I couldn’t sleep.

Of course I couldn’t sleep. It was two o’clock in the morning here in New York City, which meant it was just past lunchtime in Singapore.

After a day of adjustment, my body was willing to accept that it was morning, but the rule of thumb held true—an hour per day. It seemed to be thinking “after lunchtime” and not “so late only cabs were running.”

God, I hated jet lag. It left me spinning for days.

I’d gotten up at midnight and taken a hot bath. That was my usual time-killing activity when I couldn’t sleep. It had almost worked, but not quite. After another hour of tossing and turning, I was forced to admit defeat.

These pre-dawn hours were rarely good to me. If I had my laptop, I usually dragged it to bed and started working on whatever my current project demanded. If I was getting up, that meant finding something else to do, though. I’d left work at the office for once.

“Fine,” I grumbled as I pushed myself out of bed, the silky sheets dragging against my smooth skin. I was tired of lying here and telling myself I had to be more awake. Tomorrow, I’d push through and fix this jet lag with a long, awful day if I had to.

I pulled on fresh clothes, making a mental note to do laundry this weekend, when it was daylight hours. That was the best part of my house apart from the resale value—I’d hauled my stuff three blocks to a laundromat in the dead of winter as a college kid. A washer and dryer had been a must-have in a new home of my own.

A casual shirt and jeans would do, but where the hell could I go in the city at this hour without getting shot or stabbed?

Friction, of course. I’d be set until four AM at that rate, and then I could hit up Bubbles—the nearby all-night diner—until six, then coffee and the office. Sounded like a plan. A lame, grown-up, sensible plan, but still a plan. God, I was going to gain ten pounds if I kept eating this much junk food.

My buddies would be happy I was getting out, at least. I didn’t have to tell them it was only to stop me dying of boredom or, worse, turning on late-night TV.

I did the sensible thing and grabbed an Uber to the bar. One of the best parts of living in New York City was avoiding getting charged an arm and a leg for a quick cab ride, or worse, having to haggle… or worst of all, living in a rural dead zone with no Uber at all. Uber charged an upfront price, no negotiation, and no wasting time fiddling with my wallet when I arrived. I liked that. It was efficient.

At least there was no line to get into Friction this late at night. It wasn’t even that busy—of course. It was a weeknight. The weekends didn’t seem much different when I was traveling and away for work during them. Only when I was based here did weekends become those few precious days that I only spent half my day working or thinking about work.

“Coke, please,” I told the bartender.

He slid it over and I handed him money, then leaned against the bar. I didn’t want to start drinking this late and then have to deal with the foggy head later. And I was okay being the sober designated driver at parties. Alcohol didn’t make me happy by any means, and I wasn’t dumb enough to try harder and make sure.

Some of my colleagues had issues that couldn’t quite fit in their recycling bins, but I wasn’t going to go that route. Too stereotypical, and too easy to lose everything I’d worked for the five years since my internship to build—literally and figuratively.

It was one of those weird evenings where everything familiar seemed strange. Not just because I’d been away for days, or the late-night fog that set in when I couldn’t sleep, but there was something else.

Too much thinking and not enough doing.

I turned to the guy next to me and checked my gaydar. Some straight guys in New York City didn’t mind going to a gay bar, and I didn’t want to waste anyone’s time.

“You look like the most sober person in the room,” I said with a grin.

The other guy grinned. “Oh, thank God. The only decent conversation I’ve had tonight.” He stuck out his hand. “Darren.”

“Charlie.”

He seemed friendly enough, but there wasn’t an immediate spark. I hadn’t felt that with anyone in some time, so it didn’t surprise me.

“Been here all night?” I asked.

“Nah. I was working on a job site late, just got here at midnight. You?” Darren sipped what looked like orange juice and Sprite.

I shook my head. “Jet lag. I was trying to sleep and it wasn’t working.”

“Getting laid helps with that,” he said, then chuckled. “Or so I’ve heard. It’s been long enough. Oh, God. I said that out loud.”

Darren’s honesty and self-deprecation were refreshing. I’d met way too many guys who were desperate to impress me, even if they didn’t want to fuck me. Clients who bragged about their trophy wives and houses, old college friends who bragged about their career trajectories… hell, my few gay friends often bragged about how many guys they’d had.

