Jesse had never woken up with a man in his arms.

Over the years, he’d pretty much lived up to his rock star reputation when it came to women. So he’d had plenty of mornings after with the fairer sex. Even in the post-Kylie era, when he’d been keeping a lid on things, relatively speaking, pushing playtime aside in favor of work, he’d enjoyed a fair amount of female attention. It was almost impossible not to. The whole groupie thing was real. He had to actively try not to sleep with women.

His liaisons with men, which were now firmly lodged in the past, had always been furtive, though. Spur-of-the-moment. No sleepovers, much less cuddling, had been associated with those encounters.

Not that this was an “encounter.”

But whatever it was, it was . . . unsettling.

He hadn’t meant to fall asleep, merely to extend the night a little longer. He’d never told anyone about Beth—what was happening to her or the fact that “Repeat” was about her. The guys didn’t even know.

Talking to Hunter had been so easy. It had always been easy, from that first moment on the train. But add in the dark, and his quiet, encouraging advice about Beth, and it had been . . . such a huge relief. Like sinking into a warm bath. Which was a ridiculous metaphor considering how cold it was.

Despite his best intentions, he’d conked out. They both had. And it was no doubt the cold that had prompted them to snuggle up together, Hunter burrowed into Jesse’s chest.

Hunter started to stir. Jesse tried to untangle himself, but Hunter was draped over his chest, so all he could do was sort of lift his arms up, like he was being robbed while reclined.

But then that seemed absurd, like he was protesting too much, so he settled them back down again. Told himself that they’d fallen asleep outside in the cold. That this was the innocent outcome of logical forces.

So was his morning wood.

Hopefully, one of the benefits of waking up with a man in his arms was that said man would understand the concept of morning wood.

That it wasn’t personal.

It was just . . . biology.

Guys knew that. Right?

“Mmm,” Hunter emitted a satisfied-sounding half moan, half sigh as he snuggled closer to Jesse.

Jesse couldn’t help it; he pulled him closer. Tighter. There was something delightful about a woman, but this . . . this chest that was so like his own, this chiseled, stubbly jaw, sliding over his neck, was . . . also pretty fucking delightful.

“Mmm.” There was another one of those moany sighs, and goddamn it, Jesse’s morning semi could probably no longer be rationalized away. At least the way Hunter was lying draped over him, there was no direct contact between his dick and any part of Hunter.

“Oh!”

All at once, Hunter woke up—fully—and as soon as he realized what had happened, he rolled off Jesse.

Jesse felt the loss. It was cold out, but they’d created a pool of warmth between them, and now it was gone—and so suddenly, like someone had plunged his body into the lake next to them.

“I’m sorry!” Hunter said, sitting up and looking, for a moment, adorably bewildered. “I guess we fell asleep.” He flashed Jesse a sheepish grin. “I’m a terrible snuggler when I sleep.”

“No worries.” Jesse sat up too and let the blanket pool in his lap to disguise what was going on there. “I’m the one who’s sorry. Some kind of host I am, letting you sleep out here all night.”

“Totally worth it,” said Hunter, his face tilted upward. The sky was streaked with the pinks and oranges of sunrise. “God, this place is shameless. It’s like you think this amount of beauty should be rationed or something, but no. You’ve got the van Gogh stars and the tourism brochure sunrise.”

Jesse smiled. That was a good way of putting it. “Well, let’s go inside and rustle up some breakfast. Without hangovers, I suspect the guys will be up earlier than usual. And I’ll show you your room. In case you go crazy and want, like, an actual bed at any point.”

Strangely, Jesse didn’t want Hunter to want to sleep anywhere other than his chest.

He didn’t say that, of course.

He could never say that.

Two years ago, he’d traded away his right to even think it.

If Hunter had been apprehensive about meeting the members of Jesse’s band, he needn’t have worried.

In some ways, they lived up to their reputations. After a round of introductions, they were deep into talking about sex. Gay sex, to be specific.

Over pancakes.

“So, like, you have hand signals or something, and then you go at it?”

“Jesus Christ, Billy,” Jesse said. “Have some respect.”

“It’s okay,” Hunter said through a chuckle. Billy, the bassist, was both shocking and refreshing in his forthrightness. He’d only known Billy for twenty minutes, but already he could see that he was the type of guy who called it like he saw it.

