Hands On

By Shae Connor

Four novellas, four couples, four romances.

Rhythm & Blues

When life tears apart your dream, build a new one.

Former Broadway dancer Pate Hawkins meets model-gorgeous contractor Ace Samson when he answers as request for an estimate on renovating his studio space. The two men develop a fledgling relationship, but then the siren song of the stage calls Pate back...

Tongue & Groove

Sometimes home is what two hearts make of it.

While healing from a vocal cord injury, rock singer Saul Wilder decides to restore home his grandmother left him. When home renovation specialist Perry Abrams arrives to assess the job, Saul's on board with mixing business with a little pleasure...

Heart & Soul

Love can sneak up on you in the last place you'd expect.

Pianist Kellen Grady meets former pro football player Terrence Harvey when he and his brother buy the bar where Kellen plays at night. A quick friendship develops, but their relationship takes an unexpected turn when Terrence surprises Kellen with a kiss...

Graphite & Glitter

All that glitters might just be gold.

On the night of her best friends bachelorette party, architect Adrienne Michaels has a scorching one-night stand with Tessa Smith, bass player for an all-female glam rock tribute band. Then Tessa surprises her by asking her on a real date...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Shae Connor
• Release date: May 2, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386086079

Book preview

Acknowledgements

Thanks to Rhonda, Mags, J.P., Tasha, Barb, Sarah, and Dani for making the words pretty, AngstyG for making the cover pretty, and Nathan for making the inside pretty. Also thanks to William for tips and suggestions that saved me lots of time and headaches.

And thank you to the readers who have made this endeavor worthwhile!

Rhythm & Blues

Rhythm & Blues

By Shae Connor

When life tears apart your dream, build a new one.

After a knee injury ended his career, Broadway dancer Pate Hawkins limped his way back from New York to Atlanta to implement Plan B: open a dance academy to train the next generation of song-and-dance dreamers. When model-gorgeous contractor Ace Samson answers his request for an estimate on renovating his studio space, Pate hits pay dirt in more ways than one. As construction gets underway, the red-hot attraction between the two men flares, and soon they develop a fledgling relationship. Then the siren song of the stage calls Pate back, and he has to choose between the dream he left behind and the new life he’s building—with his studio, and with Ace.

Pate Finley’s footsteps echoed in the open space of the building he’d just bought. Nearly fifteen thousand square feet of raw materials surrounded him, and despite the cobwebs in the corners and the anxiety gnawing at his gut, he smiled.

Yeah, he breathed into the dusty but certified asbestos-free air. The place just felt right, deep in his bones. The same way dance had from the time he’d walked into his first studio at the tender age of ten.

He spun on one heel, ignoring the twinge in his knee, the constant reminder of what he’d never have again. He’d moved on, or so he told himself. Plan B was in full effect. All he needed now was a contractor to make it all real.

He checked the time on his phone. Still a few minutes until the first estimate guy was due, so he wandered the floor while he waited, pausing to inspect the exposed-brick wall at the far end of the former factory space. That, he planned to leave as-is. The other walls, nothing but crumbling concrete and slapdash plaster, would be rebuilt. The concrete under his feet would be topped with hardwood for the lobby and restrooms, but in the studio rooms, it would be the special rubberized flooring needed to cushion hard-working feet.

He closed his eyes and pictured the finished space, shiny and new, floors and mirrors and barres gleaming. His own dance studio, Rhythm & Blues, finally open for business.

Hello? A deep, rumbly voice pulled Pate from his vision, and he turned toward the doorway to find a set of piercing blue eyes staring at him. The man wore jeans and work boots and had long, dirty-blond hair pulled up into a messy sort of ponytail, a full but neatly trimmed beard, and a body like Pate’s every wet dream come true.

Pate shook himself mentally and walked forward. Hi, thanks for meeting me. He held out a hand. Pate Finley. You’re from S&S?

The man nodded and reached for Pate’s hand, but his gaze never left Pate’s face. Pate fought back a sudden urge to hide from that frank appraisal.

Ace, the man said. Ace Samson.

Pate let out a nervous chuckle. I should’ve known by the hair.

Ace paused for a moment and then laughed too, the tension between them breaking as he dropped Pate’s hand. Yeah, well. He waved his fingers over the pile on his head. Once it gets like this, you kind of have to just commit to it, you know?

