TATE WAS JUST finishing up tucking in his dress shirt when he heard the front door open and then slam shut. He glanced at the time: five thirty. Logan wasn’t running late. So he was curious what had prompted the annoyed entrance.

With a frown, he reached for his burgundy tie and walked over to the bedroom door to see Logan walking—no, stomping—up the stairs, waves of tension rolling off him.

“Hey,” Tate said when Logan stopped in front of him, and the grim line of his mouth had Tate reaching out to touch his arm. “I’d ask how you’re doing, but—”

“Shit,” Logan said with a false grin. “That’s how I’m doing. Shit.”

Logan stepped around him to walk into the bedroom, and Tate turned on his socked heels to follow. Logan shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it over the end of the bed, and as he reached for the knot at the base of his throat, Tate leaned up against the wall and crossed his ankles.

“Want to talk about it?” he asked as Logan yanked his tie free and dropped it on his discarded jacket.

“Not really.”

It was rare that Logan was anything less than his usual affable self, but when he was, it was always best to tread carefully. He got quiet, his answers became clipped, and a scowl formed between his brows. Yeah, kind of like now, Tate thought.

“Did something happen at work?”

Logan pulled his shirt from his pants and unbuttoned it. “I just said I didn’t want to talk about it.”

Tate’s jaw clenched at the response, but he told himself to let it go. There was obviously something going on here, and he wanted to find out the cause of the issue and fix it—or kick its ass.

“Well, too bad,” Tate said as he pushed off the wall and started to tie his tie. “We’re due across town in an hour for dinner, and I doubt you want to meet with this client of yours in this mood. So start talking.”

Logan pulled his shirt off, balled it up, and then tossed it on the bed. “We’re not due anywhere.”

“Huh?”

“I’m going on my own. So you can stop trying to tie that thing, which you can never get right, and go and take a load off.”

As Logan walked into the bathroom, Tate looked down at his uneven tie and dropped his hands by his sides, frustrated. What the hell is the matter with him? he thought, and marched in after Logan, wanting some answers.

“Do you want to stop being an asshole for, oh, I don’t know, five seconds, and tell me what you’re talking about? I thought we had dinner plans tonight.”

Logan unbuttoned his pants and shoved them off his hips. “We did. But plans changed because Hawthorne up and died and no one bothered to tell us.”

Tate was trying to keep up, but Logan’s mood had rubbed off on him, and now he was irritated. “Wait, who died?”

“Morty Hawthorne. The CEO of Hawthorne International, our planned dinner companion for tonight.”

Okay, so… “Who are you having dinner with instead?”

“His son.”

Tate frowned, totally confused at this stage, but figured Logan’s surly attitude might be grief talking. Had he known this Morty guy well? He had no idea, so he squashed his own aggravation and said, “I’m sorry about Morty.”

Logan said nothing as he turned on the shower, and Tate came over and stopped in front of him. “Let me come with you tonight,” he suggested. “It might make things easier.”

Logan scoffed. “That would be the last thing it would do.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Trust me, it’s better that you don’t.” Logan took his boxer briefs off, and when he was about to get in the shower, Tate reached out and clamped a hand around his wrist, just about done with these evasive answers.

“What the fuck is going on, Logan?”

“Oh, nothing much. I just have to go and tell one of the most disgusting human beings I’ve ever met that we’ll no longer be representing his company in a way that won’t drag ours through the mud. You know, just something simple like that. Not stressful at all.”

Tate stared at Logan, waiting for more, and when he didn’t elaborate, Tate wanted to shake him. He knew he didn’t have all the details. Actually, he barely had any. But he figured that maybe if he was there with Logan tonight, it might help him see things a little clearer. Help keep him calm for whatever he had to do.

“Look,” Tate said, trying for patience. “I’m already dressed and ready to go. I’ll just have you redo my tie when you get out and we can get going. I promise to help keep you—”

“I already told you,” Logan said, louder this time. “You’re not coming with me.”

“Why?” Tate demanded, his temper finally getting the better of him. Logan was being completely unreasonable and making no sense at all. “Because the discussion might get awkward? So what, it’s business.”

“No, it’s not. This is personal,” Logan said. “And you know why? Because I love to suck your dick, and Byron Hawthorne, well, he has a problem with that. So if you’re sitting there beside me and he looks or says something derogatory to you, I’m not sure I can bite my tongue. Or maybe it’s more that I’m scared I will.”

Tate’s mouth fell open, that having been the last thing he’d expected Logan to say, and then Logan pulled his arm free.

“Now, if you don’t mind, I have to take a shower.”

* * *

I’M AN ASSHOLE.

Those three words had been playing on a loop in Logan’s head as he’d been washing up, and were now on repeat as he sat at the end of their bed to tie his shoelaces.

He couldn’t believe the argument he’d just had with Tate. But then again, he wasn’t all that surprised. All afternoon, the news of Morty’s passing and tonight’s dinner had been weighing on his mind, and by the time he’d gotten home, it had reached a boiling point and he’d just lost it—and taken it out on the one person who didn’t deserve it.