“I don’t know about hand signals,” he said. “But there’s definitely a pickup culture in some parts of the gay world. It hasn’t really been my thing historically.”

“But it’s easier for a guy to get laid by another guy than by a girl,” said Ash, who played a bunch of different instruments ranging from acoustic guitar to sax. Hunter suspected Ash was the “smart” one, relatively speaking anyway. Not that anyone was smarter than Jesse, whose stereotypical rock star looks belied a fierce intelligence. But Ash talked less than the other guys, anyway, seeming to favor listening over speaking.

“I think that’s probably true,” Hunter said.

“Unless you’re Jesse Jamison,” said the drummer, Rob—not to be confused with Billy. The Joyride’s rhythm section was composed of Robert and Robert. Billy and Rob. It was charming.

Jesse rolled his eyes. “Oh come on, you guys do fine.”

“We do now,” Billy said, stretching like a satisfied cat. “But for a long time there, it was your leavings.”

“Still is,” Ash said. “Just the leavings are of higher quality now.”

“God,” said Jesse. “Do I need to change the name of the band to Jesse and the Neanderthals?”

Billy ignored him. “So, what about this top and bottom thing? Like, say you have a boyfriend or a husband. Someone is sticking it in all the time and someone is, uh . . . taking it?”

“Shut up, Billy.”

“No, it’s okay,” Hunter said, laughing again. He’d been nervous to meet the band, but he found them, particularly Billy, delightful. If all straight guys were this open to learning about different kinds of people, the world would probably be a much more peaceful place. “Some couples are like that, I think—one person strictly tops and the other bottoms. Some have preferences but sometimes switch. Some don’t do anal at all.”

“Whaaat?” said Billy. His mouth dropped open. “What’s the point of having a dick if you can’t, like, stick it somewhere?”

“Time for a tour,” Jesse said quickly, standing. He was clearly mortified.

Hunter ignored him. He was enjoying himself.

Billy ignored him too, pressing on with his interrogation. “And what if it’s not a relationship? What if it’s a one-time thing? How do you decide how it’s going to go?”

“Good question,” Hunter said. “I had my first ‘date’”—he made quotation marks with his fingers—“in a long time the other night, and it was a bit awkward.” Well, maybe awkward wasn’t the right word. The other guy had seemed fine with the clinical negotiation. But to Hunter, it had seemed so . . . transactional. Which he supposed it was. But still.

“Wait. What?” Jesse said.

Hunter continued to ignore Jesse in favor of talking to the guys. “I think what I learned from that is to be more upfront about it at the beginning.” He didn’t particularly like that idea, but it was better than interrupting things just as they were heating up to talk about it. “Like, maybe I should put that stuff right in my Tinder profile? I don’t know.”

“I thought you didn’t do meaningless hookups,” Jesse said, his voice dripping with such disdain that he finally earned Hunter’s undivided attention. “I thought you were into dating.” The rock star was standing at the kitchen island the rest of them were sitting around, eyebrows raised and hands on his hips. He looked like an overbearing father, which only added to the general sense of amusement Hunter was experiencing this morning.

“I am. I was. I don’t know. I matched with this guy. He was nearby. He was . . . dumb but hot.”

“Ha!” said Billy, offering his hand to Hunter to high-five. “You’re going to fit right in here.”

“You done?” Jesse asked as Hunter slapped Billy’s hand.

“Yeah,” said Hunter. “Thanks. These were great.” Because apparently Mr. Fire Starter and Mr. Art Hanger could make amazing pancakes too.

Jesse topped up both his and Hunter’s coffees. “Grab your cup. I’ll give you a tour.”

It was dawning on Hunter that Jesse was rich.

Which made sense, he supposed. “Rich” often went with “famous.”

The “cottage” was on twenty acres of land, much of which was wooded. Hunter had no idea what twenty acres of the Lake Ontario shoreline went for, but it had to have cost a pretty penny. The house itself was large but not ostentatious. Jesse informed him it had been built in the 1960s and expanded by subsequent owners in the 1980s.

“I should probably renovate, but I don’t really give a crap about that House Beautiful shit.” He glanced at Hunter—they were traipsing across the yard toward some outbuildings. “No offense.”

“Why would that offend me?”

“Well, you do kind of live in a House Beautiful spread.”

Hunter wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or an insult. “Maybe now that someone hung my art.”

