Page 61 of Playing His Game

“—you can give meyourbig tip.”

Fuck it. “Just the tip?” Adam asked without looking at him.

Mo pressed a red-tipped hand to his chest. “Adam Murphy. Are you threatening to withhold marital favors?”

That didn’t sound right. “You’re the one who asked for it.”

“Mm-hm. And you’re so good at giving me what I asked for.”

If Adam blushed any harder, he’d break a blood vessel.

True to his word, Mo picked back up after the speech, acting as Adam’s barker. With him doing all the talking, Adam only needed to smile and pour beer and occasionally let Mo fix his hair or swat at him with a bar towel, and the tip jar filled to overflowing.

The woman from earlier returned with a friend—both of them leaning tipsily on each other—and brazenly offered another fifty bucks for Mo to kiss him.

Adam didn’t even have time to freak out. Mo tsked at them. “Adam’s not that kind of girl.” And then he plucked the money from the woman’s fingers, tucked it in the tip jar, and planted a kiss on each of their cheeks. “But I am! Chinner, come over here and take a picture of us with these ladies. I don’t want them to forget us tomorrow.”

It was the easiest time Adam had ever had at a function like this, and all he had to do was let Mo be himself at people.

When the night ended, Jorts—with an offensively disbelieving air—pronounced Adam the biggest fundraiser and bestowed upon him the ceremonial park ranger hat normally reserved for player of the game.

At the back of the room, Smitty cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, “Speech!”

Adam tipped the hat back and rolled his eyes at his teammates. “I think we’ve all had enough talking for one night. Good game. Let’s go home.”

“Aw, Cap, you’re not gonna postgame with us?” Picks was red-cheeked like he’d played twenty-five minutes tonight or, more probably, like someone had spent the night convincing him to do shots.

Jorts clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Our fearless leader has other plans tonight, I think.”

Chinner snorted. “Surprised they’re still here. Mo was all over this guy at the bar.”

“He wasn’t,” Adam protested automatically. Mo had been his normal in-public level of touchy, or maybe dialed up slightly, but only so he could insert himself between Adam and strangers.

Chinner shook his head. “I can’t believe you didn’t get hives about it.” He saluted the room with the phone held in his other hand. “I’m skipping too. I’ve got digits to dial.”

“Boo,” Picks whined.

Adam looked at Jorts.

Jorts sighed, put-upon. “Yes, I will get the rookie home and make sure he hydrates, while you and your main squeeze go handle your sexual tension.”

The part of Adam that knew the truth wanted to deny that. Another part of him… well, that part was delighted by how little his boys cared about him having a boyfriend. That part wanted to preen and then go home and handle the sexual tension.

Adam split the difference, shot the bird to everyone in the room, and swanned out with as much dignity as he could muster in the hat.

Whatever. Adam was going to get laid and most of these chumps were either going home to an empty bed, or one with an exhausted co-parent who would not be waking up past midnight for a booty-call. Adam had definitely won the night. Maybe his luck would even stretch far enough to convince Mo to break the rules just this once. After all, they’d been working all night. No one wanted to do a predawn walk of shame.

9

To Mo, it seemed like one minute, he was bent in half with his feet behind his ears, praising Adam, his muscles, his sense of rhythm, and whatever deity made him, and the next minute, Christmas was almost upon them and so was the countdown to their flight. Well, flights, plural, because no airline flew Phoenix to Fredericton. Adam had muttered so darkly about the need to change planes in Toronto that even Mo didn’t have the guts to ask follow-up questions about their itinerary.

Now, with their departure only three days away, the imminent arrival of Christmas and Mo’s very empty suitcase were all too real.

“Let me get this straight,” Sage said slowly, ignoring the “wah-wah” noise Mo instinctively made at the wordstraight. “You—you—are freaking out because you don’t have presents for your fake boyfriend’s family.”

“Yes!” Mo wanted to deny the term “freaking out,” but now was not the time for semantics.

“Whyareyou buying presents for your fake boyfriend’s family, exactly?”