Right Move (Clean Slate Ranch #6) - A.M. Arthur Page 0,56

refrained from the extra fat and calories. Now he regretted the choice but there was no fixing it.

He’d just add extra mayo to his sandwich at lunch or something.

The diet/exercise urges had diminished over the years but certain things never completely went away. Not when he’d spent so many of his formative years battling eating disorders, thanks to Adrian and his parents. The only person in his past who’d never demanded perfection from him was Orry. They’d been competitive, yes, but in their own unique ways.

He took a picture of his view of the main ranch and texted it to Orry. These last twenty-fourish hours were the longest he’d been away from his twin in the last seven years, and while he missed Orry like crazy, he was also...okay. No imminent sense of panic or doom. A longing, sure, but also a lot of excitement for the rest of his day here with Levi.

Levi.

George had woken with morning wood for the first time in ages, and he’d been insanely grateful that Levi wasn’t in their room. It allowed him to escape into the bathroom with some dignity and rub one out in the shower. All he’d needed to do was remember making out with Levi for hours the night before—some of the best memories of his entire life, next to his first junior gold medal.

And while they didn’t have lube or a condom between them—at least, he assumed not but he hadn’t searched Levi’s luggage—George hoped they did more than kiss while sharing a room for the rest of the week. There were so many things they could with just hands, mouths and spit, and George wanted to try them. And the only person he trusted enough to give his body to was Levi.

Someone plunked down in the chair beside his. The mother of the two teenage girls. Mrs. Harrison? “I thought you looked familiar but older,” she said in a faux whisper. “I was a huge figure skating follower when my girls were younger. You’re Georgie Thompson, right? You quit right before Worlds?”

George’s chest constricted. What were the fucking odds that someone would recognize him in the middle of bumfuck nowhere on a dude ranch? “My name is George,” was all he managed to say.

“George, Georgie. You’re the twin. You were really good, kid; why did you quit like that? I mean, the real reason, not all the random crap in the newspapers, like you and your brother running off to join a cult.”

That was in the fucking paper?

George’s stomach curled in on itself and his vision briefly blurred. Fingers began trembling. He tried to latch on to something tangible before the panic attack took over and embarrassed the hell out of him, but not even the faintest scent of dirt and horse kept him there.

Orry. I need Orry.

Then a somewhat familiar voice was there, talking to him or the woman, George wasn’t sure. He didn’t protest the firm hands that pulled him up and forward. Indoors and out of the fresh December air. Somewhere that smelled like food and warmth and safety, and then slender arms were pulling him into a hug.

“You’re okay, it’s okay. You’re safe, George, you’re okay. Listen to my voice. You’re safe.”

The constant reassurances helped George latch on to specific things: the smell of cooked bacon; the warmth of the person holding him; the murmur of other voices; the sound of what might have been a dishwasher. He was in a kitchen. The man holding him was roughly his size, maybe a bit taller, but just as slim.

When George thought he could look up without bursting into tears, he met Miles’s eyes. Miles watched him with equal parts compassion and understanding, and without asking, George saw an ally in his panic attack. “Thanks for the save,” George rasped, hating how much his voice wobbled.

“Happy to.” Miles drew back a bit but didn’t let go of George’s forearms. “I don’t know what Mrs. Harrison said to you but I saw how you reacted. I’ve been in a similar place. Where something unexpected triggers you.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“And I’m not asking. Only offering an ear to bend if you need one. Everyone who lives here has a story, George. Even our guests have stories. I just hope I helped today.”

“You did.” George twisted his arm so he could clasp one of Miles’s hands. “Thank you. I was not handling that well.”

“Do you need Patrice or Reyes to speak to Mrs. Harrison about whatever