Available for Pre-Order! Regency M/M A Gentleman Never Does #erotic #regency #smashwords

Breathless Press, my publisher, closed its doors earlier this year. As a result, I received the rights back to many of my stories. Each of these stories will be making a reappearance, some with new editing, some with new covers, some completely overhauled. This is one of those stories.

This short, sexy regency tells the story of a couple torn apart in a time when love between men was a sin deemed punishable by death or deportation.

Currently available for pre-order, releasing on July 17th.

A Gentleman Never Does 

A Regency M/M Romance 

Short of funds, Gareth proposes to wager for love.

Does Gideon dare play out this hand?

While passing time at a debutant ball, Gideon Westwood encounters a man from his past he'd give anything to avoid.

Unfortunately for him, Gareth Belmain isn't in the mood to be pushed aside.

Wagers, romantic gardens, shared kisses and angry words overheard add fuel to the fire that flares between them.  

Will a duel put an end to Gareth's hopes for a future together?

EXCERPT

"Why hesitate? It's the card room at a debutante's ball, not a den of iniquity or a Peninsular battlefield." The lazy drawl came just before Gideon Westwood became aware of the heady scent of bay rum, the warm press of a body aginst his in the doorway.

In front of Gideon lay a room full of men in evening garb, chatting idly and playing cards with practiced boredom, mingling with the occasional jewel-clad matron flirtatiously fluttering a fan. Candlelight flickered on bored faces and servants with trays of drinks moved silently among the crowded tables. There were a few open tables, and at some a great deal of money was changing hands. He wouldn't join those. A gentleman never played deep in mixed company. Serious gambling was for the clubs; this was just a way to pass the evening while doing his duty to his family.

His carefully tied neck cloth became a little too tight, sweat dampened his palms. Behind him lurked a ballroom full of white clad young misses, each determined to capture a prize on the marriage mart. Not that he was much of a prize; he was only respectably set up, a few thousand a quarter, and though he had a scattering of titled relatives, he was unlikely, barring a plague on the house of Westwood, to ever inherit any of them. If all a young lady's family required in a husband was passable good looks, a modest country home, and a merely comfortable existence, he'd be hounded to the altar sooner or later. No sense making it easy for them by haunting dance floors and such. He'd left his lady mother chatting with the other dowagers and his younger sister making up a set with a pimple-faced baronet, and fled for safer ground. His hesitation in the card room doorway had been intended to insure that he'd avoid an encounter with the gentleman who had just spoken.

Playing cards wasn't his only option; he could blow a cloud in the gardens. It was tempting to do just that, but he wouldn't put it past the gentleman behind him to follow him to the gardens either. Better to stick to cards. Being alone with Gareth was never a good idea. Gideon didn't take his gaze from the card players though his every nerve was on alert. Much as he hated to admit it, he recognized the person behind him as much by his body's reaction as by familiarity.

Gareth Belmain, languid dandy of the ton, stood behind him, entirely too close, even in the crush of people at Lady Biggles' eldest daughter's ball. Gideon stood his ground though. He was tired of giving way to the persistent pressure Gareth put on him. They were complete opposites, and Gareth seemed to take a great deal of interest in pointing out their differences. Gideon usually just gave way, turning the other cheek. He'd known Gareth since they were infants; their mothers were bosom bows, and their family lands adjoined. If either of them had had the misfortune to be born female, they'd have been engaged at birth. Instead, they were friends, then schoolmates, then something more, and now...uneasy acquaintances perhaps best described the current status of affairs between them.

Just thinking the word affair made heat rise in Gideon's cheeks. Damnation. He shifted restlessly. He had no interest in playing cards, but it was better than having his toes trodden upon on the dance floor, and better than making simpering conversation with foolish chits. He never knew what to say to them; females in general seemed to have a marked lack of interest in the things that absorbed him: fencing, fisticuffs, philosophy, horses. He couldn't talk of the Four in Hand Club or Gentleman Jack's to a lady.

"Are you planning to stand here all night Gid? There's a table opening up. Let's play a hand of piquet and pass the time until your mama comes to coerce you into dancing with some whey-faced miss."

