Chapter 1

Tate

 

 

“So, are you asking my advice?” Tate pulled Leona’s hair through the flat iron from the roots to the ends, meeting his client’s wide-eyed gaze in the mirror. The stylists—washing, cutting, or curling hair—and the manicurists—clipping, filing, or polishing nails—filled the shop with a chorus of snickers, cackles, and “oh lord, here he goes,” momentarily drowning out the low R&B that was piped throughout the shop. Leona jerked her head around at the vocal responses then slumped down into the seat.

“Yes, I’m asking your advice, T.” Leona met Tate’s gaze in the mirror as she fidgeted in the upholstered styling chair, the black and white polka dot styling cape fluttering with the nervous jiggling of her legs. He shook his head and put his hand on her shoulder.

“Stay still, honey.” He parted a section of her hair toward the back of her head. “You want my honest-to-god opinion?” He pushed her head forward. “Head down.”

Leona, dropped her head but kept her eyes on the mirror, peering between the strands of loose hair as Tate pulled the new section through the flat iron.

“Yes, T, I’m asking your advice. As my beautician of four years, listening to me bitch and moan about this, I want your unbridled—”

“Child, why did you tell him unbridled?” Dani, Tate’s bestie, shouted over the hand dryer she was using on her client. She turned it off and slipped it back into the built-in holder of her styling station to Tate’s left.

Tate loved his custom stations with their marble countertops. He’d paid a ton for them, but they fit his decadent aesthetic perfectly. He liked to think of the salon’s look as industrial princess chic with the modern chandeliers that replaced old florescent lighting and the shiny, buffed concrete floors.

Dani pursed her lips, shaking her head as she lifted the lid on the glass Barbicide container to pull her tools from the blue liquid before selecting her cutting shears and a fine-tooth styling comb. “Be careful what you ask for,” Dani sing-songed.

He stuck his tongue out at Dani when Mother Stevens, sitting under one of three dryers, chimed in. “Lord, give her strength. He’s going to let her have it,” the octogenarian mumbled, primly perched in one of the chairs against the back of the reception desk wall that separated the salon floor from the waiting area, the big pink plastic rollers in her hair almost dwarfing her head.

“She don’t even know what she’s in for, Mother Stevens,” another stylist, Mia, said from where she was washing a client’s hair in one of the four bowls near the back of the room. Across from Mia the two nail technicians exchanged amused glances, one painting nails and the other scrubbing the bottom of a customer’s feet as she sat in the spa pedicure chair.

Tate pursed his lips in mock affront, but he couldn’t deny he’d been waiting for an opportunity to tell Leona the truth about her man. He held a strict policy that he never commented on his clients’ lives, never passed judgment—to their faces anyway—or gave them unsolicited advice. Now, solicited advice he had no problem doling out in spades. And every time Leona ended up in his chair, it became increasingly difficult to hold back his thoughts on her man, Wayne.

Well, she asked for it.

“Dump him. Sweetie, he’s a loser, and you’re carrying him.” Tate brushed the shell of her left ear. “Hold your ear down.”

Leona followed Tate’s instructions before he straightened the hair right above her ear, a little curl of heat rising up as he held the flat iron at the roots. Leona’s eyes never left the mirror, glued to the reflection of his face.

“Damn, Tate. Could you be more direct?” Dani shook her head, parting her client’s hair, and pulling it between her index and middle fingers to expose just an inch of hair which she then deftly snipped before moving on to another section.

“Always,” he said, nodding in Dani’s direction before turning back to face Leona’s quivering bottom lip in the mirror. He put his hands on either side of her head to straighten it then squeezed her shoulders, indicating she should stay still as he straightened some hair at the crown of her head. “Leona, baby girl. Your man is never going to be a rapper. He’s not going to be a poet. He’s not going to be a model. And I mean, really, Leona, the man is thirty-six. You allowing him to live in your house, off your money, while he pursues what are hobbies at best isn’t being supportive of his dreams. You’re being an enabler of his bullshit.” He tapped the left side of her head. “Hold your other ear, please.”

Leona whimpered and held down her ear. “Oh my god, I’ve turned into my mother. I’ve wasted years on a man who’s just like my father. He’s not going to change, is he?”

