Taking a Chance

By A.M. Arthur

“An angsty, red-hot dance of doubt . . . this warm and funny story can stand on its own”—from the author of Getting It Right and Finding Their Way (Publishers Weekly).

The last time Elliott fell in love, his fiancé cheated on him. Now fresh out of rehab, Elliott’s confidence lags behind his libido—not that that stops him from lusting after the sexy carpenter working on his kitchen—from a distance. He won’t risk his sobriety on another potential broken heart.

As half of an experienced home renovation duo, Augustus expects this job will be easy. Until he sees the house’s tenant, a man he never thought he’d meet—his ex’s other man. Augustus knows he should say something about their secret, shared past, but he’s tongue-tied by their intense, unwanted attraction.

Despite attempts to keep things professional, the two men give in to temptation and forge a genuine connection—and his developing feelings for Elliott leave Augustus in an impossible situation. If he stays, his secret will always hang over the relationship. But telling the truth might send Elliott spiraling to a new rock bottom and cost Augustus the only man he’s ever really loved.

“The plot could easily have devolved into cliché, but instead Arthur’s talent adds depth, and even the secondary characters leap from the pages.” —Library Journal

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Sep 14, 2015
• ISBN: 9781459290174

A.M. Arthur

A.M. Arthur was born and raised in the same kind of small town she likes to write about, a stone's throw from both the ocean and generational farmland. She's been writing stories in her head since she was a child and scribbling them down nearly as long. When not exorcising the voices in her head, A.M. can be found in the kitchen experimenting with food and trying not to poison herself or others.

Book preview

Chapter One

Stop fidgeting.

Auggie Rhinehart glared at his business partner, Steve Lawrence, the man who’d issued the less than helpful command. Auggie would have to sit on his hands to keep them still. He began to verbalize the thought, only to be cut off by the arrival of Sharon Russ, the WXKY reporter charged with keeping their upcoming interview under ninety seconds.

They were a sound bite, not a lead story, thank goodness, but this was still for the six o’clock evening news.

And it was live.

Sharon plunked down in the director’s chair angled toward Steve and Auggie, giving them each a brief smile before smoothing both her blouse and hair. All business, which gave Auggie hope that she’d focus on the design special he and Steve were promoting, rather than their public image.

Fifteen seconds, said someone wearing black headphones.

Auggie counted backward in his head, watching the camera trained on their trio set back in a corner of the very active studio. The red light changed to green. His insides curled up into tight knots and he flattened both palms against his thighs.

Sharon turned on a mega-watt smile. "Hi, everyone, I’m Sharon Russ and tonight I’m here with two folks you probably know from the hit renovation show Nailing It. Wilmington’s own Reno Duo, Steve Lawrence and Augustus Rhinehart."

Hey, all. Steve waved to the camera.

It’s a pleasure, Auggie told her. Direct and simple. Good. His voice hadn’t shaken or gone too high.

So we here at WXKY have been working with the Reno Duo on a very special project. Sharon shifted her attention to them. Why don’t you guys give our viewers a preview of what they can expect to see on their televisions in April?

Absolutely, Sharon, Steve said. He’d already agreed to take point during the interview. Auggie was fine being filmed while working on a renovation, but direct interviews like this turned him into a bumbling idiot.

He was getting tired of playing his role in their duo.

Steve continued mugging for the camera. Last month we asked viewers to send in photos and videos of one room in their home that desperately needs a makeover, as well as a personal, meaningful item to use as inspiration for the makeover design. Augustus and I have worked tirelessly to choose four lucky homeowners who will receive that makeover.

He went a little high on the final few words, nearly ending with an exclamation point.

"Just like on Nailing It, I’ll be handling the design while Augustus here plays the muscle." Steve patted Auggie’s thigh—both a comment and a touch that didn’t bother him in the least, but he still gave his trademark side-eye.

Despite being as queer as Steve, Auggie had defaulted into the role of the straight man in their partnership, and their loyal fans ate it up. Auggie always looked uptight during interviews because all he could think about was giving something away, while Steve flamed away and charmed the audience.

