On the Clock (Market Garden, #8)(52)

And so what if he did? Jason had been there. He’d also been in Blake’s bed. There was no doubt still an impression in the pillow where he’d been lying, snoring away this morning before they’d had to go to the airport. It wasn’t like he’d evaporated into the ether, leaving behind no trace and making Blake wonder if he’d conjured the past week out of thin air.

A smudge on the hood made his breath catch. Any other time, he’d be scrambling for a rag, but he just stared. Though he’d made sure to clean off the car after they’d finished, he’d missed the spot where Jason’s hand had left the faintest print on the finish—nearly transparent, smeared slightly, but when the light hit it just right, the outline of his palm and slender fingers was visible.

Blake put his hand over the handprint. His fingers were too long, his palm too wide—there was no fitting it precisely the way Jason’s would have.

He jerked his hand away, put the cover back on, and went into the kitchen as his stomach started somersaulting.

What the f*ck is the matter with me?

The heaviness of Jason’s absence pushed down on his shoulders. The echo of his own footsteps in the garage had given him goose bumps. The handprint on the hood with no one around whose hand would fit over it . . . he couldn’t decide if he needed to clean it off, or if he should leave it there for posterity. Everything conspired to make his skin crawl and make him restless—he couldn’t sit down and work. He couldn’t sit still at all. Going into the office would be pointless. Staying here would drive him insane. And going out for a drive in any of his vehicles would make him crazy because his mind was already superimposing Jason in the passenger seats.

I’m losing it, aren’t I?

This seemed, more than anything, like a hangover. The empty, achy feeling that was the price for a good time, and the undeniable realization that the good time was over. And no amount of hair of the dog would help this time, because Jason was well on his way back to the other side of an ocean that had no business being that big.

He briefly entertained the idea of hauling ass back to the airport and begging Jason to stay another week. Or longer. After all, they never had gotten to the touristy places Jason had wanted to see.

But that would be stupid. Jason had a life in London. Blake had one here. There’d be other trips. They’d see each other again.

So he grabbed his laptop and sat on the couch to peruse his email.

And every time a new message showed up, he totally wasn’t hoping that it was one of his clients or business partners telling him that his next trip to London needed to be moved up. Or one from Jason saying that his flight had been canceled.

The best part? The airline thoughtfully kept him up-to-date on Jason’s flight. When a message came through that the flight was boarding, Blake closed his laptop, and wondered why the hell it was so hard to let Jason go.





The next morning, while he waited for the train, he checked his email, and he had one from Jason.

Made it to London—thanks again for a lovely week.

Blake smiled. Once he was situated on the train, he replied, Glad you made it safely. Looking forward to seeing you next time I’m in town.

By the time he’d arrived in the office, there’d been no response. That wasn’t a huge shock. Jason had probably staggered through the Underground, collapsed in his flat, and was sleeping off the monstrous jet lag and whatever was left of his flu.

A few hours later, Jason sent him another message, and they chatted for a while about his flight, some bullshit he’d encountered going through customs, and how Blake had, thus far, avoided that evil bug.

And then . . . nothing.

No emails. No texts.

A day went by. Another. Still another. Even when Jason’s flu did finally kick in and knock Blake flat, he diligently checked his email and texts, but nothing came.

After a full week, Blake was still coughing, but he was mostly over it, and he still hadn’t heard from Jason. At least a million times, he started typing an email, but then deleted it. He wanted to be sure Jason was okay, but where were the boundaries in this not-at-all-defined relationship? Where was the line between clingy and concerned? And assuming Jason was all right—knock on wood—at what point could Blake be justifiably irritated by the sudden lack of contact?

Near the end of the second week, the message seemed clear, and it hit Blake right in the balls.

Maybe bringing Jason here had been a mistake. Blake had gotten more accustomed to his presence than he’d had any right to. The dry British wit. The way he could casually turn a long customs line, a homophobic *, or a traffic jam into a joke. His voice, his presence, the way he smiled—everything about him had Blake’s brain tangled up in knots.

Now that he was gone, Jason’s absence was conspicuous everywhere. The empty passenger seat. The sofa. The bed. Even the place where he’d left his toiletry bag on the bathroom counter, or where his toothbrush and razor had been laid neatly beside the sink.

The garage was empty and silent whenever Blake walked in, but each time his dress shoes clicked on the concrete, he often caught himself pausing now and then as if he really had heard a faint echo of Jason cursing and moaning while getting f*cked on the Lamborghini.

Get over it, he ordered himself one morning as he walked out to the garage like he did every morning. He didn’t allow himself so much as a glance at the Lamborghini, which he’d recovered. He climbed into the Porsche, revved the engine to drown out voices that weren’t there, and headed to work like he always did.