess.”

“That’s not very specific,” Tate said. “And what is he doing looking you up?”

Logan scooted over on the seat until their thighs bumped, and then placed a hand on Tate’s leg under the table. “I forgot how pissed off you used to get over Robbie. Hmm, maybe I’ll keep talking about him.”

“I thought his name was Robert now?”

“It is,” Logan said, and placed a kiss to Tate’s cheek. “You should see him. I almost want you to stop by in the morning so you can.”

“Stop by? So, he’s coming back? What does he want?”

“A lawyer,” Logan said. “Well, he doesn’t need a lawyer. His cousin does, and he said the first name he thought of was—”

“Yours,” Tate said. “How nice.”

Logan’s lips twitched, and he couldn’t stop himself from playing with Tate a little. “I thought so. It was nice to know I left such an impression on the young man.” The frown on Tate’s face morphed into a scowl, and Logan continued, “He’s a lot more subdued now than he used to be, though. I didn’t even recognize him until he turned around. The platinum hair’s gone, and so is the eyeliner, and he was wearing the most outrageous shoes I’ve ever seen.”

“Glad you took such a long look at him,” Tate said.

Logan opened his mouth to inform Tate that he’d only spent five minutes setting up a meeting for Friday and then sent Robbie on his way. But before he could, dessert arrived and they were thanking Sergio, who also placed the check on the corner of the table and told them there was absolutely no rush.

Logan bit back a grin at Tate’s stiff shoulders but decided it was time to forget about everything other than why they were there. This discussion could wait until tomorrow. Tonight was about them reconnecting, and what better way to do that than— Hmm…touching, Logan thought, as he slipped his hand down the inside of Tate’s thigh and watched him shift in his seat.

“Logan,” Tate said, but Logan didn’t care. He was on a mission now, and that mission involved getting his man home, naked, and under him.

“Yes, Tate?” He angled his entire body toward Tate’s side so he could lean in and nuzzle his nose against his curls. He pressed a kiss to Tate’s temple as he slipped his hand higher on his thigh and whispered, “I’m done with food for the night.”

He heard a soft groan leave Tate, and when he turned his head to face him, Logan flattened his palm over the erection Tate was now sporting and licked his lips. “There’s something else I want in my mouth instead.”

With a nod, Tate reached beneath the table to still Logan’s wandering hand. “Go and pay, then, so I can get myself under control enough to walk out of here.”

Logan’s entire body heated at the gruff order, but then he was sliding out of the booth with the check in hand. It was clear both he and Tate were of the same mindset. They didn’t want to wait around for the time it took Sergio to come back to their table, and suddenly neither of them were interested in the exquisite dessert sitting untouched on their table.

“Don’t make me wait,” Logan said, as Tate stared up at him. “If you’re not at the front door in five minutes, I’m coming back to drag you out.”

Tate’s eyes sparked at the words. “I’ll be there in four.”

And Logan left to pay the bill.