Tate shook his head. “Nope. You can’t inspire him or motivate him. That’s not how this works. He is who he is. And he’s a loser, sweetheart. Don’t waste your time. This ain’t HGTV, honey, and he’s not a fixer-upper or a diamond in the rough.”

“In other words, this house is condemned,” Dani said as she fluffed her client’s hair, done with the trim.

“You’re right. I know you’re right,” Leona whined. “Thanks for being honest, Tate. You basically said what I’d been thinking in my head but couldn’t admit to myself out loud.”

Tate gave her a sad little smile. “I’m here all week.”

Leona cared about Wayne but she didn’t really love him. She was settling because she wanted a man to complete the image she was going for: great job, great place, nice car, and a good man. She was trying to make Wayne into something he wasn’t. Tate knew once she moved on, she would find someone on her level.

Tate spent the last ten minutes it took to finish Leona’s hair encouraging her and prepping her on how to break things off with Wayne. She got out of his styling chair with a new resolve to move on, and she looked fierce, so Tate considered it advice well dispensed.

His next three appointments were fairly uneventful. He had a new client after Leona, so Tate spent about half an hour on her consultation before they even got started. She seemed nice and made a follow-up appointment, so Tate felt pretty confident that she was happy with her hair. The next two appointments were regulars, both older, retired women who liked to show him pictures of their adorable grandchildren and gossip about their friends and family members. By the time he’d finished retiree number two’s hair, the day was over.

Gayle scooted out of his chair, fluffing her hair in the mirror as Tate pulled the cape off her. “Now, sweetie, when are you going to let me hook you up with my grandson? He’s a gay too you know?”

Tate shook his head at the woman who was always trying to play matchmaker to him and the girls in the shop.

He folded the cape and slid it into drawer. “Now, Gayle, we talked about this. I’m not on the market. I don’t need a man,” he said, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and walking her toward the reception area.

She shook her head at him and pulled her purse and light jacket off the nearby coatrack. “Honey, everybody needs somebody, and you’re no exception.”

He kissed her on the cheek before she strode over to the reception desk to pay and schedule her next appointment, and Tate grabbed the broom from the closet next to the break room.

Gayle’s well-meaning nosiness reminded him of his Mamaw Pearl. He smiled, remembering her asking him about having a boyfriend in high school. She’d been the only one in his family to accept him for who he was without question. 

He swept up the clumps of hair on the floor, periodically looking around at the warm, bright space of his shop. The pops of color—the turquoise bathroom door to the right of the breakroom, the gold accent wall behind the manicure station, the rose gold and black and white—were all his Mamaw’s favorite color combinations. He wished, not for the first time, that she could see her namesake but it had been her life insurance money that had allowed him to open the shop three years ago.

Sometimes he missed her so much he’d be momentarily overcome with grief, tears suddenly springing to his eyes, and the need to hear her voice so strong that he’d stop whatever he was doing to go listen to the last voicemail she’d ever left him on his phone.

He’d named the salon for his Mamaw Pearl—Pearl’s Hair and Nails. He took pride in his little shop and managed three other stylists, including his best friend, a barber, and two nail technicians.

Tate went back to the closet to retrieve the dustpan, his feet cramping a bit at the balls from being in heels all day. He swept up the hair from the floor then dumped it in a waste basket. His receptionist usually helped with this, but she’d told Tate earlier in the day that she’d have to leave right after he finished his last appointment, so he was on cleanup duty. Everyone else had finished about an hour ago.

He went around to all the stations, collecting towels to take home and wash, then picked up some cleaning supplies. He started with Dani’s station, setting his supplies in the styling chair before spraying the surface of her station then wiping it down with a cloth.

He didn’t mind doing this. He set the bottle and cloth in the seat as he wrapped up some loose cords for the curling and straightening irons. When he’d first started out, he’d had to do all this himself because he couldn’t afford a receptionist or the cleaning crew that now came in once a week for a deep clean.

He had been incredibly young to have opened his own shop and his parents had thought he was nuts, but thus far the shop had been a success. He was turning a profit, and he was considering taking on another stylist because business had increased. He misted Windex over the mirror, then tossed the bottle back onto the styling chair before ripping off a couple of paper towels and wiping down the surface. He loved everything about his shop, even the cleaning.

