Wes’s gaze caught on something a little closer. A bottle of water and a wrapped baguette sandwich rested on Wes’s nightstand. He sat up and grabbed it, peeled back the paper wrapping, and sniffed. A jambon beurre, ham and salted butter. His stomach roared, a violent growl that he thought might wake Justin. But Justin didn’t stir. “Thank you,” he whispered to the quiet bedroom.
He rose and crept to the window, sitting on the sill and propping his bare foot on the ledge. Leaning back, he took his first bite of the sandwich, and he closed his eyes and groaned, thunking his head against the frame. God, how could something so simple be so damn delicious? He needed another five of these. He tried to eat slowly and savor it, but he was done too soon, licking his fingers clean of crumbs and butter before downing the bottle of water in one long gulp.
And then he watched, listening to Paris come alive in the early morning. Smelled the city, the sour-sweet smell of humanity and nature colliding, of concrete and exhaust and baked rubber, and trees sucking down carbon dioxide, and bakeries just beginning their day. The first glimpses of dawn were painting the sky, turning the indigo overhead to layered shades of bluebonnet and chicory and dayflower.
When dawn had turned the sky to a watercolorist’s palette, Wes rose and returned to his bed, pulling out his duffel and grabbing his running shoes and shorts from the side pocket. He might be in Paris, but that didn’t mean he was free from his obligations. He should have run yesterday, but he hadn’t, so he’d have to add that mileage to today.
He changed right there, then grabbed his phone, dropped a pin on the hotel, and pulled up a five-mile run route from his jogging app. He didn’t need to know where to go, as long as his phone kept feeding him directions. He popped his earbuds in, grabbed his metal key, and tiptoed out, trying not to wake Justin.
Chapter Two
As the lock turned in the door, Justin’s eyes opened. He stared at the empty space where Wes had just changed.
Just his damn luck. He came to Paris to escape: escape his life, and Texas, and, especially, Texans. Guys elsewhere, guys he met online who were in California or New York or Chicago, they all said he was lucky, he was surrounded by those sexy cowboys.
Yeah, sure, if you wanted your sexy with a side of snide, under-the-breath dismissal. Real cowboys, in his experience, were not the kind of men he wanted to hang around with, no matter how sexy they might be.
So, of course, he went five thousand miles and crossed an ocean to live in a cosmopolitan, progressive European city for three weeks… and ended up rooming with an honest-to-God Texan cowboy. Boots, buckle, hat and all.
Just his luck, he’d figured, when Wes walked in. Just his damn luck. He’d felt his dreams collapse as Wes had settled in, boots thumping on the old hardwood floors. Three weeks had seemed like freedom only moments before. How quickly it became a cage. When would the sneers start? The jeers? When would his roommate become aggressive? Act paranoid, like Justin was panting after his shadow? Justin wanted to tell his former roommates from freshman and sophomore year, Don’t think that highly of yourself. He’d rather fuck a cowboy—and he never intended to do that—than either of them.
Justin grabbed his hair and groaned.
Could Wes be any more of a cowboy? He’d fit right in at Universal Studios, or Hollywood, or, hell, if he wore nothing but chaps, he could make ten grand a night at the gay clubs in Dallas. He’d look right at home driving the herd down Main in Fort Worth, too, tipping his hat to women in sundresses and giving them that shy little grin. God, did women hurl their thongs at Wes every day? What about men? How many men saw him and wanted to hit their knees, run their fingers up the those tight, denim-covered thighs?
Justin fumed, glaring at the ceiling. His cock was rock hard, flat against his belly. Why did Wes have to change right there?
Well, why wouldn’t he, if he thought Justin was sleeping? That would change soon, of course. Maybe Wes would tack up a sheet to separate the halves of their room, like his second freshman roommate had.
He wasn’t going to jack off to his roommate. His straight cowboy roommate.
But it wasn’t like he was getting any other action, either. Four days now, he’d been in Paris, and he’d yet to find his dreamy Parisian summer fling.
His sultry, pouty look that worked wonders in Texas didn't seem to translate in Paris. He wasn’t used to the men here, how they flirted, what they said. Sure, he could whip out the apps, but… His mom said he would end up dead in a ditch someday if he wasn’t careful, and he didn’t want to prove her right. Meeting a stranger on a hookup app in a foreign country seemed like the kind of reckless that turned boys like him into missing-persons posters. He wasn’t pretty enough to get worldwide attention if someone abducted or offed him.
Why did Wes have to be his roommate? Why couldn’t they put him with a nerd, one of the IT majors who smelled like Doritos and Mountain Dew? Or a hipster who was cool enough to scope out guys with him at the Louvre and Tuileries, as long as Justin was cool enough to play the part of the gay bestie when he wanted to pick up chicks?
The sun was over the horizon now, reflecting shards of light off every window and rooftop and into their room. Delivery vans were making their rounds, collecting wine bottles and dropping off milk bottles, and the smell of fresh-baked bread perfumed the city. Well, he wouldn’t be sleeping any more now. He flung his blanket back and stood, glaring down at his crotch before heading for the bathroom.
The water pressure wasn’t great enough to really enjoy, and the shower was smaller than the cubicles back in the dorms. But he showered, shaved, and brushed his teeth, ran his hands through his hair, wrapped his towel around his waist, and opened the door—
Wes, back from his run, looked up. He was in the kitchenette, pouring coffee into two mugs, and he froze when he saw Justin, the coffee continuing to pour and pour until it overran the top of the mug and spilled over his hand.
“Shit.” Wes backed away, searching for a dish towel, shaking his hand. Drops of coffee spattered the front of his sweat-soaked shirt.
“Here.” Justin whipped off the towel draped over his shoulders and handed it to Wes. Wes grabbed it, his eyes darting over Justin’s bare chest and down to the knot of his white towel wrapped low around his hips, then away. He wiped his hand, then squatted and wiped the counter, the cupboard, the floor.
“I didn’t know you were back. Sorry.” What Justin was apologizing for, he didn’t know, but it was reflex now to apologize to his straight roommates. I’m sorry I bother you. I’m sorry you’re so fucking fragile that my existence threatens your masculinity. I’m sorry I breathe in and out. Don’t worry, others have thought about changing that, too.
Wes grunted. “My fault.” He wiped again at the dried counter, not looking as Justin slipped on an undershirt and slid his boxers up under his towel. Finally decent, he turned back to Wes, pasting a smile on his face.
A smile that froze as Wes held out a cup of coffee and a chocolate-filled croissant. There was an open box of pastries behind Wes, half a dozen croissants: chocolate, plain, almond, raisin, and more. “Thank you for the sandwich,” Wes said. His voice was like gravel, something deep and rich and rumbling that reminded Justin of cabins and backwoods. He felt Wes’s voice in the center of his chest.