he wearing? Wes’s eyes traveled over Justin’s bulging duffel, half shoved under the bed, and skittered to a halt, frozen on a corner pocket. Condoms spilled onto the floor, as if Justin had grabbed a few in a hurry on his way out. Wes blanked his mind. No, no thoughts about that.
He bunched his pillow into a knot, like he was wrestling with the stuffing rather than trying to sleep on it, and curled up, half on his belly and half on his side. Car horns and bike bells and the warm breeze drifted into the room, and minutes later, he was asleep.
When his eyes popped open, it was dark, save for the lights of the city, Victorian streetlamps and globe lights strung between the buildings casting a golden glow that rose into the room. The night was quiet, the shops closed, the traffic tucked away save for an occasional siren in the distance.
Wes groaned, flipping to his back on the squeaky mattress before scrubbing his face. He peeked over at Justin’s bed.
There was a body-shaped lump beneath the sheets, and a tumble of hair caught the light, like spun gold was spread out on Justin’s pillow. Justin faced Wes with his eyes closed, his shoulders rising and falling steadily, gentle snores whispering out of him.
Wes’s gaze caught on something a little closer. A bottle of water and a wrapped baguette sandwich rested on Wes’s nightstand. He sat up and grabbed it, peeled back the paper wrapping, and sniffed. A jambon beurre, ham and salted butter. His stomach roared, a violent growl that he thought might wake Justin. But Justin didn’t stir. “Thank you,” he whispered to the quiet bedroom.
He rose and crept to the window, sitting on the sill and propping his bare foot on the ledge. Leaning back, he took his first bite of the sandwich, and he closed his eyes and groaned, thunking his head against the frame. God, how could something so simple be so damn delicious? He needed another five of these. He tried to eat slowly and savor it, but he was done too soon, licking his fingers clean of crumbs and butter before downing the bottle of water in one long gulp.
And then he watched, listening to Paris come alive in the early morning. Smelled the city, the sour-sweet smell of humanity and nature colliding, of concrete and exhaust and baked rubber, and trees sucking down carbon dioxide, and bakeries just beginning their day. The first glimpses of dawn were painting the sky, turning the indigo overhead to layered shades of bluebonnet and chicory and dayflower.
When dawn had turned the sky to a watercolorist’s palette, Wes rose and returned to his bed, pulling out his duffel and grabbing his running shoes and shorts from the side pocket. He might be in Paris, but that didn’t mean he was free from his obligations. He should have run yesterday, but he hadn’t, so he’d have to add that mileage to today.
He changed right there, then grabbed his phone, dropped a pin on the hotel, and pulled up a five-mile run route from his jogging app. He didn’t need to know where to go, as long as his phone kept feeding him directions. He popped his earbuds in, grabbed his metal key, and tiptoed out, trying not to wake Justin.
Chapter Two
As the lock turned in the door, Justin’s eyes opened. He stared at the empty space where Wes had just changed.
Just his damn luck. He came to Paris to escape: escape his life, and Texas, and, especially, Texans. Guys elsewhere, guys he met online who were in California or New York or Chicago, they all said he was lucky, he was surrounded by those sexy cowboys.
Yeah, sure, if you wanted your sexy with a side of snide, under-the-breath dismissal. Real cowboys, in his experience, were not the kind of men he wanted to hang around with, no matter how sexy they might be.
So, of course, he went five thousand miles and crossed an ocean to live in a cosmopolitan, progressive European city for three weeks… and ended up rooming with an honest-to-God Texan cowboy. Boots, buckle, hat and all.
Just his luck, he’d figured, when Wes walked in. Just his damn luck. He’d felt his dreams collapse as Wes had settled in, boots thumping on the old hardwood floors. Three weeks had seemed like freedom only moments before. How quickly it became a cage. When would the sneers start? The jeers? When would his roommate become aggressive?