Most of all, he loved that at Pearl’s no one gave him side-eye because he wore women’s jeans, strappy heels, eye shadow, and a clean fade. It was his shop, so he dressed how he pleased and did what he wanted, and whoever didn’t like it, could get the hell out. Luckily, he hadn’t had any issues. He moved on to his station, spraying it down when he heard the bell chime over the door. Shit, the receptionist must not have locked the door behind her. It was nearly eight o’clock, definitely too late to take a walk-in. He heard the footsteps approaching, one tread heavier than the other.

“Sorry, honey, we’re closed,” Tate said as he finished wiping the mirror, his unwanted guests walking in from the waiting area. Looking in the mirror, Tate made eye contact with a tall young man with wavy hair and a bronze complexion with a kid in a dirt- and grass-stained football uniform, helmet included.

Tate turned around, dropping the damp paper towel in the small garbage can beside the station, curious as to what they could possibly want.

“Did your son need to use the restroom? You’re welcome to it.” He stood in front of them with two steps.

The other man shifted on his feet, looking stressed, a lot tired, and slightly embarrassed as he rubbed a hand across his chest, his other big hand on the little boy’s shoulder as he spoke.

“Actually, I was wondering if you could fit in one more appointment. It’s kind of an emergency. It’s, uh, picture day tomorrow—”

Things clicked into place for Tate. This was a hapless dad who hadn’t gotten his son’s haircut before picture day. Wouldn’t be the first time Tate had dealt with this. He walked back to Dani’s chair, grabbing the spray bottles of cleaner, paper towels and cloth moving over to the next station. “I’m sorry but we close at eight o’clock tonight, and even if I were willing to stay behind, my barber is gone for the day.” There simply wasn’t enough time to take another customer before closing.

Tate sprayed the top of his station then wiped it down before looking in the mirror at the dad’s reflection. The man deflated at Tate’s words, biting his lip and shaking his head. But then the little boy reached over and tugged on the man’s shirt.

“Dad, maybe Nana can do my hair?”

The man shook his head. “I told you, baby girl, Nana is working too late tonight.”

Baby girl?

The little boy reached up to take off the helmet, revealing a head full of coarse, curly hair. It had been braided in about ten sections at one point, but now, those braids were unraveled and even matted in some parts.

Tate’s fingers itched with the need to get his hands in her hair. And even though his dogs were barking and he wanted nothing more than to kick off his heels, put on some sweats, and eat his leftover enchiladas in front of mindless television program, he couldn’t in good conscience allow this child to leave his shop with her hair looking like a ball of tangled yarn.

He walked up to the pair and reached out to touch his little client’s hair before looking over at her dad who nodded giving Tate permission to continue. He would guess she was about ten or so with skin the color of rich clay earth and light-brown eyes framed by lashes so thick they looked tangled in places. He had his work cut out for him.

“The state of this child’s hair is an affront to my sensibilities, and I’d never be able to hold my head up if I allowed her to walk out my shop doors looking like this. That is the only reason I’m helping you.”

The little girl giggled, now clutching her white football helmet, and her dad bristled a bit.

“It looks bad. I know it looks bad, okay. But that’s a little extra don’t you think?”

Tate raised his eyebrows.

“Last week, he tried to put it in a ponytail using a vacuum cleaner hose like that one dad on YouTube,” the little girl informed Tate in a whisper as though her dad wouldn’t be able to hear. He knew exactly what video she was talking about. Tate looked over at the dad whose face had turned a cute shade of pink.

“I figured I’d watch a tutorial.” He shrugged.

Tate shook his head. “That’s not a tutorial. It’s a gimmick for clicks. This is a massive inconvenience”—he looked down at his hopeful little client—“but I’ll do it just once. Otherwise who knows what else you might resort to from the internet.”

Both father and daughter looked relieved, and before Tate could say anything else, the little girl had wound her bony little arms around his waist, her helmet knocking into him as she held him tight.

“LJ,” her dad scolded, “give the man some space. Sorry, she’s a big hugger.”

Tate had nieces and nephews, and he enjoyed seeing them at Sunday dinner, but he certainly wasn’t the warm and fuzzy type. He wasn’t anti small person, he was just indifferent for the most part. He patted her back, grateful when she pulled away, the big smile on her face dominated by two huge front teeth.

“Sorry, mister—umm, what’s your name?” LJ asked.