Gideon straightened his full six feet and shifted to stare down at the slim dandy. Gareth was stunningly garbed in buff and claret, neck cloth exquisitely tied in some complex pattern that Gideon's valet probably knew the name for, and hell's teeth... "Are you wearing face paint?" He hadn't meant the shocked whisper to be audible, but a few titters from nearby gamers and Gareth's narrowed eyes told him he'd once again erred in his judgment.

"Oh, la. It's all the crack, you know. Now come on, I'm a little light in the pocket and I mean to make a monkey off you this evening to assuage the hurt your neglect causes me."

There was too much truth to the words for them not to cause Gideon embarrassment. He was uncomfortable with Gareth, and he did neglect his old friend as a result. But Gareth knew well why. His guts tightened and he couldn't stop the scowl that crossed his face, though he quickly assumed a blank expression. "Stop it. I apologize. I didn't intend for anyone to overhear, and you are well aware of that. This foppish playacting does you no credit."

Available For Pre-Order at

 SMASHWORDS   All Romance

Now Available: Because You're You #mmromance #secondedition

Hey all!

Just wanted to inform you that my newly re-covered, and re-edited, short story Because You're You is now available at All Romance eBooks and Amazon. I revised it in conjunction with the release of a French edition for the overseas market.

In the interest of full disclosure, the smashing new cover and the editing have not changed the story overly much. If you have the previous edition, with my poor attempt at making my own cover, or even the Good Reads Anthology which contains the original, unedited version, then you have the story and there is no need to buy this edition. Unless you, like me, just love that cover!



Early 2011, it all began with a letter and a picture in the Goodreads M/M Romance Group. 

Dear Author, 
My marriage ended badly but I have no regrets as I now have a wonderful son. I wonder what's next for me, though, and if I'll ever find true love? 
Sincerely, 
A Reader

And from those two sentences a story was born.

This is that story.

Devyn Strake's tattoos and piercings are sexy as hell, but what really attracts Sully Moore's attention is his new neighbor's tender care of his infant son.

Devyn shouldn't let his attraction for his handsome neighbor distract him. He's in trouble, and he has to make baby Kail his chief priority.

How does a good cop find love with a bad boy in trouble?

EXCERPT 

Furious, Devyn Starke stalked up the overgrown path to Kayla’s apartment. It was his weekend to have Kail. Devyn was stuck with this stupid visitation agreement, Wednesday nights and every other weekend, alternate holidays. He should have had full custody, but instead, the judge had decreed that a boy of eight months needed his mother more than his father. Bullshit. Kail needed him as much as he needed Kail.

2C. He hadn’t been here before, but, surely Kayla could afford better on the amount of child support and spousal support he’d been required to pay?

He knocked politely on the door, a sharp rap. A noise from inside drifted through an open screen window. It only took a moment to recognize the sound as the pathetic cries of a baby. He pounded his fists on the grubby door, calling out, “Kayla! It’s Devyn. I came to get Kail for the weekend.” There was no response, no sound from within but the continued cries. He wasn’t supposed to be here. Kayla had claimed he’d threatened her, asked the judge for a restraining order. The judge had eyed him up and down, noting every piercing and tattoo, and the order had been granted. His expensive lawyer and his dad by his side in his Armani suit had counted for nothing. He looked like a thug, therefore, he was a thug.

Then again, Kayla was supposed to bring Kail to him for his visits at a prearranged public place. He’d waited at the McDonald’s for over an hour past the time they were to be there. When he couldn’t reach Kayla on her cell phone, he’d given in to the anger and headed over here. She could have all the money he could get his hands on, but Kayla wasn’t keeping him from his son anymore.

He could hear Kail’s frantic cries from inside the apartment, but other than that, there was no sign of anyone being home. It was his weekend to have Kail, and Kayla was fucking nuts if she thought she was going to get away with not bringing him to the meeting place again. Restraining order be thrice-damned.

Pain ripped through him as his son’s cries grew louder on the other side of that door. He looked around frantically. Either Kayla had gotten a lot more tolerant than she used to be or she wasn’t in there. If she was, she was passed out. He had to get to Kail. The manager’s office had an out to lunch sign on the door. No help from that quarter. No one else seemed to care about the noise he made or the noise his son made.