Steve still had a few more bits of information to work out in the allotted time. We’ll film each renovation over the course of the week, and then surprise the homeowner with a final reveal on Friday morning. WXKY will air each renovation during their regular six o’clock broadcast beginning the first week of April.

That sounds like a fantastic project, Sharon said.

The clock ticked toward the end of his torture.

Augustus?

He worked to keep his expression smooth, his body language open. Yes, Sharon?

"You’re always the quiet one on Nailing It. What’s it like working with Steve and all of his energy?"

He could read between the lines. She was asking what was it like working for someone so openly gay.

He bit back a lot of problematic responses. Steve is one of the most creative people I’ve ever met, and he’s a pleasure to work with. Some days his energy is even contagious.

Well, I know our viewers are looking forward to seeing more of you two on their screens in April, and best of luck with the new project. Sharon angled directly toward the camera. Back to you, Mike.

The light went red.

Auggie sagged into his director’s chair as apprehension drained away, leaving him tired and a little hungry.

A production assistant un-miked them both quickly, and after only a few brief minutes of follow-up with their segment producer, Auggie escaped the station and stepped out into fresh air. Or fresh air according to the city of Wilmington, which smelled largely of gasoline, exhaust and stale water. Steve followed him out, as completely at ease with himself in public as Auggie was self-aware.

Why do I keep letting you talk me into these things? Auggie Rhinehart asked, and not for the first time in the last two and a half years.

Steve shrugged dramatically, then batted his white-blond eyelashes. Because you love me, and you’ll do anything to make me happy.

Auggie snorted. Try again.

Fine. Because you love what you do, and if the occasional anxiety-inducing interview is what it takes to stay successful you’ll do it, because you’re Augustus Fucking Rhinehart, and you never fail.

Auggie wouldn’t go as far as saying never. He’d very definitely failed in his marriage to his ex-wife, Jocelyn. He’d ignored his attraction to men since puberty, and he’d strived to become the best heterosexual he could be. Except at the end of the day, he was just as gay as Steve, and their audience and fans had no idea.

Steve was an interior designer with sixteen years of experience, and Auggie came from a carpentry and house-flipping background. They had used their combined experience to successfully produce two seasons of Nailing It, and WXKY had come to them with the idea of adapting their format and airing it in brief segments during the evening news. Both men had been excited by the opportunity.

All I want, Auggie said, is for this project to get us the publicity we need to get a contract for season three. Being in front of a camera all of the time wasn’t his favorite thing, but he loved the reveal moments, when homeowners saw the results of their hard work. Nailing It gave him that over and over again.

Ditto, partner. Steve hit the unlock button on his key fob. "Sooner or later, HGTV will notice us, and we’ll become the next Property Brothers."

Except older and a lot more gay.

We’re not old, we’re well seasoned.

Auggie didn’t bother arguing with Steve’s dreams of reaching an audience outside of Wilmington and its surrounding suburbs. The chances were miniscule. Besides, higher profile meant more public scrutiny, and Auggie didn’t need anyone digging into his past mistakes. He had a hard enough time dealing on his own without reporters getting in his face.

He also liked working with WXKY. The new project was being produced as a three-week special broadcast. Filming in March gave everyone plenty of wiggle room in terms of things going wrong, homeowners pulling out at the last minute, or unexpected delays. Auggie and Steve would meet each owner on a Monday, see the room and meaningful object, figure out what they liked in terms of style, the next three days would be spent doing the makeover, and Friday would be the big reveal.

The four-minute episodes would then air in April, one home per week, over the course of five evening news segments.

The very brief episode lengths also meant more focus on the work and less on the two hosts. Auggie went along with the public perception that he was the straight man to the more flamboyantly gay Steve, because it sold them. The hook was a little cliché, but sometimes clichés worked.

In the parking lot, he caught the wide-eyed smile of a pretty woman in very high heels, who did a thorough once-over of him as they passed. He played it up with a smile of his own, and he swore she blushed as she turned away.

Get in the car, Casanova, Steve said.

