On the Clock (Market Garden, #8)(51)

And yes, Blake, that would be a bad thing. Let the dude go home.

He backed out of the garage.

Neither said a whole lot on the way to the airport. It was probably the longest near-silence they’d ever shared, aside from sleeping or watching a movie. Blake couldn’t tell if it was a loaded silence or not—it prickled along his nerve endings and twisted his stomach into knots, but God knew if that was mutual, or if Jason was more focused on the New York City skyline in the hazy distance than the unmoving space between them.

The Departures sign—the one he’d been driven past a million times—sent his heart into his throat. As he pulled up beneath the airline, finding a spot beside the curb as close to the door as he could get, he searched for something to say, but couldn’t come up with anything. He’d gone into this visit thinking he was indulging in a week or so at home with a prostitute who rocked his world like no one else, so this moment should’ve been “Thanks for a great time” and “Yes, I counted that right” and “Trust me, you earned it.” This dull ache in his chest wasn’t part of the plan.

They both got out, and Blake pulled Jason’s suitcase from the trunk. He slammed the hatch, and they faced each other, that silence lingering even now.

“Well. Uh. Here we are.”

“Right.” Jason avoided Blake’s eyes, but only for a moment. “I’ll see you when you come back to London?”

Blake mentally cleared his calendar of obstacles that might keep him from traveling sooner than later. “Absolutely.”

“Well.” Jason flashed him a quick smile. “I’d better be off, then.”

“Yeah. Safe travels.”

“Thanks.”

They locked eyes, and it occurred to Blake that he had no idea what the proper protocol was for this. A handshake? A hug? A kiss?

Eventually, they each murmured, “See you soon.”

Then Jason turned to go.

He made it three steps before Blake said, “Wait.”

Jason faced him, eyebrows up.

Blake swallowed, closed the distance that Jason had gained, and glanced around before meeting his gaze. “Do you, um, have any objection to people here knowing you’re gay?”

Jason scanned their surroundings. “No one here’s likely to ever see me again. Can’t say I care what they know about me.”

“Good.” Blake wrapped an arm around Jason’s waist and kissed him.

For a heartbeat, he was sure Jason would stiffen and back away—gay or not, he was British—but he didn’t meet any resistance at all. Instead, Jason opened to his kiss and ran his fingers through Blake’s hair like he had in the garage. No, more than that—he held him tighter, kissed him harder, let it go on longer. Maybe now that there was no bed nearby, no way they could run off and have one more f*ck before he missed his flight, it was safe to be a bit more demonstrative. That was easier than thinking Jason was as desperate for one last kiss as he was.

Finally, they came up for air. Blake was vaguely aware of some distasteful sniffs and horrified stares, but no one said anything to them, and Blake wouldn’t have cared if they did. “You’d better go,” he whispered.

“I know.” Jason kissed him once more, paused, and they broke the embrace with a half step back apiece. “I’ll, um . . . I’ll see you next time. In London.”

“Yeah.” Blake nodded, struggling to find his breath. “I’ll see you then.”

Jason smiled.

He took another step. Then another.

And then he turned, and he found his stride, and Blake’s heart thudded as he watched Jason go.

At the door, Jason glanced over his shoulder, offered a smile and a wave, and then disappeared into the terminal.

For a moment, Blake stared at the doorway, as if Jason had simply vanished and might materialize again at any second.

There were too many other cars waiting to drop people off, though, so he got into the Land Rover and pulled away from the curb. As he left the airport, patiently inching through traffic, something didn’t feel right.

More to the point, he wasn’t feeling something he was sure he should’ve been feeling. With Newark International in the rearview, he didn’t feel like he’d just dropped off a prostitute.

What the hell is going on?



Blake didn’t bother speeding down the country roads on the way home. Or maybe he did. As he pulled up to the garage and waited for the door to yawn open, he didn’t remember much between the airport and here. For all he knew, he might’ve been pulled over, lectured for speeding, and blown the cop to get out of the ticket.

He parked beside his Porsche and stepped out of the Land Rover. On his way into the house, he paused, rocking back and forth from his heels to the ball of his feet, and then turned around. Heart still thudding like it had when he’d watched Jason go, he stared at the idle Lamborghini. He’d caught himself grinning at the car a few times since he’d brought it home, but it grabbed his attention for entirely different reasons now.

You were right, Jason. I can never look at this car without remembering how you feel.

Question is, how do I feel?

He tucked the Land Rover’s keys into his pocket, and carefully pulled the cover off the Lambo. The sight of the car’s sharp angles and sleek planes made his heart race like it often did, but . . . differently. He was almost certain if he slid into the driver’s seat right now, he’d catch a lingering trace of Jason’s cologne.