Pate wore his own brown hair closely cropped to keep the curl under control, but he nodded anyway. Nerves crept in as he turned toward the open room, and he stuffed his hands into his jeans pockets.

So, this is the place. He shrugged. I know it doesn’t look like much now. But then.... He glanced at Ace. That’s why you’re here, right?

Ace gave him a small smile. You don’t remember me.

Well, he didn’t expect that. Uh... no, I don’t think so. Pate studied Ace’s face. Should I?

Ace laughed outright. I don’t know why I’d think you would. I was pretty much Steve Rogers’ before picture back then. I was two years behind you at Westside. He named the arts magnet school Pate had graduated from seven years earlier. Still going by Horace then, too. You were gone by the time I, um... matured.

Pate bit his lip as he gave Ace a good once-over from head to toe. I’m sorry I missed it.

Ace’s cheeks turned pink above his beard, and he looked away. Well, um... He cleared his throat. You want to make a dance studio out of all this?

Pate let the flirting go—not without noting that, despite the deflection, Ace didn’t seem to mind—and turned back to business. For the moment.

Three studios, actually. He waved toward the far end. About three thousand square feet each. Lobby, changing space and restrooms, offices, storage. He turned his head up. The ceiling is twenty-five feet, and the studios will need as much of that as we can keep and still have some soundproofing to keep the upstairs neighbors happy.

Ace had pulled a notepad and pencil out from somewhere and was scribbling notes. How close to square should the studios be?

Pretty close. Pate gestured toward the far side of the room, with the brick wall. I’d like to have a larger studio against the far wall, with the mirror and barre opposite the brick. Maybe four thousand for that one. The whole space is fifty by three hundred, so if we did fifty by eighty there, and then restrooms and changing rooms down one side and the other two studios on the other, hallway in between.

He glanced over to see Ace sketching out what Pate was describing. Or if the space doesn’t work for that, the changing rooms could go between the studios. But I’m thinking soundproofing would be easier with the plumbing on the other side.

You’re probably right. Ace glanced up. The rest up front? Lobby and offices?

Yeah. Pate walked toward Ace, keeping his focus on the notebook, no matter how much his gaze wanted to wander. His body reacted anyway, warmth surging through him just from his proximity to Ace. I don’t need a huge amount of office space, but we’ll need a place to sign up students and such. Maybe one larger office with room for a small conference table, and then two or three smaller ones for instructors to share.

Got it. Ace wrote another note and then tapped a toe on the concrete floor. And special floor for the studios, those big mirrors, all that stuff.

And that’ll cost me, I know. Pate sighed and planted his hands on his hips. It’ll probably cost more than buying this place to get everything set up.

Cha-ching! Ace grinned again, and a zing shot down Pate’s spine. He couldn’t help smiling back. No problem. I don’t cut corners, but I do have ways to cut costs without losing anything. He ran his gaze around the space again. This is a great old building. Maybe recycled or upcycled fixtures? Recovered wood for the reception desk? You want it to look brand new but still blend in.

Pate already had S&S at the top of the short list of contractors just from the information he’d found online—he had two more estimators coming out the following day—and everything Ace said only served to cement the choice. Wouldn’t be bad eye candy to have him around for a couple of months, either.

Pate shoved his hands back into his pockets. What else do you need to know?

Ace flipped through his notes. Let me take a look at the plumbing situation. Not the most fun to deal with, but necessary.

He wandered over toward the far wall where pipes jutted up from the floor, indicating the location of the former bathrooms. The previous owners had planned to put in a bar of some kind, but the crashing economy left them high and dry. Part of the reason Pate got the building for such a steal was how long it had been on the market.

Ace squatted to take a closer look at the pipes. Looks like enough for a couple of restrooms. Might need an upgrade if you want showers, too. He turned and looked up at Pate. Two restrooms, I assume? Or unisex? He paused. Maybe individual changing spaces instead of one open room?

Good point, Pate thought, considering the broadening of gender and sexuality expression, especially among younger people. I don’t know how many private spaces we could fit it, he said, thinking it through as he spoke. But a combination of open and private spaces so they can choose, absolutely.

Ace made another note. I’ll include some options in the quote.

Pate nodded in silent understanding. Even in the dance track he’d gone through, where most of the guys were assumed to be gay, everything from snide comments to overt aggression had been common, in the locker rooms and the hallways. Moving to Manhattan and finding himself surrounded by out-and-proud gay men had felt like escaping prison.