Auggie laughed as he slid into the passenger seat of Steve’s SUV. Very funny. He frequently caught attention from men and women for two very different reasons: he was six feet of solid muscle, and his race confused people.

He’d heard the are you black/white/Haitian/Hispanic? question since he was a child. His most common response was, I’m me. It shut most people up.

You want to come over for dinner? Steve asked as he eased into traffic. Stephen is making his famous balsamic chicken.

He groaned out of sheer disappointment, because Stephen’s balsamic chicken was amazing, and Auggie rarely turned down a dinner invitation. I would but I have plans, Auggie said.

Steve’s eyes went comically wide. Oh my god, Augustus Rhinehart, don’t tell me you have a date.

Don’t I wish.

It’s Jack’s birthday.

Oh, well, I suppose that’s an acceptable excuse. How old is he again? Steve asked.

Eighteen. It’s hard to believe. Auggie still had vivid memories of the first time he’d held his nephew as a six-hour-old newborn. Jack was the closest thing Auggie would ever come to having a child of his own, and that was fine with him. The final four years of his marriage had been the worst because of Jocelyn’s insistence on them starting a family.

Whole family coming out for it?

No, just us locals. JJ is in Chicago doing another show. Mom and Dad couldn’t make the drive on a Thursday, and May doesn’t like being in the car at night.

Right. Forgot that about May.

Steve had only met Auggie’s entire extended family once, at a reunion party last summer. There was no reason for Steve to remember all of the things that set off Auggie’s baby sister.

"You get Jack anything good? First Playboy subscription?"

Auggie snorted hard through his nose. His mother would kill me, thank you very much. I still don’t think she’s accepted her baby boy is eighteen.

Don’t tell me she’s deluded herself into believing he’s still a virgin, too?

No idea, but he lost that card sophomore year with a girl named Selina.

He told you that?

Sure. I’m the cool uncle because I’m on TV. Plus his father is an uptight prude.

Steve laughed. Tell me what you really think, partner.

You know I don’t have a problem speaking my mind. His lack of filter had gotten him into a lot of trouble as a teenager. He’d learned to control it better as an adult. Most of the time.

They chatted blithely about nothing important on the drive to Auggie’s house in Talleyville. Auggie’s latest project home was a mid-century minimal Tudor cottage, built in 1952. He’d bought it from the original owner’s son for a steal last year. The exterior still needed some TLC, but he’d done most of the work he needed to do on the inside to bring the house into the twenty-first century. Two bedrooms, one and a half bathrooms, kitchen with an attached dining room. Perfect.

Say Happy Birthday to Jack for me, Steve said.

Will do. See you Monday. Auggie grabbed his briefcase from the back of the SUV. Steve honked once as he backed out, a signature move that Auggie swore he did to annoy the neighbors.

He didn’t have time to go inside, so he climbed into his two-door sports car and headed east toward Claymont. He was meeting his sister’s family at a local pizza place Jack loved that apparently made 48-inch pies—a location guaranteed to annoy April, who thrived on spending her investment banker husband’s money and proving how not-poor she was now.

Of all his siblings, April was the most determined to shed her inner city Philadelphia roots.

Auggie wanted to shed the sins of his past and find a way to live comfortably in his own skin.

Sonny’s Brick Oven was packed for seven o’clock on a Thursday night. Auggie claimed one of the last few parking spots in the attached lot. He removed his gift for Jack from his briefcase, locked the case in his trunk, then headed inside.

Heated, spiced air hit him in the face, a nice change from the early March chill. Warm tones of red and orange on the walls, fake archways that were more Grecian in style than Italian. Clusters of fake grapes that would make Steve gasp in horror. The place needed a do-over, but if the food was good he could forgive them a few design faux pas.

Jack waved from a booth near the back of the dining room. Auggie indicated to the hostess that he had a party waiting, then went to join his family. Jack stood up to give him a firm hug. As tall and rangy as his father, Jack had his mother’s dark eyes and cinnamon skin. April subjected him to a ridiculous double-cheek air-kiss, something Auggie worked hard not to roll his eyes at. Not a hair out of place, her blouse wrinkle-free, April looked as comfortable in the pizza place as a preacher in a whorehouse.