“Building this bunkie is really the only thing I’ve done since I bought the place a couple years ago,” Jesse said, stopping in front of a small outbuilding of some sort.

“I’m sorry, bunkie?”

Jesse laughed. “Yeah. It’s an Ontario cottage word. It’s a building where people sleep. Usually it’s pretty bare bones—just a bunch of beds, sometimes in actual bunk bed formation. It’s for guests. Or you can stick your annoying band members in there. The cottage originally had four bedrooms, but I knocked a wall down between two of them and made a studio—that was the one project I did do in the main house. So I sleep in the house, and the rest of the guys battle it out amongst themselves for the second cottage room—though this time I made them all sleep out here so you could have a proper bedroom in the house.”

Hunter was about to reflexively protest that he didn’t need the bedroom but thought better of it. Yeah, he was getting along fine with Ash and the two Roberts, but that didn’t mean they all needed to have a slumber party in the bunkie.

“Don’t you have a fifth guy in the band?” Hunter knew Jesse did, thanks to his earlier social media stalking, but he’d only met three of Jesse’s bandmates this morning.

“Yeah. Colin, who plays keyboards.” Jesse gestured toward the bunkie. “He’s still asleep, otherwise I’d show you the inside. It is sort of House Beautiful in there, if I do say so myself, at least for a bunkie. Beth picked out the finishes and bedding, so it looks pretty good. She said after I killed myself building it, I couldn’t just throw ratty quilts in there.”

“Killed yourself building it, meaning you built it yourself?”

“Yep.”

“You built this.” Hunter pressed his hand against the wood-frame building. It was a simple, small house-type structure made of a light wood, complete with a mini front porch that was lined with rocking chairs. “Like with your hands.”

No, asshole, he built it with his feet. Hunter had to invoke the sentence that had become his mantra of late: No crushing on straight guys.

Jesse grinned. “Hey, I was a country kid. A poor country kid. We DIY-ed everything out here back in the day.”

The tour continued with a visit to the beach. Jesse might have been a poor country kid, but today he had a chunk of lakeshore with all the trimmings—canoes, a jet ski, and a speedboat. All that was missing was . . .

“Where’s the yacht?” Hunter teased.

“Yachts are for pricks.” Jesse set his coffee mug on the ground and made a waving gesture like he was physically dismissing the notion of being thought the yacht type.

Or . . . correction, he wasn’t waving. He was crossing his arms over and around to grab the back of his T-shirt in order to take it off.

“Nothing like a morning swim to shake the cobwebs off.”

Holy shit, was he going to take his shorts off too?

No. That was . . . a relief?

Or was it disappointing? It was hard to tell.

When Jesse had disappeared into his room after they woke up fireside, he’d been wearing his usual rock star uniform of faded jeans, a concert T-shirt—last night’s had been an old Stones one—a leather jacket, and boots. He’d emerged in flip-flops, another concert T-shirt (Metallica), and shorts Hunter now realized were actually swim trunks.

The transformation had been jarring—and Hunter wasn’t just talking about Jesse and his clothes. It was the whole thing. The dark night had become a blue, sunny day. Their cozy little nest by the fire, which had been all Hunter had seen of the place last night, had given way to the big cottage and sprawling grounds. And, of course, the rock star had become . . .

Well, Hunter’s rational brain told him Jesse was getting in the water, and doing that necessitated the removal of some clothes.

Some other part of Hunter’s brain was freaking out.

He was covered in tattoos. Of course he was. What had Hunter expected? He’d seen the ones on Jesse’s forearms. But his chest was more tattoo than not-tattoo, a swirling mass of words interspersed with images of flowers—roses, mostly. But they were . . . badass roses, for lack of a better word. They were as much thorn as blossom. Hunter wanted to look more closely, to read all those words inked into Jesse skin. But that would be weird, and anyway, Jesse was striding toward the water.

“You coming?”

“I’m, uh, not dressed for it.” Like Jesse, Hunter had changed when they came in from the fire, but he’d put on seersucker shorts and a button-down.

Clearly, he’d packed for brunch in the Hamptons rather than slumming it with a rock band.

“Suit yourself.” Jesse waded in up to his waist and then dove under the surface of the water.

The lake in the morning had the cold-shower effect Jesse had been after.

He needed to chill the fuck out.