At least here, in his own space, he didn’t have to feel like he’d gone back behind bars.

Pate squared his shoulders to push back the darker thoughts. Anything else you need to know? I can email you copies of the blueprints and a sheet with electrical info, in case that needs to be upgraded.

Ace squinted up at the lights, utilitarian fluorescents that crackled and hummed high overhead. Let me take a look at the circuit box. It’ll depend on if there’s enough room for expansion.

Pate pointed toward the nearest corner. Over here.

Ace fell into step beside him, but Pate stopped short and let Ace go ahead to check the box. He remembered there being some empty slots for additional electrical circuits, but he didn’t know if they’d be enough for his needs.

Not bad. Ace inspected not just the box but the wiring around it. Looks fairly new. He looked back over his shoulder. Like somebody started some upgrades but didn’t get very far?

Pate nodded. Sounds about right. The Realtor said there were plans for a club, but the owners couldn’t come up with funding. He raised his eyebrows. So we’re good there?

Should be. Ace closed the door covering the breaker switches. If you were trying to set up for performances, with all those lights, probably not. But just for practice? It’ll be fine.

That’s a relief. Pate’s phone vibrated in his pocket, and he pulled it out to check the reminder on the screen. Damn. He’d forgotten about lunch with Billy. Um, not to rush you out or anything, but I have to get to an appointment before much longer.

No problem. Ace scribbled a last few notes, flipped his notebook shut, and nearly buckled Pate’s knees with a smile wide enough to make his gorgeous eyes crinkle around the edges. I’ll get on this quote as soon as I get back to the office. This is a pretty awesome place. I’d love to be the one to take care of you. I mean— His cheeks flushed again, and Pate gave him a slow smile.

I’d be happy to be taken care of, he murmured, watching as Ace leaned toward him, as if drawn in by a magnet. Pate’s skin flushed and his heart beat faster. How would Ace’s mouth feel against his?

Then Pate’s phone buzzed again, this time with an incoming call. Dammit, he muttered, drawing a breath to calm himself as he checked the screen. Gotta take this, sorry. I’ll email you those files, and talk to you soon?

Ace’s smile this time was smaller but no less warm. I’ll count on that.

He headed toward the door, and Pate watched the tight, rounded globes of his ass move under his snug jeans even as he took the call. What’s up, Nina? His manager had become a friend over the years, but she dealt mostly in texts. A phone call meant something important.

Pate, babe, came back the usual greeting. So I heard back from Minx, and they want you on the project. After a few weeks back in the South, Nina’s Bronx accent scraped like sandpaper on Pate’s eardrums. All they need is an updated reel—

Nina. Pate cut her off with a sigh. We talked about this.

I know we did, but if you just think about what they’re offering—

—I’ll say ‘thanks but no thanks’ and go ahead with the plans I’m already waist-deep into. Pate pressed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb. Nina. I know you’re just doing your job, and I know as long as I’m not performing, you’re not making any money off me. But I can’t do it. Not now.

And maybe not ever. Dancing for a living was off the table, after the damage to his right knee. With another few months of therapy, he should be able to dance enough to teach, or for fun, and maybe even for an occasional show. But he’d never again dance for eight hours a day, eight shows a week. Not if he wanted to retain the ability to walk without a permanent limp.

Still, he struggled with his decision. Dance had been his life for so long that having it ripped away had left him gasping for air. Even now, his body ached with the need to leap and twirl, to lose itself in the freedom and discipline of dance.

How could he make Nina understand that thrusting opportunities in front of him like this did him no favors at all?

Nina blew an exasperated breath into the phone. Pate, honey, I know you can’t do the high-intensity stuff right now, but this one’s low-impact. They promised no more than two weeks on set, and your partner’d be the one doing the real heavy lifting.

Pate struggled to hold onto his patience. He’d told her no the first time she brought up the movie deal. This was already hard enough for him without having to fight with others over it.

"Nina. The answer is no. Again. You know I have another two months before I finish physical therapy. And it’ll take probably at least a month after that until I can do anything with any real impact at all. There is no possible way for me to shoot a movie in five weeks that involves any kind of dancing."

The silence on the line made Pate wonder if Nina had hung up on him until she finally sighed. I know. Her voice sounded more like friend than manager now. I just hate it for you so much, and I want to find something you can do. You know it’s not about the money.