“I’m Tate,” he said, sticking out his hand. Her grip was surprisingly strong for a little kid, and when she released him, her dad mirrored her actions.

“I’m Reece. LJ’s dad.” As their hands connected, Tate’s gaze lingered on the young man. Reece. At a first glance, he just looked skinny, but Tate could see, under his light-blue short-sleeved work shirt, he was actually pretty filled out in the chest and arms. It was also clear that LJ got her smile, tangled lashes, and light-brown eyes from her dad. The guy was good-looking. Kind of hot actually. And his eyes seemed to be taking in their fill of Tate too. Was he judging Tate because of what he was wearing? No, his gaze felt…assessing and curious, like he was… Was he checking Tate out?

Before Tate’s mind could wander down that path, he forced himself to release Reece’s grip. He ran a hand down the front of his half smock then placed it on his hip, eyes scanning his own damn shop like he’d never seen it before while Reece and LJ blinked at him expectantly. Finally, he walked over to his chair to remove the cleaning supplies he’d stored there and reached into a one of his station drawers for a new cape.

“Well, let’s get to work. She’ll definitely need to have her hair washed and conditioned. I don’t have time for a deep condition. I suggest you come back for that in a couple of weeks. It looks like her hair was braided in several sections, so I’ll style it similar to how it was done before.” He rambled a bit, trying to get his bearings. He found it difficult to focus on what his next step was, because he couldn’t stop thinking about that look Reece had given him moments ago. Tate wanted to know what the expression meant and his armpits were sweating profusely as he considered the possible implications. 

Reece cleared his throat, placing his hands on LJ’s shoulders, pulling Tate out of his jittery musings. “That sounds great to me. What do you think, LJ?”

She asked her dad, “Can we put some barrettes and hair ties that match my dress?”

He smiled. “The green and pink dress, right? The one I washed?”

LJ nodded, and Tate’s heart fluttered at the sweet interaction. The way Reece seemed genuinely concerned about having washed the right dress for picture day tomorrow. That closeness jogged long ago suppressed memories from when he was a kid, before his own father stopped talking to him, and he pushed them down.

“Whatever you want, baby girl.” Reece’s eyes flicked toward him. “Should we get started?”

Tate’s stomach lurched at the twin sets of eyes blinking at him, and suddenly, he wanted to get this over as quickly as possible. The obvious closeness between the two made him wish for things he couldn’t have, and it unsettled him. Reece with his hot and possibly suggestive glances and equally sweet relationship with his daughter—it widened a chasm in his chest that he’d been ignoring for a long time.

“Yes, let’s get started, but take off those cleats before you hop up in the chair.” He waved his hand toward her dirty black shoes that had already tracked in little clumps of grass and dirt onto his floors. “I just had these floors waxed and I don’t want—”

The kid kicked off her shoes then picked them up, handing them and her helmet to her dad before Tate could finish his sentence. She skipped over to the chair, but Tate put a hand out, stopping her.

“You want to take off those pads too, sweetheart. If you keep those on, it’ll be hard for me to wash your hair at the bowl.”

LJ nodded, quickly divesting herself of her pads, leaving them on the floor for her dad to pick up before climbing up into the chair in her socks, football pants, and tank top. Tate tried to contain his grin by reminding himself he was annoyed and that Reece and LJ were inconveniencing him, but the kid vibrated with energy, and the grin she gave him as he spun her toward the mirror and draped the cape over her shoulders got past all his defenses.

Tate gave her a wink and a quick smile in the mirror but then glanced over his left shoulder at her dad whose arms were now laden with football gear. Reece’s forehead was creased and he had shadows under his eyes, but then he smiled and the warm grin washed away the fatigue and made Tate’s belly twist with nerves.

Tate dropped his gaze, focusing on LJ’s hair, and his stomach relaxed a bit. “I take cash, credit, and Apple Pay. Please don’t make showing up to my shop before closing a habit,” he said as he unbraided LJ’s hair, feeling a little less off kilter with each braid he loosened. “You have to make an appointment like everyone else.” Tate caught Reece’s gaze in the mirror.

Reece nodded. This time the man wasn’t smiling. His jaw was clenched and a soft pink tinged his bronze face. “Got it. No problem. Do you mind if I run this stuff out to the car?” He gave the football equipment he carried a slight lift. “Is it okay if I leave her here for a few minutes?”