His mission was helped along by the fact that after he’d submerged himself in the icy water, Hunter turned around and headed back for the cabin, taking his immaculately groomed self and his stories of hookups with “hot but dumb” dudes with him.

But the reprieve was temporary, because a few minutes later he reappeared, and he wasn’t wearing a shirt. Just a pair of plaid swim trunks that made him look like he should be starring in a Duran Duran video. He walked down to the thin strip of beach and laid out a towel. His hair was still kind of de-puffed and floppy from last night. Almost as if he could hear Jesse’s thoughts, Hunter ran his hands through his hair, which had the effect of flattening it even more. Then he took off his glasses.

Eff him. Jesse liked Hunter’s usual pompadour. He liked his glasses. Both suited him immensely.

But he liked even more the sight of Hunter . . . unraveling himself.

A whoop from the house caught his attention. Billy, Ash, and Rob were on their way down from the house. Thank God. Sort of.

Their noise must have roused Colin, because he emerged from the bunkie, and within a minute, everyone had converged on the beach. Jesse swam to shore to introduce Hunter to the last member of his band and to make sure Colin, who was easily the crankiest among them, wasn’t going to be a dick.

Which he kind of was, when he started up with, “What happened to ‘no guests,’ Jesse?”

Jesse had a strict rule about the cottage. It was open to the guys any weekend, but they couldn’t bring other people. He didn’t want it to be overrun, to become a scene. It was supposed to be a haven. A place where they unplugged, and, if the mood struck, did some work. They’d written some of their best stuff here.

“Yeah!” Billy piped up. “You said no guests. No girlfriends!”

“I said no girls,” Jesse clarified. “You get an honest-to-goodness girlfriend, and we’ll revisit the issue. I don’t want this to become party central. You get enough of that in the city, and on tour.”

“Dude.” Billy turned to Hunter and rolled his eyes. “He’s like our straight-edge camp counselor.” Then he swiveled back to face Jesse. “What happened? You used to be fun.”

What happened is I grew the fuck up, convinced Matty to take us on, Matty did his stupid “branding” thing, and this band took off as a result. What happened is I decided to take control of my own narrative.

“Billy has a girlfriend,” Rob tried. “Her name is . . .” But then he shook his head and chuckled, knowing it was futile.

“Billy has a new ‘girlfriend’ every other week,” Ash said.

“Well,” said Billy, “I learned from the best.” He waggled his eyebrows at Jesse, who was inexplicably embarrassed. And then mad that he was embarrassed. What did Hunter care who he slept with? Hadn’t they all just heard about Hunter’s most recent “hot but dumb” conquest?

“Maybe back in the day,” said Colin. “But not so much of a player anymore, eh, Jesse?”

“That’s kind of true now that I think about it,” Billy said, screwing up his face in bewilderment.

Jesse rolled his eyes. “Maybe some of us have learned to be subtle.” There was some truth in Colin’s observation, though. He wasn’t partying nearly as much as he used to. The band didn’t know about his deal with Matty, but there was no way for them not to notice he wasn’t tomcatting around as much as in the old days. But Jesse’s rebuttal was equally true—if he did want some company after a show, he kept it on the down-low. And they weren’t sleeping on the bus anymore at most stops, so he could invite the lady in question back to his hotel room and no one would be the wiser. Unless she talked to the tabloids, but that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. As Matty had said, it was a fine line, and the occasional tale of debauchery was good for business. Jesse was trying to act like a rock star, wasn’t he? Embody Matty’s “bad boy next door brand” that seemed to keep everyone interested in the band.

After that, everyone settled down, even prickly Colin, and they had a good time. The day could actually have been one of those montages you see in movies, because they did pretty much everything that was on offer. They swam and boated. Hunter gave waterskiing a shot, and he was adorably bad at it. Jesse had even handed the boat’s steering wheel over to Rob and jumped in the water to try to steady Hunter as he attempted to get up and going, but it always ended with the two of them sputtering and laughing as Hunter performed impressively acrobatic tumbles.

On land, they’d hiked and, as the shadows started to lengthen, taught Hunter Billy’s ridiculous “croquet with shots” invention.

“I think the rules are changing as we speak.” Hunter threw back a shot of vodka after his ball narrowly missed a wicket. “I thought you only drank if you missed two in a row.”

“Now you’re getting a sense of how it goes, Doc.” Jesse clinked his glass against Hunter’s before tipping his head back and emptying its contents—he relaxed his no-drinking rule at the cottage. “Billy makes this shit up as he goes along.”