Pate ran his hand through his hair. I know. I’m just.... He shrugged one shoulder. Never mind that no one could see him. I’m trying to adjust. Trying to focus on plan B. And if I keep thinking about losing plan A, I’m never going to stop treading water and move on.

His voice shook, no matter how hard he tried to steady it. She just didn’t get it, and he didn’t know if she ever would.

Nina was quiet so long Pate might’ve thought they’d been cut off, except he could still hear the soft sounds of classical music she always played in her office. Anyone who met her would expect death metal, but Nina thrived on subverting expectations.

How about this, she finally said, back to her usual almost-brusque tone. I’ll keep looking, but I’ll switch gears. Look further out, at least a few months down the line. Maybe some plays. Something that won’t stress out the knee. Okay?

He’d probably still say no, but if he couldn’t call her off entirely, it was a compromise he could live with. Okay. He leaned against the wall, ignoring the way its uneven, cracked surface poked into his skin. No promises, but you do that. I gotta go, Nina. Talk to you soon, all right?

Go be good, babe. Nina signed off with her usual words—so pretentious that even she made fun of herself for it—and Pate thumbed the End button. He tipped his head back and blew out a long breath.

A throat clearing by the door nearly scared him out of his skin.

He whipped his head that direction to see Ace standing there, looking sheepish. Lost my phone somewhere. He took a step into the room, hands pushed deep into his jean pockets. Must’ve fallen out of my pocket.

He didn’t say what he might have overheard, but from his expression, he’d heard at least some of it. If he wasn’t going to mention it, Pate sure wasn’t. I’ll help you look.

Five minutes later, he found the phone on the floor among the pipes along the side wall. Found it. He fished it out—thankfully, dry—and waved it over its head before pushing to his feet.

He held the phone out toward Ace as he approached, and when Ace took it, he lingered, fingers brushing a tingling touch against Pate’s. Goosebumps broke out across Pate’s skin, sensation running straight to his dick. From the way Ace’s eyes dilated, he felt it too.

But he didn’t say anything. He took a step back and slid the phone into his pocket. So, I’ll get you that quote. His half-smile was enough to show a dimple in his left cheek, just above the line of his beard.

Yeah. Pate couldn’t look away. I’ll be waiting.

Even after Ace left, Pate didn’t move for another few long minutes. Then he took in a deep breath and blew it out to clear his mind. He still had to meet with Billy, and what came out of that conversation could make or break his plans.

Hoping like hell, he locked up his dream and headed for his car.

––––––––

Six? Really?

Pate couldn’t have heard right. After graduating from high school a year behind Pate, Billy Newmaker had stayed in Atlanta for college and had been working in the local theater world ever since. They’d stayed in touch over the decade Pate lived in New York, and when Pate had asked Billy to pass around word that Pate needed dance instructors, he’d expected maybe one or two bites. Not a half-dozen.

Billy smiled, bright teeth flashing against his tanned skin. I told you, demand is crazy right now. There are a billion little dance studios cropping up all over, but most of them are so fly by night they should have bats on their logos. A real studio, with real backing and a real-life local-boy-makes-good success story running it? You’re gonna have your pick, man.

Thank God for one load off. Pate speared a piece of penne and swiped it through the pool of pink sauce on his plate. I’ve got one more contractor coming this afternoon and one tomorrow, and then I have to wait to see who’s going to gouge me the least. Oh! He paused with his fork in midair. The one that came this morning said he went to school with me. Us. He would’ve been a year behind you, I think. Horace Samson?

Yeah, I remember him. Billy cocked his head to one side. Geeky little guy, always hanging around the art studio. I mostly remember because he showed up my last year about six inches taller and fifty pounds heavier, all muscle, turning all the girls’ heads—and a lot of the guys’, too. Guess he had a major growth spurt that summer. He told everyone to call him Ace, but I don’t know if it stuck.

Pate swallowed. Oh, it stuck. So did the muscles. With bonus beard and long hair.

Billy gave him a shrewd look. Oh, it’s like that, is it?

Pate groaned, not even bothering to hide anything. "Holy hell, he’s hot. I’m half tempted to turn down the quote even if it’s good and ask him out instead. He snorted and forked up another mouthful of pasta. Or just shove him up against the nearest wall. I’m not picky."

No reason you can’t have both. Billy grinned. I mean, it’ll take a couple of months tops, right? Even if it goes bad, you can deal with him for that long.

