Free 100 Days by Mimsy Hale Page A

It’s a great party.”
    “It’s the least we could do after Andrew took you to the pavement down­stairs,” Toby says, waving him off with a slight wince and a scrunched nose.
    “Sorry again about that,” Andrew says. “There’s fashionably late, there’s obnox­iously late, and then there’s us.”
    “It’s fine, I promise. I don’t bruise that easily,” Jake quips—another lie.
    “Well, if I’m not interrupting, the band’s off their break, so I just wanted to see about stealing away my fiancé for a dance,” Toby says, and Jake nods.
    “Of course, of course.”
    Andrew stands, holds up a finger to Toby, and leans closer to Jake. In a voice low enough that only Jake can hear, Andrew says, “Things like this are never really complicated, you know. It’s people that complicate them. So… maybe it’s a mistake. Maybe it’s not. But think about it.”
    With one last meaningful glance in Aiden’s direction, Andrew takes the hand that Toby offers to him and leaves Jake with his thoughts.
    Jake watches the string quartet file back onto the small stage set up in front of the hMAG penthouse’s floor-to-ceiling windows. Wondering if Andrew is right, he downs a healthy mouthful of his fresh vodka-cranberry.
    Maybe giving in to this thing between us, whatever it is, would be good for us, he muses, running the tip of his index finger around the rim of his glass. Aiden wants it as well, that much he knows, and aside from the fact that it terrifies him just a little bit, maybe it would prove beneficial for them to just give in to it and get it out of their systems.
    It won’t be out of your system, though, chides a little voice in the back of his head. You’ll only end up wanting more, because you’ve always been—
    “Shut up,” Jake mutters, knocking back the rest of his drink in one gulp as the band starts the first song of its second set to a round of applause.
    “You owe me a dance, mister,” Aiden says into his ear. His warm breath smells of rum and his hand is light on Jake’s wrist. “Can’t have you propping up the bar all night long.”
    “Next song, maybe,” Jake says, trying to put it off long enough for the sudden rush of liquid courage to fade away.
    “You love this song; don’t even try to deny it,” Aiden says, cutting Jake off before he can open his mouth to refute the fact. “And I know you have a super-secret thing for The Wanted, so just for tonight, skip the eye-rolling and come dance with me.”
    Aiden’s eyes are hopeful in that puppy dog way that Jake finds nearly im­pos­sible to refuse, and his willpower slips from his tenuous grasp quicker than sand through his fingers. The beat kicks in as he hops down from his stool and lets Aiden lead him onto the dance floor where the rest of the guests are already gathering, dancing in couples and groups. He takes a steadying breath when Aiden’s hands settle on his hips, swaying them in time with his own, and Jake raises his arms and rests his hands on Aiden’s shoulders. Yes, this is fine, he can deal with this. This is a safe distance, and Aiden is smiling and happy, and the music is fantastic. Everything is fantastic.
    And then Aiden leans in, and every muscle in Jake’s body tenses. “That guy by the end of the bar, the one in the corduroy shirt? He’s been checking you out all night,” he murmurs. “Pretty hot, a good dancer…”
    Slowly, in time with the song, Jake turns them so that he can glance over Aiden’s shoulder at the man in question. In the brightly spotlit bar, Jake can see that Aiden is right; the guy is watching him, though he doesn’t have the temerity to hold Jake’s gaze longer than a couple of seconds. He’s classically handsome, if a little strong in the jaw for Jake’s taste, with thick, jet-black hair that looks as if it was painstakingly sculpted into organized chaos.
    “You and I don’t often find the same people attractive,” he muses, turn­ing back to Aiden and not quite consciously