Devyn bent forward to peer in the window, hoping to catch sight of Kayla or Kail through the window. He couldn’t see Kayla, but he saw Kail right away. The little boy stood clutching grimly at the bars of the playpen, screaming and crying, face red with exertion. Tears had etched shiny tracks down his face, and he was nude except for a bulky-looking diaper.

Desperate to get to Kail, he pulled from his pocket the Swiss Army knife his dad had given him for his fourteenth birthday. The window to the left of the door was raised just a bit. Kneeling down, he used the sharp blade of the knife to cut the screen away from the frame. Peeling the screen back he raised the window, talking as soothingly as he could to Kail. “Daddy’s coming, big boy. No need to cry. Daddy’s here.”

When Kail turned to the window and caught sight of his daddy climbing through, his shrieks subsided to sobs. The tear-drenched dark eyes ripped another hole in Devyn’s heart. Fuck. He landed on the floor under the window, knocking a withered plant over on the way down.

Without Kail’s cries, the apartment was eerily silent. Kayla wasn’t here. Devyn rose shakily and hurried to the playpen. Kail reached out to grab him, striving to climb out on his own. “Shh…I got you.” He pulled the squirming little body close, grimacing as hot liquid seeped through the soggy diaper and wet his own T-shirt. He wrinkled his nose at the scent of piss. Poor tyke hadn’t been changed in a while.

He searched the dingy room for diapers and wipes, relieved to find them and a diaper bag on the floor by the battered sofa.

On the way over to the sofa, the sticky tapes on the side of the current diaper caved to pressure and it fell off to land with a sickening plop on the floor. He left it there. Bitch could clean it up when she got back. He set Kail down on the sofa, and held him in place with one hand while he knelt next to the sofa. He patted blindly with one hand, reaching for the wipes and a diaper.

A sudden sharp prick of pain in his finger and he glanced down in disbelief. No freaking way. The thin glint of metal caught his eye. Way. A needle. His gaze zoomed to the grungy coffee table and took in the other paraphernalia there. Shit. Fuck it. He whipped his T-shirt off over his head and wrapped it around his son. Fuck this shit.

Grabbing the diaper bag, he hoisted Kail into his arms and headed for the door. He clutched his little man to him with one arm, heart aching at the baby’s desperate grip on his neck, and pulled his cell phone from his pocket. A few quick zoomed in shots of the drug stuff, a few wide angle shots of the whole room, and he was on his way. If Kayla walked through the entry while he was on his way out, he’d mow the bitch down.

Bad enough to leave the little man alone in the apartment for god knows how long, but to be using again?

He slammed the door on his way out, not caring who saw him as he cuddled his son in his arms and headed to his car. He fumbled his cell phone and hit speed dial. “Dad? I’m coming over. Bringing Kail. We need to talk. Call the lawyer.”

While previous editions of this story were free,  the production of this second edition entailed professional editing, cover art, and translation fees. As far as I am aware, the original anthology version is still free at ARE HERE. 

WIP Wednesday: The Interview

WIP Wednesday- Welcome back to Wednesday folk's where I share my current project with you - inmost cases this is an unedited excerpt of a project, but this week, I'm working on revising my holiday story The Interview, and so you're getting a dose of that!

The Interview was first published in the Story Orgy Anthology, And The Prompt Is Holiday edition two years ago. It was released as a single last year, and after being re-edited this year will be a single as well.