“Doc?” Billy’s face arranged itself into a caricature of surprise. Billy was prone to overreacting, but when he was drunk? Forget it. “Are you a doctor? An actual doctor?”

Hunter had barely answered in the affirmative before Billy pulled his pants down.

Jesus Christ. Jesse buried his head in his hands.

“Will you look at this weird bump thing?” He jutted his hip out and pointed at something near the bone of his hip.

Hunter blinked.

“Here we go,” said Rob.

“Is this a bedbug bite?”

“Pull your pants up, Billy,” Jesse said, though he knew it was futile.

“He’s obsessed with bedbugs,” said Ash to Hunter. “Thinks every bit of dust is one. Sleeps on the bus instead of hotels when we’re on the road if he doesn’t approve of the hotel’s rating on Bedbugs R Us or some shit.”

“I’m not obsessed,” Billy said haughtily. “I had an infestation in my apartment about five years ago, and it was not an experience I would like to repeat.”

“Pull your pants up, Billy,” Colin growled, echoing Jesse’s earlier statement. Colin was usually growling—if he wasn’t such a damn good musician, Jesse wouldn’t tolerate him—but he rarely agreed with Jesse, so the combination was weird.

“It’s okay,” said Hunter, whose shock had transformed into bemusement. He bent over, tilted his head, and examined the mark in silence for a few moments. “I’m not a dermatologist, but I feel confident in saying you’re in the clear. Bedbug bites usually appear in clusters or lines. I think that’s a run-of-the-mill mosquito bite, albeit a big one.”

Billy’s relief was comically exaggerated, thanks to his inebriation, and it caused the other guys to start mocking him.

“There’s lots of research on the psychological impact of bedbugs,” Hunter said as Billy (finally!) pulled up his pants. “Everything from sleeplessness to increased anxiety to full-on PTSD has been documented.”

“Thank you,” Billy said to Hunter, before turning to the guys and sneering at them. “Vindicated by science.”

“Sorry about Billy’s butt,” Jesse said to Hunter later, when they were all milling around outside getting dinner organized. The other guys were setting out salads Jesse had picked up from a deli in a nearby town, and Jesse and Hunter were roasting sausages over the fire.

“No problem,” Hunter said. “I like Billy. He’s very . . .”

“Insane?” Jesse supplied.

“Authentic,” Hunter said. “I like your band.”

Jesse was secretly pleased. The guys were complete idiots some of the time—okay, most of the time—but at the core of things they were good people. Even prickly Colin. He was glad Hunter could see that. “Yeah, they aren’t the most refined bunch, but what you see is what you get with them.”

“That’s . . . a really good quality to have,” Hunter said, sounding wistful.

“You’re thinking of Julian, aren’t you? He really threw you for a loop.”

“I think he did. At the time, I’d just had it, you know? He used to have these dinner parties for the partners at his firm—he was a senior associate and was aiming to make partner. He’d invite them and their wives over. I’d clear out. It wasn’t anything new. We’d done it a bunch of times over the years. But somehow, that last time, I couldn’t take it anymore. Early on, he told me he needed time. To prove himself at work. To become indispensable. He used to apologize profusely. We’d both feel terrible in the days leading up to one of his dinners.”

“So what changed?” Jesse asked, trying to pitch the question so his interest seemed milder than it actually was.

“As he was planning the latest dinner, I realized he didn’t feel terrible anymore. It was just . . . what we did. Routine. It’s not like I wanted him to suffer, but then it sort of hit me: I thought, ‘My God, if he doesn’t even feel bad about this anymore, he’s never going to change, is he?’”

“Probably not,” Jesse agreed, his heart breaking a little at the idea of someone treating Hunter so shabbily for so long. Surely a lawyer in the modern era could be out without it being a big deal. It wasn’t like a lawyer had to live his life in the spotlight, like his success was dependent on projecting a certain image.

Hunter nodded. “And all of a sudden, I wasn’t okay with it anymore. It was like a switch flipped inside me. I was done. It’s not like I need my boyfriend to be the grand marshal of the Pride parade or anything, but, Jesus Christ. I’m thirty-four years old. I’m not going to pretend anymore. No one—nothing—is worth that.”

Jesse could not disagree.

In Hunter’s case, anyway.