“Me too,” I told him. “I only bend over and take it from work these days.”

I didn’t have a problem being blunt about my lack of a sex life, even if it surprised and worried people around me. Hell, some people had implied that if I fucked some guys, I’d get over Hugh faster.

Like I needed to get over him. The hole had long since healed in my heart. I just hadn’t met someone else worth handing it over to.

Darren laughed richly. “I know that feeling.” He nodded toward the rest of the bar. “Every time I try to hook up, I end up with someone I’m not clicking with, and I cut it off. Some people say that means I need to give it a chance.”

“Some people are wrong,” I told him firmly. “Not that I’m biased.”

“Of course not.”

“What do you do?” Darren looked genuinely interested in the answer.

“Architecture. You?”

“Electrician.”

“Neat,” I answered, my attention caught by the guy moving up behind Darren. A handsome one, too—definitely not a bad looker.

In fact, the longer I looked, the more I found to like. The guy had wavy chin-length hair, and the beautiful, dark kind of eyes that showed his soul. He looked calm and centered.

He had pretty pink lips, and the kind of cheekbones that could kill a man. He knew exactly what he was doing, judging by the way he swiveled his hips to face me, though his hand was braced on the bar next to Darren.

“Evening,” he greeted us both. He sounded surprisingly sober considering the time of night.

I wasn’t expecting Darren’s amused smile. “I’m not paying, baby.”

It took my brain a few seconds to catch up. I’d been propositioned by women like this before, when I was out for drinks with some of my better-dressed and straighter coworkers, but never a man.

“Even if I flutter my eyelashes?” He wasn’t looking at Darren, though—he was looking at me, his voice light and teasing, but his gaze intense.

It had been a long damn time since anyone had looked at me like that.

“Even if,” I repeated, but my voice sounded hoarse even to my ears.

It had been just as long since my dick had reacted to anyone like this.

I had to briefly relearn how to keep it at bay—thinking of baseball usually did the trick, but I found myself suddenly wondering how this guy kept in such good shape. His arms were bulging in all the right places, like he’d come straight from a ranch.

And, weirdly enough, he sounded like it. His drawl became even more apparent when he said, “Shame. I’ll keep trying.” I’d heard that accent before, but I wasn’t sure in which part of the South.

“You do that, baby,” Darren told him and squeezed his shoulder with a smile. “My friend and I aren’t looking.”

“Looks like I got here too late.” He clicked his tongue in disappointment, but he winked at me anyway, and I felt my cheeks flush hotter than the sun.

Fuck. I wasn’t equipped for this conversation. I hadn’t flirted in years. “Too late and charging too much,” I said with a regretful smile. No way was I gonna get caught out by some hot cop.

“Unless…” He held my eyes for long enough to suggest he’d been thinking of a freebie, then grinned. “Fair enough.” His pocket chirped, and he pulled out his phone a moment later. “Pardon me,” he added, waving slightly as he headed off.

I caught the glint of a black loading screen in the background, and even I knew it had to be Grindr.

“You know him?” I made myself ask instead of staring after that perky ass, the broad shoulders, and the unmistakably flirtatious toss of his hair that he gave as he left, glancing over his shoulder.

“Yeah, he’s tried to pick me up a few times. Or… have me pick him up, I guess I should say,” Darren added.

“You don’t think he’s a cop?”

Darren thought for a moment and then shook his head. “Nah. He’s been coming here for a couple months now. Just a normal kid hustling.”

I immediately felt bad for thinking incredibly dirty things about his lips. “Kid?” I questioned, frowning toward the bouncer. Now that I’d hit my thirties, anyone in their twenties was a kid as far as I was concerned, but if he weren’t of age? There was a moral obligation to help him out.

Darren shrugged. “His Grindr age is exactly twenty-one, so he’s probably like, twenty-four.”

I half-smiled. That was something of a relief. Plus, the age difference wasn’t as bad.

Not that there was any reason at all for me to be thinking about the age difference between us. I couldn’t afford to have my career go down in flames if I got arrested.

But something about meeting the young guy’s gaze made me feel alive in a way I hadn’t before, and he was offering a convenient solution to my problem—wanting to date, or at least learn how to date again, but not having the time for a boyfriend.