EXCERPT 
Copyright Dec 2011 By Lee Brazil

Chapter 1

The notes of "I'll Be Home For Christmas" wafted through the air. It seemed that no matter how many spritely and cheerful Christmas songs there were, I never heard any but the melancholy ones lately. Those that weren't blatantly sad served to remind me of what I was missing this Christmas. Who wants to hear about couples cuddling in front of the fire when they're spending the holiday alone? And who cares if Parson Brown asks to marry them when you couldn't get your boyfriend to commit to living in the same state?
I tugged my red wool cap down farther over my ears, shoved dark glasses on to block the sun from my aching eyes and headed to the library. I wanted to snarl at whatever idiot had his music playing so loud in the staff parking lot, but it wasn't worth the effort of speaking. Today was the last day of classes before winter break at the university, and I had exactly six hours of work at the library before my holiday, such as it was, started.
My boots crunched on the salted sidewalks as I wove my way between beleaguered students. The last finals were today, and the stress showed on everyone's faces. When the third student with his nose in a book nearly slammed into me, I darted from the semi clear sidewalk and tromped through the new layer of snow. I took a bitter satisfaction in marring that pristine sparkling surface with my boot prints. I didn't even care that this little side excursion might ruin my leather boots. Who cared? They were sleek and sexy, not real cold weather boots, but if no one was going to admire me in them, then what was the point?
Six miserable hours that I wished would drag out for four more days. I wasn't looking forward to going home at the end of this shift and spending the next few days being reminded that I was alone. I'd have way too much time to think about Cris and our years together. He should have been there. We'd planned for him to be there. Except, last weekend he'd called and told me about a new offer he had for an excellent position, great benefits, no more traveling. I could tell he really wanted that job.
I really wanted him to be around more, too. So I told him to go for it. Then the other shoe fell. I should have known there was a catch. There's always a catch. Turned out the only time he could interview for this position was Christmas Eve.
I'd assured him it was fine, that all would be well, that my family would keep me busy and I'd barely miss him if he stayed in California for the interview. After all, we weren't kids. He could arrive on December 26th and we could celebrate just fine.
But I was lying and he damn sure should have known it. Cris just accepted it though. Accepted and carried on as we always had, calling and texting and emailing and having our lovely long distance, open relationship.
The one I was beginning to loathe with all my being.
The familiar chirp of my cell phone had me reaching into my pocket, pausing near some evergreen shrubs just outside the library. I pushed my hair back over my shoulder as the wind whipped around the corner and sent it flying. Thin strands clung to the Chap Stick that I'd lined my lips with. Ordinarily I'd have used my favorite lip maximizer, but I'd been so down, I hadn't bothered to go through my usual winter ritual of applying mashed papaya paste to exfoliate and soften my lips. Which I guess is kind of crazy, because the whole purpose of the ritual was to keep my lips kissable in appearance and texture despite the dry cold, and just because Cris was arriving four days late didn't mean there wouldn't be plenty of kissing when he got here!
"Hello." I should have checked to see who it was before I answered. It was Cris, and I had to pretend to be cheerful and brimming with Christmas spirit when I was anything but.
"Hey Ben, I just called to remind you to get the tree after work today. You said last night that you hadn't gotten it yet, and I know it's one of your favorite things to do."
With you. I held the guilt inducing words back. With Cris, shopping for the perfect tree was my favorite holiday tradition. We made an event out of the whole thing. A thermos of hot cocoa with marshmallows in hand, we would wander through the tree lots looking for the perfect vehicle to display the antique and handmade ornaments that I inherited from my grandmother. We measured the distance between branches, studied every Scotch pine and every blue spruce, knowing all the while that we'd settle for a fragrant Douglas or red fir with its sturdy, widely spaced branches to show off the ornaments better.
I wasn't so much looking forward to finding a tree alone. Or decorating it alone. Hanging crocheted snowflakes, tinsel, and Grandma's vintage glass bird ornaments wouldn't have the same appeal without Cris's firm grip guiding my hand to the perfect spot on the tree. He tried very hard, my Cris, not to let his obsessive demand for symmetry and order mar the holidays, but the twitching always got to be too much. I confess, I deliberately placed an ornament or two in an awkward spot just to feel his hand on mine, the heat of his body close behind me.
