Chapter 35

I drag my gaze away from his legs and glare at him. “I’m spending almost three hours alone with young Clint Eastwood. It doesn’t get better than that.” Blatant lie, my brain says. I’d much rather have Lee keep me company.

He throws back his head and laughs—giving me a peek of the protruding Adam’s apple under his beard line and his chest hair peeking out through the open collar—the happy sound filling every nook and cranny of our apartment.

I force myself to look away. Ogling one’s straight best friend isn’t allowed, no matter how much one wants to.

It’s his fault for being so ridiculously hot—wide shoulders, biceps larger than my head, abs padded slightly with a soft cuddly-looking layer, and thighs thicker than my waist push all my buttons—at least that’s what I tell myself, and the excuse sounds much better in my head than admitting I’m a walking cliché: the gay guy hopelessly head-over-heels for his straight best friend.