LJ groaned and Tate stopped taking out her braids for a moment, catching the little girl’s reflection in the mirror as she rolled her eyes. “I’m fine, Dad. I’m not six.” Her exasperated expression was comical, and this time Tate couldn’t hold back his chuckle.

He looked over his shoulder at Reece. “We’ll be fine here. Do what you need to do.”

Reece nodded before scurrying out of the room, and few seconds later, Tate heard the bell over the door.

Tate took out the last braid, stepping back to assess the state of LJ’s hair. It was thick, sweaty, and a little tangled, but he figured he could finish up in about forty-five minutes if she wasn’t tender-headed.

“All right, kiddo. Hop off the chair and let’s get to work.” Tate walked toward the shampoo bowls at the back of the salon with LJ trailing behind. He leaned LJ back when she sat in the chair, but she was too far down, so he retrieved the seat booster for his little charge and started to wash her hair.

He looked down at LJ who had gone quiet as he worked the shampoo into her scalp. “You okay, ladybug?”

She grinned up at him, opening one eye. “Yeah.” She opened her mouth then closed it after a moment. Tate gave her what he hoped was an inviting smile. Apparently, it worked because she said, “I like your shoes.”

He grinned and glanced down at his feet, hands still working the suds through LJ’s hair. They were heels with thick brown leather straps that crossed his foot and ankle and buckled on the side. They went well with his olive-green jeans.

“Well, you have good taste, LJ. These are some of my favorite shoes. They match these jeans well.”

LJ’s eyes got big. “Really? I have some jeans that color, too. My dad got them for me. I like green.”

As though he knew he was being discussed, Reece appeared in the doorway, clutching a small pair of sneakers and tiny gray zip-up sweatshirt. He plopped into one of the dryer chairs and pulled out his phone.

Tate rinsed LJ’s hair and lathered it a second time as was his standard and noticed that it was actually in good shape. No breakage around the hairline, not overly dry, and her ends weren’t too damaged either, just a little tangled. Tate lathered the suds around her hairline then worked the bubbles into her scalp with his fingertips.

“So, LJ, who usually does your hair?”

The little girl opened her eyes, which she had closed as he rubbed her scalp with the balls of his fingers.

“Um, my Nana does it sometimes. I can do a ponytail, but that’s all. I like Nana to do it, though, ’cause my ponytail comes out bumpy.”

Tate hummed and nodded, reaching for the hose attached to the faucet to rinse the shampoo out of LJ’s hair. “Have you ever been to a beauty shop before?”

LJ scrunched up her face. “I went with my mom when she got her hair done before…” A brief look of sadness crossed her face, dimming the light in LJ’s eyes before she continued. “But it’s the first time I’ve had my hair done in a beauty shop before.” She grinned up at him as he finished rinsing her hair. He reached for the conditioner above the shampoo bowl, returning her smile and inexplicably wanting to make her first time getting her hair done special.

“Well, ladybug, you have come to the right place then. I’m going to make your first beauty shop visit your absolute best visit ever, okay?”

LJ nodded hard. “Okay, yeah.”

Tate winked at her and began coating her hair in minty smelling conditioner when a movement caught his eye. He glanced over to find Reece staring at him. Again. Reece’s forehead was creased as his gaze roamed Tate’s body. But his frown didn’t seem hostile or angry, just curious. Tate’s belly twisted the same way it had the first time Reece’s gaze had lingered on him, and he stopped massaging the conditioner into LJ’s hair when Reece looked at him. And didn’t skitter away.

Tate’s eye contact didn’t drift away either as his armpits dampened and his belly cramping intensified. He didn’t know if Reece was checking him out, but Tate was definitely checking out Reece. And despite the fact that, when he looked at the man, he lost track of whatever he was doing at the moment and began to feel hot, sweaty, and slightly nauseous, Tate still didn’t want to turn his focus away.

Then Reece broke their mutual stasis, mouthing, “Thank you,” and Tate nodded, focusing on his hands to give himself a moment to figure out what the hell he’d been doing and what came next. Then he would close up shop, head home, and forget all about LJ and her hot dad. And as he combed the tangles out of her hair with a wide-tooth comb, he hoped they found another beautician to do LJ’s hair regularly.