Logan got to his feet and smoothed a hand down his tie, and when he saw Tate’s burgundy one on the floor where he’d clearly thrown it, Logan cursed under his breath. He gave himself a final once-over, and as he did, he heard a cabinet being slammed shut downstairs and winced.

Yeah, total asshole right here.

He grabbed his suit jacket off the hanger, shrugged into it, and then let out a sigh. He really didn’t want to drive down to the Waldorf Astoria and smile his way through a dinner—but he had no choice, and that was what he hated the most.

This wasn’t only his business, and Cole and Priest were counting on him, so he was right in telling Tate he couldn’t come tonight, because Logan knew he wouldn’t be able to keep his temper in check if the guy even looked at Tate with anything other than the respect he deserved.

Not that I’m a shining example of giving him that right now, Logan thought as he headed downstairs.

When he entered the kitchen, Logan spotted Tate over by the back door staring out into their yard. He had changed out of his dress pants and shirt and was now in some grey sweatpants and a hoodie, and his spine was ramrod straight.

Logan rubbed a hand over his chin as he walked over to Tate, and when he was a few feet away, he said, “Tate—”

“I don’t want to hear it, Logan.”

Logan swallowed his words at Tate’s blunt tone, and shoved his hands in his pockets so he wouldn’t do something stupid, like reach out and try to touch him. It was clear from Tate’s demeanor that he was roiling mad, and as Logan stood there, he wanted to kick his own ass for his childish behavior.

I should’ve just talked to him. Explained what was going on. But no, I had to go and act like an ass.

He ran over the things he’d been going to say on his way down, but as the apologies echoed in his head, they sounded trite even to him. He hated when they fought like this. But what he hated more than anything else was the way Tate got quiet on him.

It was unnerving because it was so rare between them. They could always communicate. But when Tate shut down, when he’d been pushed past his annoyance into the frostiest parts of his anger, he could freeze you out better than an arctic blast.

“I—”

“I said I don’t want to hear it, Logan. And you have somewhere else to be.”

Logan could practically see the icicles forming on the light fixture above his head as Tate continued to stare out into the yard. He didn’t want to leave things like this, but at the same time, he knew he didn’t have time to hash it out. “We’ll talk about it when I get home.”

When Tate said nothing, Logan cursed. This day was turning out to be a fucking disaster. He shook his head and then stormed out through the living room to grab his wallet and keys, and before he walked out the door, he heard Tate say, “Don’t forget your coat.”

Logan stopped and reached for the peacoat he had hanging on the rack, and as he shrugged into it and opened the door, he thought, Well, at least Tate still cares whether I catch pneumonia.

And as Logan shut the door behind himself and walked out to the car, he thought that was probably more than he deserved, all things considered.

* * *

TATE HEARD THE front door slam shut and closed his eyes.

God, he was mad. At Logan. At the way he’d treated him. At the asshole he’d never met but knew Logan was heading to eat dinner with. He was fucking mad.

It’d been a while since he and Logan had really butted heads like that, but as Tate stood in the silence Logan’s departure had created, he played back the words that had been spoken.

“This is personal… Because I love to suck your dick and Byron Hawthorne, well, he has a problem with that…”

It was obvious that Logan had met this Byron guy before and it had not gone well. But his unwillingness to talk about it—something that was obviously eating away at him—wasn’t good enough.

If Logan was uncomfortable about something, Tate wanted to know about it so he could help him. He wouldn’t have had a problem staying home. But to be told he couldn’t come like some housewife from the fifties? Yeah, no, that shit isn’t going to fucking work for me.

Tate turned away from the window and walked over to the fridge to see what he could make for dinner. Not that he was hungry, but he figured it was better to do something with his time other than sit there and stew while he waited for Logan’s return.

Opening the fridge, he looked inside, but when nothing caught his eye, he thought about heading out to get something instead. That would kill time—but no. What he’d really wanted was to eat a nice meal with Logan. He’d been looking forward to it all day, and now nothing seemed appetizing. So he shut the stainless steel door and went into the living room, where he grabbed the remote and took a seat.

He turned on the TV, and as he flicked through the channels, Tate found himself staring off at nothing. His mind kept going back to his and Logan’s earlier conversation and the fact that he’d had to stay home tonight because someone had a problem with their relationship, and that was what it boiled down to. He had missed out on a nice fucking meal and had gotten into an argument with Logan because someone they didn’t know from Jack had a goddamn problem with them, and that was what was really pissing him off.

Tate got to his feet and looked at his phone, checking for the time, and when a message from Logan flashed up, I’m sorry, Tate knew there was no way he was going to let some anonymous stranger come between them.

Logan had said he wouldn’t be able to focus if he was sitting there beside him tonight. He hadn’t said anything about being anywhere else in the restaurant, and with that thought in mind, Tate headed upstairs to change.