LOGAN LOOKED AROUND Tate and inside to the suite, and when he remained where he was just outside the door, Tate cocked his head.

“Not afraid to come inside with me tonight, are you, counselor?”

Logan’s buzzed brain had him sidling up close to Tate where he stood with his back to the door, keeping it propped open. “I’m not afraid of coming inside of you any night.”

Tate pushed off the door, making Logan take a step back inside. “Way to mix up my words there.”

“I thought so.” Logan turned around, a little faster than he intended, and as the room tilted slightly to the left, he started to laugh. “Ohh, this is nice.” He heard the door shut behind him, and as it clicked and locked, he decided he was suddenly a little hotter than felt comfortable.

Logan shrugged out of the coat he’d been wearing on the balcony, tossed it over the end of the bed, and then walked through the room, checking out the small kitchenette that had two more bottles of wine and a set of wine glasses on it, and a platter with an assortment of fruits and cheese beside those. He made his way down the hall to the bathroom and stopped dead in his tracks as he peered at what was in a small alcove on one of the walls.

He called out to Tate, “Hey, did you book this room because there’s naked men sculpted into the walls?”

As a rumbling laugh made its way through the suite, Logan grinned and reached out to run his finger over the marble statue, liking the idea that maybe Tate had booked it for that reason.

If I were a straight man indeed, Logan thought, remembering Tate joking with him earlier. This bathroom looked like the inside of a bathhouse. No straight men allowed tonight.

The sound of a bottle being uncorked had him turning around to go and track Tate down, but before he did, he ran a finger under the collar of his sweater. He needed to get out of his damn clothes. He wasn’t sure, but he was positive it was getting hotter in there by the second.

After stripping out of his sweater and the shirt he’d had under it, Logan tossed them haphazardly on the floor and sighed at the relief of the cool air hitting his flushed skin. Ahh, that’s better. Now, where’s Tate?

He carefully made his way back toward the bedroom, trailing his fingers along the wall to make sure he didn’t stumble, and then laughed at how unsexy that would be if Tate were to walk in and see him flat on his ass.

When he walked past the kitchenette to see Tate had poured them both some wine and was now over by the bed removing his clothes, Logan leaned against the cabinet.

Tate glanced over his shoulder as though he sensed Logan there, and when he spotted him, that pearly grin Logan loved appeared.

“You’re drunk,” Tate said, and laughed as he straightened and came around the end of the bed. He’d taken off everything, minus his jeans, which were undone and hanging around his hips.

“Not drunk, buzzed. But inebriated or not, I know you’re seriously fucking hot.” Logan tracked Tate as he walked over to him, and felt his cock throb in anticipation.

“Did you really just use the word inebriated in your state?”

“Yep.” Logan tapped his fingers to his temple. “Nerd, remember?”

“Sexy nerd. Did you have fun tonight?” Tate asked, and when Logan nodded, Tate ran a finger down the center of his naked chest. “Stripping out of your clothes, huh? I’m glad I got you back here before you decided to do that in front of our friends. I’m not sure I would’ve been able to hold Robbie back.”

Logan swayed forward, closer toward Tate, and gave him a lazy smile. “Was hot. Don’t care about Robbie. But you…” Logan drawled as he put both hands on Tate’s tanned skin and smoothed them down over his abs to his unbuttoned jeans.

“What about me?”

“Mhmm,” Logan said, and turned one of his hands around so he could dip it inside Tate’s jeans. “I’ve wanted to get my hands inside these jeans ever since you put them, and only them, on in front of me back at home.” When he wrapped his fingers around Tate’s erection and tugged it upright, freeing it from its confines, Tate groaned, and Logan bit his jaw gently. “That was very bad of you, Mr. Morrison.”

“Maybe,” Tate said, not sounding the least bit repentant. “But it worked, didn’t it? You’re in here and have your hand around my dick.”

Logan’s lips curved against Tate’s cheek, and then he pulled back a little, the alcohol swirling around inside him making him feel nice and relaxed. “Would’ve done that anyway. And more. Just ask.”

Tate licked his lips, and the sight of his tongue had Logan leaning in, wanting a taste, and then he stumbled slightly, and Tate laughed. “Okay, birthday boy. How about we take a minute or two to sober you up a little before you fall over and damage part of yourself—or me, for that matter.”

Logan frowned, not liking the idea of stopping. But Tate reached for his wrist and stilled his determined hand.

“I’m going to go and run a bath in that room with all the naked men.”

“I didn’t see a bath in there,” Logan joked, as Tate moved past him and headed down the hall.

