Chapter 2

Licking the juicy overflow of jam from the toast, Keir watched the door, hoping for a glimpse of the new owner. A few minutes later, the supervisor walked out of the condo and climbed into the van. In a moment, the engine rumbled to life, the moving van pulled out, and Keir got his wish.

A man came out of the condo but paused in the shadow of the porch roof. All Keir could tell so far was hisnew neighbor was a large man who almost filled the doorway. After a few moments, the new owner eased his way down the steps and advanced onto the front walk. He paused, his face turned toward the soft morning light.

Keir’s eyes widened, trying to see every inch of the magnificent display.

A god.

A glowing, sun-kissed, sandy-haired Greek god in the flesh, deserving of the awe of lesser beings like Keir.

The man, leaning his head back to welcome the kiss of warm spring sunshine, closed his eyes—no doubt they’d be blue—and took a long, slow, deep breath of air.

Mouth sagging open, Keir watched the man’s magnificent chest expand to gorgeous proportions and felt his own lungs fill in response. Desire shimmered through him as his pulse rose. How had he gotten this lucky? A tailor-made excuse to go meet the most breathtaking man he’d ever seen? But could someone as dull and ill-favored as he dare to welcome a god? He quivered at the possibilities as his thoughts scattered, chasing what to wear, what to bring, what to say.

The slow plop of strawberry jam oozing between his bare toes to soak into the carpet hardly registered at all.

2

Riley Quinn frowned at the collection of boxes stacked in his new living room, waiting to be emptied. Shit. Compared to what normal people owned, it was a light load. But for him, they were dead weights around his neck, choking him. When had he accumulated so much crap? Not in the deserts of Afghanistan. Nor in the mountains of Nepal or during the uprising in Uganda. His whole life used to fit into a backpack. And most of that space had been taken up by his camera gear.

Disgusted at how ordinary he’d become, he couldn’t stop himself from heaving a solid kick at the biggest of the boxes. Cringing as scorching pain shot up his right leg, he clutched his throbbing knee and cursed himself for being so damned stupid. If he wasn’t careful, he’d undo whatever small improvement the latest surgery had made. Then he’d be shunted back to the hospital, suffering every day under the hands of that unrelenting perky physical therapist. That would finally drive him over theedge.

He leaned over, tore off the tape, and opened the flaps to see what was so heavy the box hadn’t budged an inch.

Framed photos.

Six months of portraits of bland, pretty boy clones. Six months of babying his leg and accomplishing nothing except to immortalize idiots whose biggest fear in life was a pimple. God save him from tiny minds with no clue the world needed more than sultry side glances and gleaming white teeth.

He glared into the overstuffed box. Why in the world had Lucy bothered framing these? And in heavy glassand metal, no less. If she’d gone cheap, his leg wouldn’t hurt so much, and he wouldn’t be standing here wondering where to put this collection of crap, and he wouldn’t be—

He broke off the thought and smacked himself on the forehead. Was he really that pathetic? And whiny? Heconsidered kicking the box again as punishment for trying to pass off his bad temper on his eighty-year-old former teacher and current self-appointed cheerleader and boss. Of course, Lucy had gone all out in her crusade to help him embrace this new life. The woman was determined to see him adjust, and she never did anything half-assed.

Resigned to dealing with the clutter, he grabbed the box and hoisted it, taking a moment to center himself and find balance on his bad leg. Peering around the bulky box, he headed for the staircase. Thisload of garbage could go in the second bedroom. The window in there was small, so with some minor remodeling and good blackout curtains, the room would make a fine combination darkroom and studio. Digital was way easier, but he’d been bought up with old-school photography and was toying with the idea of developing his own film.

The box shifted in his arms, threatening to upend them both, and he huffed in momentary fright. He’d better stop daydreaming and get his ass up the damned stairs. He should have bought a ranch-style condo, but his battered ego had reared its head and insisted, at age thirty-two, he wasn’t an old cripple who couldn’t deal with a few stairs.