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He was right. And I was sort of embarrassed on Jed’s behalf. And my own. I lived here, for fuck’s sake.

“I’m gonna ask Jed if he wouldn’t mind if I do some light repairs on the deck,” I said, rubbing my nape and hoping Reg hurried the fuck up. “Nothing fancy. Winter will be here in a couple of months and⁠—”

“I’ll help you.” Clark clapped his hands decisively.

“Mr. La Rue, I⁠—”

“Clark,” he reminded me. “I worked at the mill before I joined the force. That was a long time ago, but I know what I’m doing. And besides, it’ll give me a chance to get to know my son’s boyfriend.”

“Mr. La Rue, we’re not⁠—”

“Clark,” he repeated, pausing at the telltale sound of an engine pulling into the driveway. “Reg is here. I told him I could walk home, but does he listen?”

The old man sauntered along the side of the house and waved to Reg. I hung back to collect my thoughts.

Get to know his son’s boyfriend? Help me with my deck?

What the actual fuck?

CHAPTER 16

REG

“Boyfriend? Are you sure he used that word?”

Waylon didn’t bother replying. He’d repeated himself five times already. “Let’s not forget that he wants to help refinish Jed’s deck. Why do I think I’m going to be scratching my nuts and sipping coffee one random morning, and look out my window to find your dad sanding the deck?”

“You scratch your nuts while sipping coffee?”

“Don’t you?” he countered.

I gave a half laugh as I perched on the arm of his sofa. “Dad probably won’t remember the conversation. Which is sad, but in this case, it works to our advantage.”

Waylon narrowed his eyes, handing me a water bottle and flopping onto a blue velvet recliner that had seen better days. “He’s still there, Reg. He knows what’s going on. And I don’t mind spending time with him if it helps, but…you might want to talk to him about the boyfriend thing.”

No fucking way.

I scrubbed my hand over my jaw. “I have a hard time believing my father used the word at all.”

“Loud and clear.”

“Well, don’t worry. I won’t get any ideas,” I assured him, setting the water bottle on the coffee table and continuing on my knees to settle between Waylon’s legs.

“What are you doing?”

I palmed his junk through his shorts. “I’m showing my appreciation.”

Waylon didn’t argue. Thank God.

I didn’t want to think about my father.

The idea that Dad thought he knew “something was up” was disturbing on a few different levels. The biggest one being that he’d been a pretty staunch advocate for traditional family values my whole life, and no part of him had been the slightest bit “okay” with the notion of having a bisexual son. I believed the word he’d used was “deviant.”

We’d beaten that subject to death years ago. I had no desire to rehash some of our ugliest father-son moments as my dad’s health waned. There was nothing to be gained. Perhaps dementia had clouded his real thoughts about my sexuality. We had a decent relationship now, and I knew not to expect more than the old man could give.

Either way, the less said on the matter, the better. Waylon wasn’t my boyfriend. Not even close. He was just the very fucking sexy lumberjack that I wanted to lick from head to toe, then tear apart and put back together.

For lack of a better term, we were fuck-buddies.