As far as it was possible for two individuals to rule a place like Harvard, Zane and Trey did. They were a familiar sight strolling Harvard Yard’s leafy paths, generally shoulder to shoulder. They both liked clothes, though not the same styles of them. Zane favored Tom Ford suits while Trey was more Abercrombie and Fitch. Because Trey was Zane’s odds maker, once their extracurricular work took off, they could afford to shop. They didn’t pretend to be privileged; they just naturally looked it. They learned about living well by doing it—living free, they called it. From the best place to eat scallops to the best place to ski, they were interested. If they didn’t know, they researched. Before they’d been on campus a month, people mistook them for grad students.
Neither ever went home on breaks, and both were aware they weren’t missed.
Rumors cropped up now and then about the true nature of their friendship, something they chose not to comment on. Girls they enjoyed aplenty, though none of them lasted. By mutual if undiscussed agreement, the only men they slept with were each other. That source of gossip cut off, too many females heaved too many sighs over torrid trysts for anyone to conclude precisely what they were.
That was the way Zane liked it. What he felt for Trey, what he did with Trey, was his business. Well, his business and Trey’s. Somehow they’d never got around to spelling out the rules exactly.
He assured himself that was his preference too.
At the moment, contrarily, he wished their association were more defined. Graduation was a week away, their classes finished, their futures twinkling brightly in front of them. Trey had accepted a position at a prestigious economics think tank in DC. Zane had played decently for the Harvard Crimson, but not at a level to turn pro. He was moving to Seattle, having been headhunted by an alum to help start a chain of fitness clubs. The work would be exciting, the responsibility more than most of his peers could boast. Nonetheless, from the moment he’d said yes to the CEO, depression had gripped him.
He didn’t want to work for other people. He had his own dreams to chase. The fact that Trey didn’t seem to mind them parting increased his dejection. He actually tried to turn down Zane for dinner, claiming he had a mountain of packing to start on. Zane had to coax him a full five minutes to get him to accept.
“We haven’t tried this place yet,” he said, physically tugging the moving box out of Trey’s hold. “Boston Eats gave it a five-fork rating.”
“Fine,” Trey huffed. “But you’re picking up the tab.”
Zane had planned to. He always did when the restaurant was his choice. Grumpy enough to bite more than food, he grabbed the keys to his Mercedes CLK and his portfolio.
“Oh no,” Trey said, attempting to yank the leather case from his hand. “If I have to quit packing, you’re not bringing along work.”
“It’s not work,” Zane snapped, his patience pushed to the limit. “It’s an idea I’ve been meaning to show you.”
That shut Trey up long enough to complete the short drive. Wilde’s Bistro was on Brattle in Harvard Square, housed in a less-than-lovely concrete and glass complex. The atmosphere was so-so, but the food had been drawing raves. Trey’s years of waiting tables in high school had given him an interest in fine dining that Zane enjoyed sharing. They’d made it their tradition to go somewhere nice, just the two of them, once a week.
Zane damn well hated that this might be their last time.
Trey was sloppy chic tonight in tan pants and a navy sweater vest with a rumpled white shirt beneath—tails hanging, naturally. He doffed his sunglasses as they went in, his grin and wink for the very g*y maître d’ scoring them a window table. Tonight, that also made Zane grumpy, though—to be fair—he didn’t shy from using his looks to earn a perk or two.
“You boys enjoy yourselves,” their escort cooed, handing them the prix fixe menus. “I’ll send your server right over.”
Annoyed by the special treatment, Zane glowered at the entrees.
“Your face . . .” Trey exclaimed, chuckling. “Why do you get angry if I let some guy think he has a chance with me?”
“I don’t.”
“You do,” he insisted. “And you don’t care half as much when I flirt with girls.”
Zane flipped the page back to appetizers. “I don’t care about either.”
Trey sat back and heaved a sigh. His hair flopped over his broad shoulders, the glossy black locks as outrageous as ever. Women went wild for the silky strands—just like they did for the Celtic tat he’d had inked onto his neck. He’d gotten the black-work knot freshman year—to prove his skin was his own, he’d said. Because Zane understood the appeal of that, he’d shut his trap on his objections. Afterwards, he’d admitted the thing was hot, but only to himself. Trey didn’t need to start thinking he knew best about everything.
Clearly, he was thinking that now. “You care,” Trey said quietly.
“What do you want?” Zane asked in exasperation. “Me to hold your hand in public?”
“What I want is for you to feel like you can, to not to care if people get the wrong impression—or the right one, for that matter.”
“I’m not you.”
“You don’t need to be. Just be okay with who you are.”
“Fine,” Zane snapped. “Who I am is still uptight.”
Trey laughed and shook his head. “Point taken,” he surrendered.
Zane’s irritation melted, as susceptible to Trey’s grin as the maitre d’. Trey was an amazing person, and he’d gotten more so in the five years that they’d been friends. Truth be told, he was sexier at twenty-two than he’d been when they were eighteen. He was taller, more filled out in the chest and shoulder. His green-gold eyes held a self-acceptance Zane wasn’t certain he’d ever share. Zane felt compelled to push life into the shape he wanted. Trey seemed content to let it unfold.
Trey leaned forward now, lightly touching the gold-haired muscles of Zane’s forearm. “What did you want to tell me?”
For a couple seconds, Zane couldn’t remember. Trey’s expression was gentle, his eyes familiar and trustworthy. His lashes were thick and dark, his eyebrows heavy slashes above them. Those brows made him look more dangerous than he was—not unlike the masculine stubble he rarely shaved completely. Then again, maybe Trey’s gentleness was the danger, sucking a person in, letting him think he’d stick around forever. A tingle spread from the place Trey brushed with his fingertips, pleasant sensations sliding smoothly across his skin until his c**k gave a good hard twitch.
If they’d been alone, he’d have French-kissed Trey, then f**ked him like a sailor over the nearest chair.
“The portfolio?” Trey reminded. “You said it wasn’t work.”
“Oh, excuse me,” said a soft female voice. “If you’re not ready to order, I can come back.”
Trey glanced at the waitress before he did. Because Zane was looking at Trey, he witnessed the subtle shock that snapped through him.
“Hello,” Trey said, his eyes widening.
Zane jerked his gaze to the waitress too. She was on the small side; younger than they were, he thought—though he couldn’t be positive. Zane and Trey usually came off as older than their years. This girl had gamine cut blonde hair, big gray eyes, and a mouth so soft and pink it could have been candy. Her Wilde’s Bistro apron made it hard to tell, but he thought her rack was good.