Pate thought of some of the directors, choreographers, and co-stars he’d had to deal with for much longer than a couple of months—including a few he’d hooked up with. Been there, done that, sold the goddamn t-shirt. Literally. From behind a rickety table while he sweated off stage makeup, early in his career, before he’d moved a few rungs up on the theater ladder.

Billy drained his glass of sweet tea and looked around for their server. So sexiness aside, did he look like he could do the job?

Yeah. Pate chased an elusive piece of onion with his fork. The company had good reviews online, and he asked good questions. Checked everything out. I’m betting he doesn’t know jack about things like how to pick out the right flooring, but that’s why I’m gonna be hands-on with that. He caught his wording and pointed his fork at Billy. Don’t even say it.

Billy gave him a closed-lipped smile around his full mouth before he swallowed. Didn’t have to.

Anyway. Pate shook his head. I have two more companies coming, and I’ll give them all a fair shot. Who knows? Maybe the next guy will be even hotter. He couldn’t imagine that. He might go up in flames on the spot.

Their server approached, and Billy leaned back to allow her room to refill his glass. As soon as she was out of earshot, though, Billy shifted closer. Just think, he murmured. Fucking him up against that back wall, his moans echoing through the room, his fingers clawing at the brick—

Jesus, Billy! Pate had to move to adjust his suddenly half-hard dick. You been moonlighting on a phone sex line or something? He narrowed his eyes. And I thought you were straight anyway.

Billy sipped his tea. I can still appreciate a hard body now and then. Nothing wrong with a little fantasy fodder.

Challenge accepted. Pate gave Billy a long, slow look up and down, the kind he usually reserved for checking guys out in bars. He was gratified to see Billy’s usually carefree demeanor and his smile wobble. He’d bet money if he pushed it, he could make Billy full-out blush.

He reached for his glass instead. Man, you know you can’t handle this.

That broke the remaining tension in the air. Billy laughed and tossed a balled-up napkin his way, though it fell short, landing on the table between them. Funny guy. So should I have people start sending you resumes now, or wait until closer to your open date?

Pate pushed his nearly empty plate away. I’d say give me a week, maybe? Once the work gets started, I’ll be able to focus on other things. Right now I’m too anxious to get the remodel going.

It’s a great space, man. You did good. Billy’s support was a given, but the sincere compliment was a rarity. Pate tipped his head to acknowledge it.

Keeping fingers crossed, he replied.

And eyes on the prize. Billy winked. And maybe Ace’s ass too.

Pate responded with a raised middle finger. Just for that, you’re buying.

––––––––

Pate closed the door behind the third contractor to come inspect the studio space. He’d seemed competent and been nice, which is more than Pate could say for contractor number two, who couldn’t seem to stop himself from making what he apparently thought were funny jokes about dancers and their sexuality.

Still, it would take a pretty awesome quote from either of them to beat out Ace.

Pate headed over to the card table and chairs he’d brought in that morning after a stop by Costco. Spending a few hours hanging around the day before had made him wish for a place to sit, and he figured once the work started, the table would come in handy. Dropping into the nearest chair, he unlocked his phone to look for a place for lunch nearby but saw he had a new email, so he opened that first.

A quote from S&S Construction. Wow, that was fast. He hadn’t sent the blueprints and electrical specs until after dinner the night before.

He started to open the message but decided to find some food first. A Google search later, he was locking up the studio behind him to head to a Mediterranean grill a couple of blocks away. He should probably pay attention to what else there was in the area, but he was too eager to see what Ace had to say. Okay, well, how much S&S thought it would take to build his new stomping grounds, but close enough.

He loaded the PDF file attachment as he walked and stopped just outside the restaurant to pinch and blow it up enough to read on the small screen. His eyes went to the bottom line first, and while the total hit like a punch to the gut, it was within his budget.

He stuffed his phone into his pocket before he walked into the tiny restaurant, where he was quickly escorted to a small table near the window by a stout woman with curly white hair and a welcoming smile. He had a view down the block that showed him a few other lunch options, including a diner on the corner that looked like a good prospect and a steakhouse that wouldn’t be a regular thing but could come in handy for business meetings.

At the moment, though, he skimmed the extensive menu and decided on a sampler platter of hummus, baba ganoush, stuffed grape leaves, and falafel. If the basics passed muster, he’d be back to try more.