Silas fit right in. Despite his wealth and four-car garage, he wore a simple green sweater over jeans. Auggie wouldn’t call the man attractive, but he had the blue-eyed, brown-hair thing going for him that Auggie tended to find appealing.

The only face Auggie didn’t recognize was a teenage girl Jack introduced as Lindsay.

His girlfriend, April added with enough smugness in her voice that Auggie would lay money on Lindsay’s parents having money.

Nice to meet you, Auggie said.

Jack talks about you all the time, Lindsay said. And I’ve seen you on TV. It sucks you cut the dreads off. They were really cool.

It was time for a change.

Practically a non-answer, but he’d said the same thing to his producers. It wasn’t as if he could tell any of them the truth—that Auggie had learned his boyfriend of a year was also in a committed relationship with another man. He’d been lied to and had his heart broken, and it had led to a minor mid-life crisis that almost made his mother burst into tears when she saw him again—he’d cut off the fifteen-inch freeform dreadlocks he’d been cultivating since college. His producers went apoplectic, because he’d done it right before he and Steve began filming the second season of their show. The key grip nearly earned himself a black eye for asking, Are you trying to look more white?

Not like Auggie could tell him he was trying to look less like the dumbass who got used by the first guy he ever fell in love with.

Auggie squeezed into the booth on Jack and Lindsay’s side, putting the skinny brunette all the way against the wall. Drinks were already on the table.

I ordered you a ginger ale, April said.

Thank you. He hadn’t liked ginger ale since he was fifteen, but April never seemed to get the memo.

We also got mozzarella sticks and a plate of wings, Jack said, visibly excited over the idea of greasy appetizers.

Auggie resisted the urge to grimace. He’d reached his limit of deep-fried food when he ordered French fries with his veggie wrap at lunch. His digestive system could only handle so much in a day before going on strike.

Can we get the Monster Pie? Jack asked.

Only if everyone wants pizza, Silas said directly to Auggie.

Auggie didn’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction. If Auggie said he’d rather order a salad, then Silas would say no to the giant pizza. Jack wanted that pizza, so Jack was getting that pizza. Spending a few hours in the morning running to the toilet was worth seeing his nephew happy.

The table settled on half plain, half sausage and pepperoni.

I saw your interview on the news tonight, April said. Your new project sounds interesting. How exactly is it different from your other show?

The concept is similar, but the actual aired footage will be much more condensed, Auggie replied. We have a day of planning and then three whole days to do the work on the room, instead of flipping it in forty-eight hours. And the homeowners are locals who submitted their rooms and were chosen based on need, rather than the ability to fit the reno into a two-day timeframe.

That sounds really exciting, Lindsay said. Did they announce the winners?

They’ll do that on tomorrow night’s six o’clock broadcast. The homeowners will be contacted about thirty minutes before the broadcast.

Wow. You have a fun job. I’ve thought about going into interior design.

My partner Steve is the designer. I get to handle all of the big tools.

Jack snorted his soda. Lindsay frowned, the innuendo going right over her pretty little head.

Well, you do know something about tools, Silas said.

Auggie mentally eye-rolled and held his tongue. Jack changed the subject to his final year playing catcher for his high school’s baseball team, and Auggie made the joke all by himself, in his head. When their waitress returned, Jack very proudly ordered the Monster Pie. Auggie silently ordered a bottle of anti-diarrheal medicine. Silas started rambling on about his latest deal, and Auggie mentally tuned out.

The monstrous pizza finally arrived and was sitting on a serving tray next to the table. Grease glistened on its surface like a harbinger of doom. Since Auggie was closest to it, he began doling out pieces of the giant pie to order, depending on the topping preference. Auggie found a small piece of cheese pizza with as much crust and little topping as possible for himself.

He would so much rather be at Steve and Stephen’s house eating chicken and sipping good wine.