He really did.

Really.

***

Thud. Thud. Thud. Tate dropped his head against the back of the plush oversized couch—one of the few pieces of furniture he had in his apartment. Grabbing the remote resting next to his thigh on the couch, he paused his television show and sighed, dropping the remote back to the couch. His feet were still throbbing across the top from having worn his heels for too long, and he could barely pay attention to the latest episode of Drag Race because of the periodic banging, shuffling, and stomping noises coming from his upstairs neighbor.

He assumed the man was putting together furniture, getting settled into his new apartment, something Tate had not gotten around to in the year he’d been in his unit. He had the couch he was sitting on, a side table, his TV, which was mounted, and his bed and a lone nightstand in his bedroom. After all this time, he was still pulling his underwear and socks out suitcases, though he had hung some of his clothes in the closet. Clearly, based on all the racket, Tate’s upstairs neighbor had way more furniture and décor than he did.

Tate had seen the backs of a couple of guys as they’d moved furniture into the apartment over the weekend, but he wasn’t sure which of them had been the tenant or gotten a good look at their faces. Whoever it was had lots of picture frames and posters that Tate had spied sticking out of an open box. He took in his bare walls and empty built-in shelving. No tchotchkes. No pictures of friends and family or even sedate landscapes. No little touches that reflected his personality. No, all those were reserved for his shop.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

“Oh my lord!” Tate scowled up at the ceiling. He stared at it for five seconds, waiting for more noise from upstairs.

Silence.

He growled low before reaching for his remote and hitting the play button. It was going on ten o’clock, and after staying late at the shop to help Reece and LJ and being on his feet for an hour past closing, Tate was ready to relax. He tucked his legs under him and hugged a throw pillow to his belly.

Reece and LJ. He was thinking of them like he knew them. They were just a dad and his kid. A job. Nothing more. Besides, he wouldn’t see them again. He had been rude to Reece. Not intentionally, but the way the guy had stared him down had made Tate unsure and nervous, like his first crush, Leonard. Tate hadn’t been able to hide his annoyance over the surge of unwanted emotions.

Tate had tried to stop thinking about the man…how Reece had grinned in relief at the sight of LJ’s finished hair. The way Reece’s navy-blue Dickies had hugged his thighs when he’d stood from the chair he’d been waiting in and walked over to Tate’s station to get a closer look. How Tate’s heart had stuttered when Reece’s hand had held on to his a little longer than necessary when they shook hands and said goodbye.

Tate told himself that the prolonged touch didn’t mean anything. And that even if Reece was attracted to him, nothing real would ever come of it, because guys like Reece, so stereotypically masculine, never wanted to date Tate—they only ever wanted to fuck on the down low. Those encounters left Tate feeling hollow and more alone than he’d been before the tryst, so he had deleted his online dating profiles and focused on work. He was too busy running his shop to pursue a relationship even if he wanted one.

He grabbed his glass of Malbec from the side table and sipped the bold wine, watching the show contestants lip sync for their lives. But the stark white of the walls kept drawing his gaze, and suddenly, the barrenness of his space made his heart heavy, loneliness crashing over him in a wave, making it hard for him to breathe. He could afford more furniture, and he had knickknacks for the surfaces and pictures for the walls. But who would come over to see those things and enjoy them with him? Tate’s chest ached, thinking how small that list was.

He had Dani, who was like a sister to him, and lots of clients, some of whom he hung out with casually from time to time, but he had few deep bonds.

And his family, well…The mental door to that path of thought cracked open, but Tate quickly slammed it shut, draining his glass of wine. He could do something about his bleak apartment, but there was no fixing his strained relationship with his family, because there was no changing who he was and they rejected who he was. His father wasn’t accepting like Reece, who appeared totally fine with his daughter playing a male-dominated sport.

Ugh! There he went, thinking about Reece again. Tate silently berated himself then made a mental promise to work on the apartment. He grabbed the bottle to pour himself another glass of wine.

Bam, bam. Bam, bam, bam.

“Damn it!” He nearly spilled it on his couch when his ceiling rattled. He shouted, slammed the bottle back down to the side table, and jumped up, heading toward his door without a second thought. Tate had had enough. He slipped on some flip-flops, not bothering to lock his door behind him before bounding upstairs. He pounded on the door of apartment C5 three times, ready to rip whoever greeted him a new asshole, but was struck mute when the door opened.