"Yeah. I'll go when I get done here. Can you call me around four?" It would be a little bit better if I could talk to him about the choices, maybe send a photo of the final product.
"Ummm. I'll try, but I can't promise anything."
So I probably wouldn't even get that solace. "Okay. Call if you can. I have to go. Work awaits."
I hid in the stacks all day, shelving cart after cart of books, losing myself in the scent of leather and old paper. It beat working the counter where the aroma of pine from the decorative evergreen boughs—genuine, despite fire codes—and the peppermint of the candy dish just screamed Christmas. It beat smiling cheerfully and wishing sleep deprived teenagers a happy holiday—because it is a state funded school and Merry Christmas is just too politically incorrect.
In the end, I didn't bother with the measuring tape or the cocoa, just pointed my '67 Mustang straight for the nearest tree lot. Go in, pick a tree, go home and set it up so the branches could drop. I could do this, I didn't need Cris holding my hand to choose a tree.
My confidence in my ability to function as a rational adult was shaken when my first step on the tree lot brought tears to my eyes and bitterness to my heart. The scent of the pine trees made me nauseous, and the laughter of the kids running about chasing each other from Santa's sleigh to the giant snowman cut-out made me weepy. I've never been much of a people person, but I've never felt such a need for companionship either. Being on the tree lot without Cris, I was lonely. Overwhelmingly so.
I didn't have the heart to look around. Cris would have played tag with those kids. He would have coaxed me into the silly decorated sleigh and charmed some passing stranger into taking our picture.
I grabbed the first tree I found that seemed less than six feet tall and more than four. The tree needed to be tall enough to set on the low table in front of the street-side window of my living room. Everything else, I could work around. So what if the ornaments didn't line up perfectly because the branches weren't symmetrical?
I wouldn't say I wound up with a Charlie Brown tree, but the fact that the tree wasn't perfect soothed me a bit. The fact that it cost about half what we normally paid shocked me. Who knew? Somehow I had always assumed a tree for under a hundred bucks was impossible to find. I dropped the change into a bell-ringing Santa's bucket, feeling a bit better about both myself and my tree.
Funny how that works; I hadn't bought a cheaper tree intentionally to donate the rest of what I would have spent to any worthy cause. It just happened. And I felt just the tiniest bit lighter, happier, afterward.
I helped the two lot workers in red and black flannel shirts secure the tree to the roof of my car by staying the hell out of their way and not protesting about my paint job more than twice while they secured the tree with tarp and bungee cords that I provided. Cris would have been all over that, double checking and testing the security.
On impulse, I headed back over to the sleigh, where a weary looking young mom was struggling to get two rambunctious kids to sit still long enough so she could snap a picture.
"I'll take the picture if you want to get in there with them," I offered a bit awkwardly. Hopefully she wouldn't think I was some kind of stalking perv.
"Would you?" She seemed relieved and excited, maybe the rest of the world wasn't as paranoid and leery as I.
"Sure, if you'll snap a picture of me for my boyfriend after." Cris would get his annual photo of me in the Christmas sleigh after all.
She held out her gloved hand. "I'm Debbie Adams. The mischievous angels," she grimaced wryly as I awkwardly took her hand, "are Chad and Brad."
"Ben Cavelli. Twins, huh?" I accepted her camera as she seated herself between the two boys.
With their mom between them, the two demons turned into angels, smiling and snuggling into their mom's down coat, looking up at her with laughing blue eyes. I must have taken half dozen candid shots before mom got the kids positioned the way she wanted them.
Five minutes, that's all the stillness the little ones could take, but I did snap the pic the now smiling mom wanted.
I handed her my phone, showed her how to take a picture with it, and brushed off her thanks. Instead of climbing into the seat of the sleigh though, I leaned back against the painted side of the crimson vehicle and whipped off my dark glasses. I would send the picture, along with one of the tree, to Cris before I went to bed tonight. I wouldn't be looking my best, not without eyeliner and lip gloss, but I'd be genuinely smiling.
Sitting in my car, I laughed to see that the young mother had also taken a few candid shots…one of my ass in the tight denim jeans that was absolutely making the send-to-Cris cut.