By the time everyone was finished, half of the monster pie was left. Jack won a brief argument to take some of it home, and April declared they could trash the rest. Auggie resisted another actual eye-roll in favor of a mental one. April knew damned good and well what it felt like to go hungry, and now that she’d found money she tossed food like it meant nothing.

Annoyance crept under his skin and stayed put, a tiny shard of glass he could not dislodge.

A troop of the waitstaff came out of the kitchen with a lit cake that probably cost as much as their entire dinner, singing Happy Birthday to Jack. Auggie picked his way through a slice of too-sweet chocolate cake. Jack ate a few bites before claiming he was full, but Auggie knew better. Jack’s favorite hadn’t been chocolate since he was twelve, but April didn’t seem to care. Tradition was tradition, and April knew best.

Auggie had high hopes of escaping the uncomfortable booth very, very soon, and then Lindsay smashed that by leaning past Jack and saying, So J tells me you’re gay.

He stared at the petite girl, and if Jack had the complexion to blush, he probably would have in that moment. Auggie hadn’t come out to anyone except his family, but he also hadn’t made them promise to keep it a secret. Okay, he said.

He found minor amusement in the fact that April looked like she’d just chewed on dog shit. Manners and all that.

Lindsay seemed perfectly oblivious. So do you have, like, a boyfriend or something?

I thought I did. Once. Turns out he was a cheating asshole.

No.

Really? Lindsay’s eyebrows arched into dramatic peaks. But you’re so good-looking.

It’s not, ah, something I’m looking for right now.

He’s still getting over his wife, April said.

Jocelyn and I have been divorced for three years, Auggie said, maybe a little too defensively. It was my call. I am very much over her, I am simply not looking for another relationship right now.

Too busy with your shows? Lindsay asked.

Yes. Mostly a lie, but Auggie didn’t owe the girl an explanation. One person on the planet knew about the colossal mistake named Doug Swenson, and that was his best friend, Connor. A year later and the lie still hurt. Even when Auggie was at his loneliest, giving real thought to trying to date again, that lingering pain kept him and his heart safely at home.

That’s cool. But you know, I have an uncle who’s gay and kind of your age. If you start looking again.

Auggie would have face-palmed if she wasn’t staring right at him. He was getting set up by his eighteen-year-old nephew’s high school girlfriend. I’ll, ah, keep that in mind, thank you.

Sure thing. So if you’re gay, how come no one really knows? On the show you play it so straight and all.

I’ve never said one way or the other on air. It’s the brand Steve and I created with the network, so we don’t do anything to change public perception. And it kept people from digging into his divorce, harassing Jocelyn, and basically being a douche about something that wasn’t any of their business.

Does anyone want any coffee or more soda? the waitress asked, appearing in the nick of time to stop the god-awful conversation.

No, I think we’re all finished, Silas replied.

The waitress plucked a slip from her black book and handed it over to Silas, who immediately gave her a credit card to run.

Thanks for coming out for this, Uncle Auggie, Jack said. You gonna come to my baseball games?

As many as I can fit into my schedule, Auggie replied.

Awesome.

The waitress promptly returned with receipts for Silas to sign. To April, she asked, Would you like me to box up the rest of the cake?

No, you can throw it away, April said.

Half of the two layer cake was leftover. Why don’t you take it and share it with the kitchen staff? Auggie suggested.

He earned a beaming smile for that. Thank you so much, that’s very generous. I’ll have to ask my manager if that’s allowed.

If it is, then I hope you enjoy it.

Auggie hated waste. He might have cut his hair and wore nice suits to work, but he damned well and sure would never forget where he came from. He owed too many people too many debts—and not the kind of debts that could be repaid with money.

Spiritual debts were almost impossible to wipe clean.

It didn’t stop him from trying, though.

Chapter Two

Your last position was as an office assistant at Hyatt, Wheeler and Greene, Mr. Tight Ass said. He stared down at the résumé over the slim rim of silver-frame glasses like the words on the typed page were illegible child’s scrawl.