Order placed, he pulled the renovation quote back up and read over the details. Everything appeared to be good. It even looked as if Ace had done his homework on the flooring—or considering that he’d gone to the same arts-oriented high school as Pate, maybe he’d already known where to look. The time frame of eight weeks start to finish fit Pate’s timeline, allowing some flexibility for the inevitable surprises involved in any large-scale project like this.

Some of his ever-present anxiety over his plans faded. He had no way to be sure he’d made the right choice, but at least he had big parts of the foundation falling into place.

His food arrived quickly, and he set his phone aside, preferring to people-watch while he ate. The sidewalk outside was far less busy than those he was used to in Manhattan, but then, Atlanta was a far less pedestrian-focused city. He still hadn’t fully adjusted to thinking in terms of cars rather than cabs and trains. Considering most of his customers would be driving their own cars to the studio, one of the benefits of the old factory building where he’d bought his space was that it had plenty of nearby parking.

His phone buzzed, and he set his fork down—the food was amazing—to check the text message. It was from S&S, which meant Ace.

Sent the estimate, it read. Let me know if you didn’t get it.

Pate swallowed and thumbed an answer. Just looking it over now. You’ll probably hear from me soon.

Great! :)

The smiley might not be the most professional response ever, but Pate didn’t care. It brought a real smile to his face as he went back to his lunch.

––––––––

Pate stared out at the scintillating view of the parking lot outside the physical therapy building. His legs pedaled on autopilot as he worked his way through the warmup for his session. His knee ached, as it nearly always did, but it was a dull, flat feeling, not the stabbing agony of the injury or the occasional throbbing pain when he overdid things or moved the joint at the wrong angle.

He’d been lucky in the end. If he followed the rules, he’d still be able to dance after his recovery. But the injury itself had been brutal—a tear of one of the primary ligaments in the knee. It had hurt like nothing he’d ever experienced, and even after reconstructive surgery, he’d been in a serious amount of pain. Three months down the road, and he still had at least two more to go before he’d be free of PT and able to dance again.

He’d never be free of the danger of another major injury, though.

The timer on his bicycle beeped, and he slowed to a stop, pushing the button to end the program. He stepped off the bike and turned to catch the eye of his therapist, who waved him over to his very favorite thing, the balance board. Ten or fifteen long minutes of trying to balance on one foot—not the most fun thing he’d ever done.

All right, Mr. Rhythm. Cara, his tiny, peppy therapist, had taken to calling Pate that two weeks into their sessions. Let’s see how long you can stay up this week. You made it three minutes last time, so let’s go for four.

Pate doubted he could have balanced on one foot like a flamingo for four minutes before the injury. When he was spinning, sure, and maybe in an arabesque, with his other leg and arms out to hold his body steady. But just standing still? Man, it was tough.

He did it, though. And the lunges, and the stretches, and the leg lifts. He’d do whatever the professionals told him he needed to do to finish healing. He’d never dance like he did before, but he still needed to dance. His body itched under his skin every day, muscles crying out to move.

He held it in and did his exercises.

Finally, Cara led him to a table and set him up with heat packs. Great work today, she chirped, leaving him to count the dots on the ceiling and the weeks of work left ahead of him.

Three more weeks of two-a-week sessions. Then, assuming all was well, another four weeks going once a week. After a final assessment by both Cara and his orthopedist, if they both give an all clear, he’d be free.

He settled in to let the heat seep in, and as it always did, his mind wandered to the studio. He’d planned out a lot of what he wanted to do with the space like this, immobilized on various tables, but this time, his daydreaming featured a special guest star: a tall, blond, and handsome contractor by the name of Ace.

He’d gotten one other estimate, not far off from what S&S had bid, and he’d already decided against the other company—the one with the offensive joker—before their twenty-percent-higher bid arrived. He planned to call Ace the next day to accept the S&S offer, even though he knew keeping the arrangement purely professional would be a struggle. Ace flipped all his switches, even ones he didn’t know he had. He’d thought manbuns nothing but a silly affectation until he’d seen Ace’s mane piled up on top of his head. Damn.

Pate’s mind flicked back to the scenario Billy painted, of him taking Ace up against the exposed brick wall in the back of the studio space. His cock perked up at the thought, and he forced his thoughts elsewhere, focusing instead on all the work he had ahead of him.

Two months.