“Mr. Tate?” Little LJ grinned up at him, and before he could respond, Reece appeared.

“Lettie Jean, I told you not to answer the door—oh. Tate. Hey. What are you doing here?” Reece rubbed the back of his head then put both his hands on LJ’s shoulders, waiting for Tate to speak.

His belly flipped as he tried to remember why the hell he’d come upstairs in the first place, but he was still in shock at finding the object of his thoughts for the past few hours living directly above him.

Above him.

The noise.

Right.

Tate stuck his hands in the pockets of his sweats. “Well, apparently we’re neighbors. I live downstairs.”

Reece’s smile was like streams of light piercing through clouds, warming Tate’s skin.

“No shit, man. Oh, excuse me.” Reece looked down sheepishly at LJ. “I mean, no kidding. That’s dope.”

LJ echoed Reece’s enthusiasm, her smile just as bright as her dad’s. “That’s cool, Mr. Tate.”

Tate nodded and Reece gently pushed LJ back into the house. “Okay, baby girl, off to bed. You’re already way behind schedule as it is. Get yourself settled, and I’ll come tuck you in when I’m done talking to Mr. Tate.”

LJ waved and called out, “Night, Mr. Tate,” as she ran off.

“Night,” Tate responded, still trying to wrap his head around the fact that Reece and LJ were his neighbors.

“So,” Reece said, turning back to Tate, his stance a mirror image of Tate’s. Reece’s hands were shoved into the pockets of his basketball shorts which hugged what looked to be an ample package. Tate looked over to his left at apartment C6, then a little behind him at C8. 

“Was there something you wanted, Tate?” Reece’s voice came out low and gravelly, drawing Tate’s gaze back to his face. Yeah, Tate wanted something, a nice up-close and personal look at what was swinging in those basketball shorts.

Tate swallowed, his own package filling with interest. “What do you mean?”

Reece’s light-brown eyes perused Tate from head to toe, and Tate wasn’t even sure the guy was aware he was doing it.

“You came upstairs from your apartment and knocked on a complete stranger’s door. I assume something made you come up here…” Reece lifted a thick eyebrow and rolled his full lips together before folding his arms over his chest. Tate’s eyes followed the lines of muscles defining the expanse of skin exposed by Reece’s cutout T-shirt. He wondered what that skin felt like…what it tasted like.

“Tate?” Reece asked, waving his hand a few inches from Tate’s face.

“Uh. Yeah. Sorry.” Tate shook his head and met Reece’s questioning gaze.

“I umm.” He pulled his hands out of his pockets and put them on his hips. “I came up to ask you to keep it down. There’s been banging, shuffling, and noise since I got home. It’s the middle of the week, you know.”

Reece held up his hands in surrender. “You’re right. I apologize. I’ll be sure to decorate during normal business hours.” He rubbed the back of his head. “Time got away from me, and I didn’t realize how late it had gotten. LJ insisted on having her Seahawks and Princess and Frog posters up tonight, and I really needed to put together the dresser ’cause I just did all this laundry, but—” Reece glanced down at his bare feet and back up at Tate. “You know what, not your problem. No excuses. Won’t happen again, okay?”

All the steam that had filled Tate as he’d stormed up the stairs dissipated. “Okay. Thanks.” Tate nodded, then hesitated, wondering if he should stick his hand out in goodbye, briefly remembering the way that Reece’s palm had caressed his own earlier that night. Reece too seemed to hesitate, but then took a step back, his hand gripping the door handle, his eyes distant and the small smile on his face unsure.

“Goodnight, Tate.”

Tate hated the uncertainty on the man’s face and wanted to stop Reece from slowly closing the door. Wanted to ask Reece if he’d meant to say anything else. But all he managed was a gruff, “Goodnight,” as Reece quietly clicked the door shut.

It was about thirty seconds before Tate trudged back downstairs. And for the rest of the night, and long after he’d climbed into bed, he strained to hear any kind of movement or sound coming from his upstairs neighbors. And as he finally drifted off to sleep, he wondered why the silence from upstairs, which he’d so desperately wanted earlier that night, made him feel like he’d lost something.