On the Clock (Market Garden, #8)(57)

“That depends.” Blake swallowed. “What do you think—?”

“You can’t stand the idea of me having sex with other men.” Jason rolled his eyes. He still held Blake’s watch securely in one hand, the gold bracelet catching the light as he folded his arms across his chest. “You can’t cope with me prostituting myself anymore, and you want to take care of me in exchange for me having sex with you and only you.” Through his teeth, he added, “Am I close?”

Blake let the thought bounce around in his mind, asking himself honestly if that was what he’d been thinking, but it wasn’t. Not even close.

He shook his head. “No. No, you’re not.”

The tension didn’t leave Jason’s posture or expression. “Then what? Because throwing your bloody name into a bidding war sounds a lot like—”

“I know. I know. It . . .” Blake raked a hand through his hair and exhaled. “I know what it sounds like. And yes, I meant it, but I didn’t come here to stop you from sleeping with—”

“Didn’t you?” Jason snapped, gesturing sharply toward the door. “Then what the f*ck was that?”

Blake showed his palms. “I’m sorry. I wanted to talk to you. Whatever he was offering, I’ll pay it to cover the difference. I interrupted your deal, and I’ll make that up to you.”

Jason stared at him, confusion and anger vying for dominance in his eyes.

Blake pulled in a deep breath. “Look, I won’t stop you from going anywhere or doing anything. I wanted to talk to you, and I needed to do it in person. That’s it. I couldn’t . . . All I needed was a moment because I couldn’t let you walk away with someone else before I had a chance to tell you that I love you.”

Jason blinked. His arms twitched, as if he’d nearly uncrossed them, but stopped himself. “You what?”

“I love you,” Blake whispered. “And I . . . I needed you to know that.”

Jason’s eyes were wide and his jaw was slack, but little by little, the tension returned to his posture. He folded his arms tighter. He clenched his jaw. He drew back. “So, what? Am I supposed to go in and tell Frank I’m done, and fly away to America with you?”

“You don’t have to do anything.”

Jason tilted his head slightly, as if he were on the verge of rolling his eyes again. “No, but I’m assuming you didn’t fly all the way here to tell me you love me, and then leave me to my evening’s activities.” He made another sharp gesture at the club.

“I didn’t come here to make you quit, either. I know you like what you do. I wouldn’t tell you to quit.” He’d never struggled this hard to hold Jason’s gaze. “I needed to tell you how I felt. That’s it. That’s all. And I couldn’t do it over Skype or email. And I guess it seemed like something that needed to be said in person.”

“You . . . flew all this way? To tell me this?”

“Yeah. I did.”

Jason watched him, the silence hanging between them while the noise of London hummed in the distance and the strip club’s bass thumped through Blake’s bones. There was too f*cking much riding on what was going on inside Jason’s mind, and all Blake could do was hope like hell for a positive outcome, listening for the closing bell and praying against a crash.

Finally, Jason’s shoulders sagged, and as he lowered his arms, he released a long breath, sending Blake’s heart into his feet. He shook his head. “You’re not in love with me, Blake.”

Blake’s throat constricted, but he managed to whisper, “How do you know?”

“Because as you Americans like to say, this isn’t my first rodeo.” He lowered his gaze to the gold watch, which was now wrapped loosely around his fingers. “I’m flattered, but . . . look, you’re not the first to think he’s in love with a prostitute, and you won’t be the last.” Jason stepped closer, took Blake’s wrist, gently pressed the Rolex into his hand, and closed his fingers around it. “But I can’t be one of the prostitutes who deludes himself into believing it’s real.”

“Jason, it is—”

“Don’t. Please.” Jason released his hand. “I can’t. I . . .” He pulled in a breath as he squared his shoulders, and his voice hardened. “I won’t.”

“I’m not ask—”

“Don’t.” Jason stepped away, taking all the air in the alley with him. “Just . . . don’t.”

And with that, he walked back into Market Garden.

Blake leaned against the cold brick wall, and exhaled heavily. He’d seen a bank account go from high six figures to overdrawn in a matter of months. He’d seen a booming business collapse almost overnight. He’d gone from the top of the world to living in his car.

But listening to that door click shut behind Jason, realizing he’d come all this way for nothing but a kick in the balls, was lower than rock bottom. If he’d had any doubt left about whether he really was in love, those doubts had vanished into the night the second the door had separated him from Jason.

He looked down at the watch in his hand. Buying that thing had been one of his proudest moments. The day he’d not only made good on a promise from college—that after he’d made his first million, he’d buy himself a Rolex—but officially put some shitty years behind him. Turning his wrist beneath those showroom lights, watching the timepiece gleam, grinning at its heft, at how solid it was, he hadn’t even blinked at the forty-thousand-dollar price tag. The money hadn’t mattered. He had enough anyway, but the watch—its beveled bezel sparkling, its bracelet snug and comfortable around his wrist—had been a tangible, wearable milestone. He’d made it. He’d succeeded. He’d recovered.