I nodded vaguely and finished my drink. “I think I’m gonna get something from the greasy spoon next door. Wanna come?”

“Nah,” Darren said with a smile, but he took out his phone. “Gimme your number and we can hang out sometime. You have WhatsApp?”

“Of course,” I said and laughed. “I’m old, not dead.”

“Old,” Darren repeated with a snort and shook his head.

“Out of the scene, then,” I corrected myself, and he gave me a quizzical look, but sensed enough not to question. No way was I explaining I had a dead boyfriend, but I was over him now and looking to date. Not even telling him that it had been years ago. That made me sound like I had unresolved issues. I’d killed conversations that way before.

After we swapped numbers, I shook hands and waved slightly. “Good luck tonight.”

“Thanks,” Darren said with a chuckle, his eye already on the dance floor. “I’ll need it.”

The evening air was cool—crisp, even. I shivered and pulled my sweater tighter around myself, glad I’d brought that. Gone were the days I’d dress myself in a t-shirt so thin it could double as plastic-wrap and make my way to a club, shivering all the way. I still hated coat-checks, but I’d add a sweater, at least.

Now I was happy to plonk myself into a window-seat booth at Bubbles, the diner the next door down. I didn’t care how many calories were in the breakfast scramble. Didn’t even care whether any hot guys saw me eating it. It was gonna be mine.

“Coffee?” the waitress asked, gesturing with her pot toward my cup.

“Please.” I flipped the cup over and slid it to the end of the table.

“Long night or early morning?” she asked as she poured, and I glanced at her name tag. Tara.

“Both,” I answered. Deciding to make conversation, I added, “You?”

Tara winced sympathetically. “Late night for me. Sunrise means time to sleep, like a vampire.”

I toasted her with my coffee cup, my lip quirking as I glanced toward the curved counter of the diner. “To the night owls.”

She grinned in recognition. “You betcha, honey.”

After she left, I settled back into the cracked seats and smiled. Gentrification—and I knew damn well I had some small part in it—had touched nearly everywhere in midtown Manhattan, but here by my favorite old haunt, there were still hidden treasures.

New Yorkers were a stubborn bunch. We weren’t just gonna give up. I was certain this place had its regulars and a heartbeat of its own as people woke up for early shifts, stayed late, grabbed sober-up food or hangover brunches. And in its way, more than my shiny creations, it was the heartbeat of the city. I was way more interested in the diners than the clubs of New York City. Did that make me old?

Lost in thought, I fidgeted with my phone. I only realized when I’d opened the app store on my phone that I was looking at Grindr.

Fuck. Just because that one guy was on Grindr didn’t mean I needed to jump back on there. If I’d wanted meaningless sex, I could have gotten it a hundred times in the last few years.

But I wasn’t downloading it to look for that. I wanted him.

Which was weird, because wasn’t paying a sex worker the definition of meaningless sex? What the hell was I even paying him for, then?

Do we have to have sex?

It sounded like a dumb question. Who the hell would hire a sex worker and then not have sex? Me, apparently. God, my friends would never let it go if they heard about this.

Hell, even thinking about this was the most exciting thing that had happened since the pizza delivery guy showed up at my house instead of the next-door neighbors’. I’d sent him over to them and they’d brought me the garlic fingers to say thanks for not shutting up and taking the free pizza.

I just wanted someone to talk to, and maybe I could find that.

I held my breath, hit Download, and stared into my coffee cup for a few minutes before I screwed up enough courage to actually open it and register. I left my profile blank and started browsing nearby profiles.

The number of guys within a few hundred feet surprised me, and for a moment, I found myself dismayed. What if I couldn’t find—

There. He’d carefully cropped the photo so it didn’t show his whole face, but it was unmistakably the same outfit he’d worn tonight. Clever. I wondered idly how much effort he put into avoiding legal sticky situations.

Before I knew it, I was fumbling my way through finding a message button and typing out a greeting. This was probably a stupid idea. At least it was exciting. Whatever happened, I’d have a story to tell later.

I didn’t know if it was my heart, my gut instinct, my dick, or some sixth sense that was kicking in. Something told me I had to know more about him.