Offer #1

The Park at Sunrise 

m/m Contemporary Romance, erotic

First they were three, now there are two.
Can Jason and Morgan make a relationship work without Paul?

Now only 99 cents with coupon code QA69U at Smashwords

Cover Reveal: The Park at Sunrise

I'm re-releasing my very first Story Orgy story, The Park at Sunrise as a single. 

It has shiny new cover art. 

It's going to Amazon first,  This story remains one of my favorites. I hope you enjoy it. If you purchased Word Play, you should know that this story has not been altered substantially from that version except in that it is being re-issued as a stand alone title. 

BLURB

First they were three, now there are two.  Can Jason and Morgan make a relationship work without Paul?

For years the three of them had been inseparable, first as friends, then lovers. It's been ten years since they parted for what was supposed to be a year apart to pursue their dreams.   This isn't the reunion they planned then.  It's nine years too late for one thing, and they are one man short for another.

In the years since Paul's death, Morgan hasn't exactly been waiting for Jason to reach out to him.    He's been too busy trying to forget, to move on.  Until Jason sends the right message.

 Is the painting just an excuse to see his ex again?

EXCERPT 

Chapter One

The park at sunrise. How many nights had we ended up here? Coffee from the all-night truck stop in Jamestown in hand, steam rising as we walked, searching for that most exclusive private spot where we could see but not be seen. The bench that was sheltered by just the right number of trees, with the best view of the pond and the flagpoles and the sunrise.

Nights of parties, concerts, hanging out, or working had all ended in this spot. When the fun was done, we sobered up as the sun rose here. When we were exhausted from working those double shifts and pulling all-nighters, the sunrise reminded us why we worked so hard. When we were flying high on concert-induced endorphins, it spun wild dreams in our heads that spilled from our mouths in raucous harmony. The three of us, wrapped in one blanket, sipping from one bottle, from one cup, contemplated that sunrise. In snow and rain and heat and cold we huddled here. For four years, this place colored our lives in ways we couldn't imagine.

The bench we'd claimed as ours drew me onward. My feet recognized the path, if my mind did not. In the inside pocket of my too-thin-for-the-Colorado-cold-but just-right-for-California black leather jacket, the crinkle of paper jabbed at my soul. As much as anything else, it was why I was here.

When I found it, the bench was still the same with its old, wrought-iron rails and splintery wooden slats. I stopped. Progressing from here would be harder. The cold seeped through the inadequate leather soles of my knee-high black boots, chilling my feet. Once I'd known how to dress for the cold. Once cold hadn't mattered. I'd had their warmth to keep me warm. For years I'd had a vision, locked in my head. This bench, this park, the sun rising in the background. The first flakes of falling snow drifting down. On the bench, two men whose heads turned as I approached, who jumped to their feet with open arms and welcoming smiles. The first time we met here, the last time we met here.

Today, I had a memory. A sunrise that would start soon. I forced myself forward, placed one booted foot on the seat and hoisted myself into the familiar position, buttocks perched on the topmost slat of the bench. Splinters prickled against the seat of my 501s, but the first changing light as the sun made its appearance caught my gaze. Since the last time I'd sat here, the last time we'd been together, I hadn't sat through many sunrises. I'd observed a lot of sunsets on the Pacific coast, but the sunrise had become a time of regret.

As I leaned forward to rest my elbows on my knees and prop my chin in my hands, the crinkle of the envelope in my pocket and the crunch of dead leaves on the grass behind me competed for my attention. I drew the envelope from my inner pocket as the footsteps approached. I knew who it was. Had realized he would be here, though how he had known I would be was anyone's guess. It appeared to me that I hardly knew what I was doing, catching that plane, leaving behind friends and commitments. Me. Mr. Responsible. Reliable. Dependable. Had I even called in and told the principal I wouldn't be there for the last week of classes? I couldn't recall. He'd figure it out when the Calc I kids showed up for the key to the classroom, no doubt.

The sudden drag of a wool cap being tugged down over my long hair startled me. It shouldn't have. I should have predicted he'd be in this "taking care of Morgan" mode. At twenty two it had been endearing; at thirty two it pissed me off. Deep, calming breaths kept the anger manageable. Come here, do what needed to be done, get on the next plane back to California, back to emotional stability.

"I see you're dressed for the weather as always, Morgan." Jason's voice was husky, hesitant.

A pair of black knit gloves landing in my lap tipped me over that edge from making a snide remark to throwing an uncalled-for hissy fit.