Tate called over his shoulder, “Why am I not surprised? Strip, Logan—I want you wet and naked and in that bath with me in the next five minutes.”

Well, Logan thought, not gonna argue with that. Then he leaned his back against the wall for some extra support, and went about unzipping and shoving off his jeans, more than happy to follow orders for the night.

* * *

TATE HAD JUST turned the faucets off when Logan walked into the bathroom bare-ass naked, and hard as the marble that made up the opulent space.

Logan hadn’t been wrong about the sculptures being one of the reasons Tate had picked this place. When he’d been researching the wineries and come across the themed bed and breakfast here, and the bathroom that came with this suite, Tate hadn’t cared how much it cost. He wanted Logan naked and in that tub with him, and it appeared he was about to get that wish. And thank God for that, because Logan looked mouthwatering.

He was confident without the aid of alcohol. The port and wine Logan had consumed tonight had done nothing to dampen his confidence, instead only serving to enhance his arrogance and sex appeal.

With not one shy bone in his body, Logan sauntered over to the four steps that led up into the recess, and peered into the whirlpool tub big enough for two grown men.

The tiled room had been set up much like a Roman bathhouse, but instead of a pool, the tub had been built into a tiled niche with a sculpture of a very well-endowed man above it.

Tate shoved his jeans off and then kicked them aside, just as Logan turned around to look at him. Logan took his sweet time running his gaze down over Tate’s body, and by the time that heated gaze climbed back up to his face, Tate’s cock was standing at rigid attention. The man was pure sex right now.

“So,” Logan said, “just gonna take a bath, are we? I think your body has other ideas…”

Tate swallowed and walked forward, not about to be sidetracked by the arrogant man subjecting him to a once-over that had Tate’s temperature well above average.

As he climbed up the first two stairs and tilted his head back to look up at Logan, Tate raised an eyebrow. “Considering you can barely stand up without the very real chance of falling, I’d say getting you on your ass is a step in the right direction.”

Logan’s lips curled, and then, bold as ever, he reached down to start stroking his cock. “I’m okay with that. My ass. My back…” he said, and a wicked glint sparked in those eyes. “Just tell me how you want me, Tate. I’m yours.”

Though Logan meant his words in a completely sexual way, they suddenly thrust Tate back to the last few weeks and all that had happened between them, and again he wondered, just as he had since the night Logan had proposed, why had he become so troubled by the notion of a piece of paper that meant forever, when forever was exactly what he wanted?

Just tell me how you want me, Tate. I’m yours…

Tate knew those words to be true as they stood there naked in front of one another. Just as they had been that night, clothed and surrounded by candles. And as he looked up at Logan with his hand wrapped around himself and a cocky smirk on his face, Tate waited for the anxiety he’d felt that night to hit him—but it didn’t.

As that reality sank in, he walked up the rest of the stairs so he could take Logan’s face in his hands and kiss him with all of the emotions that were slamming into him.

Lust. Want. Need. And desire. They all coursed through him as Logan grabbed his waist, and then, suddenly, the kiss changed direction.

There, in a bathroom that was built for sin, the passion eased and the fever simmered until the deeper, scarier feelings began to consume the two of them. Tate opened himself up to the onslaught as Logan wove his fingers through his hair and cradled his head, seeking more. Tate gave it without any conscious thought, just handed it over as he would his last breath, should Logan require it, and then he was falling all over again.

Falling for the charm of the silver-tongued lawyer who’d picked him to sit down opposite that first night.

Falling into a relationship he’d always wanted but never dreamed he would have.

But most of all, he was falling in love with Logan all over again, just as he’d done every day since he’d known him.

“Logan…” Tate eased away from him, and as Logan’s eyes focused, much more aware now than they had been minutes earlier, they had that expression Tate had seen lately. The new one Logan had whenever he looked at him and now Tate understood.

I dare you to try.

I think you’re my truth.

Terrify me.

Marry me.

No.

As that final word mocked Tate over and over, memories slammed into him, brought on by the one whose life was so intimately entwined with his, and he almost stumbled down the stairs as his stomach knotted and his hands began to shake.

“Tate?”

Oh God, how could he have been so stupid? Why had he let fear of change win out between them? And how in the world would he ever get Logan to say yes to what he now wanted more than his next breath?

As he slowly backed down the stairs and out of the bathroom Logan remained where he was, naked and curious, looking at Tate as though he’d lost his damn mind—and all Tate could think was, Maybe I fucking have.

