He tried for so long to put that away. Pack it down somewhere. Under his business suits—in a filthy apartment he’d never see again.

So he read some erotica, and watched some porn—and dear Lord, the variety and amount on the internet was staggering—and it was arousing in a general way (unfortunately more arousing than intimacy with Meg, damn it) but again, there was this—this gap. And for so long he thought he could live with it.

Until he heard the news: Theo’s divorce. January, and the beginning of this disaster, and he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

And he was rock fucking hard.

He couldn’t live with it anymore.

So, yeah, thirty-seven years old, three children, an almost ex-wife, about to be homeless—because he didn’t want to keep imposing on Meg, who was already too good to him—and he could just give himself a smack because it wasn’t men he wanted, not men he was leaving Meg—the girl he’d always loved—for. Not the cute barista, who practically screamed power bottom; not Justin at work, who’d flirted and slipped over a hotel key on a business trip and kindly laughed off Jack’s stuttering rebuff; not any of the fantastically attractive athletes he’d met through Meg’s job. No.

It wasn’t a sexuality crisis.

It was a Theo crisis.

Jack glanced at his watch. Just a few minutes more. He tensed his shoulders and shook his head and then thumped it down onto the granite bar.

He kept it there for some time.

“You okay, lover?”

It was the barista, of course. He’d come around the bar and was leaning one hip against the wall, zipper at Jack’s eye level. Jack picked his head up fast and stared up at him—a cheeky grin at the corner of his thin lips, all his body language saying, Take me home, will you?

A flash of movement behind him.

“Gardner.” The voice was arctic. “Why, exactly, is this...child...calling you ‘lover’?”

Oh, fuck.

“Theo, hi, I, um.” He tried to stand up but was penned in.

“And who are you?” A snippy interruption from said child.

Theo raised his left eyebrow and looked down—the barista was maybe three inches shorter—and said, very quietly, “I’m you in about twenty years. A little advice.” He sat, picked up the espresso with his long, nimble fingers. “Don’t bite off more than you can chew. This one,” he nodded to Jack, “Is hard to swallow.”

“I don’t think I would have any problems with that,” and the barista threw in another wink. He really was relentless.

Jack barked a laugh at the sheer nerve, then covered his mouth in embarrassment.

Theo looked up to the ceiling, then sighed. “I’m sure you would do your best. But trust me.” He met the barista’s eyes, “He’s not worth it.”