My jaw clenched tightly. Screw breathing deeply. I yanked the cap from my head, pulling long strands of black hair from the band at my neck, and winced at the tiny pain. I flung the cap to the ground in front of us and looked up the black denim-clad legs to the black pea coat and beyond. My mouth opened to swear, but no sound came out. The hissy fit drained away to something else entirely. My pulse still raced, but for an entirely different reason.

How fair was that? How fucking fair was it that after ten years apart, my hair showed silvery streaks and my face showed my age, but Jason was still the slender, boyish youth of years gone by? Yeah, he'd shaved the dirty blond dreadlocks. Those wire-rim glasses were new, but he appeared as youthful and vibrant, untouched by life, alive as he had when we'd all parted years ago to make those sunrise dreams reality. His black jeans had the telltale smudges of paint, and I'd be willing to bet that underneath those leather driving gloves lurked more paint.

This wasn't the reunion we planned then. It was nine years too late, for one thing. We were one man short, for another.

The bench creaked as he perched next to me on the top slat, and instinctively I grabbed his knee to anchor both of us so we wouldn't topple backward. His hand covered mine before I could jerk it away, and he refused to relinquish it when I tugged. I gave in with ill grace. Jason’s touch stirred physical responses that I’d rather not experience.

"I sent you an invitation to my gallery opening last year."

"I got it."

"You couldn't make it." No judgment. Levelheaded, easygoing, that was Jason. I didn't even understand how he knew to send the damn invitation to the school in the first place. For all I knew, he still lived with his parents and painted in that fucking unheated studio over their garage.

I handed him the envelope. The envelope that had brought me here, as he had known it would, when nothing else could. "I want to buy it."

He shook his head. "It's not for sale. That's not why I sent it to you."

Heat pooled at the back of my neck, and the tiny, irritating noise of my own teeth grinding warned of a potential headache in the offing. I turned, made eye contact for the first time. "Then why? Why send it? Fuck, why paint it? How the hell could you even stand to paint that picture? It kills me that you could have done that, like it doesn't mean fucking anything to you." By the time I spit out the last words, my voice had risen enough to scare off the waterfowl in the pond.

The expression on his face was one I'd never noticed before. I thought I had all their expressions memorized, his and Paul's. Oh, Christ. "Paul." The name slipped out, the memories in. I dropped my head to my knees again, breaking eye contact. I had to create mental distance since physical wasn't possible. I was empty, raw. My stomach tightened and my eyes burned.

"Morgan, it means everything to me. It's all I have. That painting, it's the heart and soul of who I am, who you are, who Paul was." The hand clutching mine drew away, and I nearly protested as cold took its place. Then I felt him fussing. I rolled my eyes as he loosened the band from my hair and combed his fingers through it before gathering it back into a neater ponytail, smoothing the hairs pulled loose by the wool cap. It felt too good to be cared for like that again. I jerked upright and away.

"Damn it, Jason, I don't want to go there. We can't recapture the past! You are not my mother. You are not Paul." I narrowed my eyes and gave him the look that intimidated school board members and recalcitrant football players alike. "Why did you send it if you won't sell me the painting?"

"Were you here? May twenty-sixth, two thousand one? Because I was."

I stared at him. My anger was fading, heart rate returning to normal. The heat from earlier was replaced by a chill that had nothing to do with the low temperature. Surely he was kidding. "Why? Why did you bother? Paul was dead by then. You had to know I wouldn't come."

"No, I didn't. See, somehow, I never thought it was all about you and Paul. Somehow, I thought it was all about you, me, and Paul. I guess I naively believed that without Paul, you and I would need each other even more."

I couldn't speak, but my shock must have shown on my face. With an impatient sigh, Jason jumped from the bench. I automatically steadied myself, swaying slightly as the bench protested the sudden movement.

He tossed the photo from the envelope into my lap. "I have it crated and ready to ship. Pick it up at my parents' house any time. I won't be there."

I didn't look up. I didn't speak. I listened to his footsteps, muffled now by the snow that had fallen on the crunching leaves. As the colors changed and faded from the morning sky, I stared at the photo of the painting that had brought me here. Three men on a bench in a park at sunrise, three heads pressed together, three hands clasped. If one of the images was a little blurry, I couldn't tell if that was the artist's intent, the tears in my eyes, or the snow that fell on the photo.