* * *

NOTHING WAS MORE effective at sobering a person up than watching the one you love run from you. Logan wasn’t quite sure what had just happened there in the bathroom, but the look on Tate’s face as he’d left wasn’t one Logan had ever seen before.

Anger, confusion, and love had all been there. But if Logan’s addled brain wasn’t mistaken, so was a heavy dose of disgust—at himself.

But what spooked Tate? What had him running?

One minute they’d been naked and well on their way to what Logan had been hoping would be some wet and slippery sex in the bathtub. And the next, Tate had hightailed it out of there like the room had caught on fire.

Logan scrubbed a hand over his face and headed down the stairs to grab a towel, and after wrapping it around his waist, he walked out of the bathroom to hunt down Tate.

When he got to the bedroom, he noticed the room was empty, and cursed and wondered where the hell Tate had gone off to. Not far, obviously, Logan was pleased to note, when he spotted Tate’s wallet, phone, and keys sitting on the bedside table.

After dropping the towel to the floor, Logan pulled on a pair of black and white checkered lounge pants and a black t-shirt, splashed his face with some frigid water, and then scooped up the extra keycard sitting on the bench. With a quick glance in the mirror, he rubbed at the stubble on his chin and then opened the door, heading out to find Tate.

He walked down the main corridor toward the bar and balcony area they’d all left earlier, and as he turned the corner and stepped inside, Logan spotted him.

Tate was sitting over at a small table for two by the fireplace, and with only the soft glow of the flames and the small candle on his table, Logan could barely make out his features or what kind of mood he was in. If he were to go by body language alone, Logan would hazard a guess that the slumped shoulders were a good indicator that whatever had happened back in the bathroom was definitely still on Tate’s mind.

As he walked past the bar and the bartender looked his way, Logan held a hand up and shook his head. He’d had far more than his usual intake of alcohol tonight, and he had a feeling that whatever he and Tate were about to discuss now would be best done with his brain in a somewhat functioning state.

When he reached Tate’s table and he looked up, Logan was blown away by the sadness in his eyes. All night Tate had been nothing but laughter and happiness as they’d sat amongst their friends, and when they’d gotten back to their suite, there’d been no hint of this emotion anywhere.

Logan pulled out the chair opposite him and reached across the table to take Tate’s hands in his. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Tate replied, and lowered his eyes to where their fingers were joined.

Logan squeezed his around Tate’s, waiting for him to say more, but when it was clear he wasn’t going to, Logan said, “What are you doing out here?”

“I, uhh…”

“Tate?” Logan said before Tate could give him some half-assed response. “What are you doing out here?”

As Tate withdrew from him and sat back to run a hand through his hair, Logan immediately knew that Tate was nervous or upset about something, and if he had to guess, the way Tate kept worrying his lower lip made Logan think: nervous.

“Back there in the bathroom…” Tate started, and then stopped. But Logan waited, knowing there was more coming.

“I had a thought. It was more of a moment, I guess. A flash of us. Of all we are and will be and— Shit, I sound crazy, don’t I?”

No, he didn’t. Tate sounded reflective, introspective, and Logan wanted to know what had brought it on. What had made Tate go from carefree to so serious? “You don’t sound crazy. But you are freaking me out a little. Were the things you were thinking good things, at least?”

Tate frowned and then shot Logan an apologetic look. “Yeah, of course. I should’ve probably started with that. Everything about you was good. Perfect, really, but me…”

“What about you? You’re pretty fucking perfect from where I’m sitting. And back there in that bathroom, trust me, you looked better than any of those naked statues on the wall.”

Tate’s lip curled up on one side, but when the humor didn’t quite reach his eyes, Logan asked, “What is it, Tate? Come on; you know you can tell me anything.”

Tate swallowed and then shifted in his seat as he looked over to the flickering fire, and the light from the flames made his tanned skin glow before he turned back to Logan and asked, “Am I too late?”

Logan gave him a quizzical look, not understanding what Tate was asking. But then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. Tate unfolded it, put it on the table, smoothed his hand over it, and then spun it around and pushed it over toward Logan.

As Logan stared down at what was in front of him, he took in the date and saw his handwriting and remembered the exact day he’d written out the words below.

As Logan looked up, Tate asked again, “Am I too late?”

Logan tried to keep his erratic heart from stopping right then, but when his brain was pretty much short-circuiting, it was hard to keep everything else from going haywire. When all he managed was to shake his head, Tate pulled a pen from his pocket and leaned over to circle one of the names.

Logan looked down, and when he saw which one now had a bold circle around it, a huge grin split his lips as he looked up and Tate said, “So what do you think? Can the world handle two Mr. Mitchells?”