Yes, sir, Elliott Quinn replied. He could look at the polished nameplate on the guy’s desk, but Mr. Tight Ass fit better. The guy had walked into Elliott’s interview like he had a permanent clench.

I am already fucked. Again.

Tell me why you left.

I no longer gave a good shit, so I stopped going in and they fired me. I no longer felt like I fit in with that particular law firm. I left to pursue other opportunities.

I see. Mr. Tight Ass looked at Elliott over the rim of those glasses. Would your supervisor at Hyatt tell me the same thing?

Elliott swallowed, his throat dry. He wasn’t nervous. Not after his eighth interview this week going exactly the same way. They would see it a bit differently. I neglected to put in a proper two-week’s notice, so I was fired.

Why didn’t you give your notice?

He kind of wanted to yank those glasses off the guy’s face, since he didn’t seem to need them for reading paper or seeing people. I was simply ready to leave the company. It was an inexcusable mistake that I will never repeat again, you have my word.

You’re right, failing to give proper notice to an employer is an inexcusable mistake. It reeks of immaturity and a lack of focus on one’s profession.

Elliott pulled hard on his instinct to snap back at the Prick in a Suit. No, he shouldn’t have quit his old job like he had, but he’d kind of been stuck in a deep pit of depression, drugs, and sex, and he hadn’t been taking his actual life very seriously. Now that he’d been out of rehab for three weeks, he needed to get his ass back into the working world. He had money in the bank, but his credit was for shit and getting a rental agreement in a decent building was proving impossible.

You’re absolutely right. It was time to kiss ass, and not in the fun way.

Of course I am.

His inner bitch shrieked to be let loose on Mr. Tight Ass.

Care to explain your lack of employment from the month of October onward?

No. He cleared his throat. I have financial income from investments, so I was able to take some time off and get my head together. To decide what I wanted to do with my life.

And that is to become an administrative assistant again?

Hell to the no, and italicize that shit.

Elliott didn’t want a job like his old one, but he knew how to file, answer phones, keep track of a schedule and handle demanding bosses. He hadn’t found himself or his true passion at Baybrook House, but he had found the strength to stay sober and live his life again.

A life very, very different from the one he’d nearly wrecked.

It’s fulfilling work, sir, and it allows me to be part of a larger machine, Elliott replied. Hyatt, Wheeler and Greene is a very well-respected law firm here in Newark, and I would be honored to be part of this team.

I see. Mr. Tight Ass propped his elbows on the desk and curled his hands together. You see, I am very good friends with Ralph Braxton, one of the senior partners at Braxton, Greene, Bessler and Brown. I heard a different story about your leaving there.

Elliott’s stomach soured, the acid scorching the back of his throat. Here it comes.

I heard about an up-and-coming assistant with dreams of becoming a paralegal, who then went off the deep end. He began showing up hungover and unkempt, and then he stopped showing up at all. Office gossip was he fell hard into drugs and then ended up in rehab.

That’s an interesting story. Elliott knew he was fucked but he’d be damned if he’d admit to any of that. The old Elliott Quinn had done those idiotic things. That Elliott had died when he ran a box cutter down his left arm.

One I’m sure you’re all too familiar with. Mr. Quinn, I don’t believe that you’re going to be a good fit here. Thank you for stopping by.

Mr. Tight Ass didn’t stand or offer his hand. Elliott let himself out, his cheeks burning as he made a hasty retreat from the law office. He’d applied hoping a law firm outside of Wilmington would at least consider him for a position. Apparently his reputation preceded him all the way to Newark.

Elliott sat in his idling car and wallowed in familiar feelings of failure. He’d failed at realizing his boyfriend of two years had been having an ongoing affair. He’d failed at being there to support James and Boxer, his two best friends in the universe, when they’d both needed him last autumn. He’d failed to keep his job. He’d failed to keep his apartment. He’d failed at every-damned-thing.

That’s doubt talking. That’s the old you. Not the new you. The new you is fresh with a thousand possibilities.

And a résumé with a six-month gap on it.

He reached for the glove compartment and stopped with his fingers on