Rachel practically squealed as she bounced up on her toes and kissed his cheek. “See? Family can be a good thing! We just did a good thing, right? And we’re family. Now, make up you two, so Cole can ask you something.”

Logan frowned over at his brother.

“Go on,” Rachel urged.

Shaking their heads, they both grumbled out a pathetic excuse of, “I’m sorry,” and then Rachel patted his arm and moved around the desk to go and stand by Cole.

Taking her husband’s hand in hers, they both looked over at him, Rachel grinning and Cole looking as serious as ever.

“Okay, ask him.”

“Rachel,” Cole warned as though he wasn’t sure he wanted to right now.

“You told me you wanted to ask him as soon as we knew, but you both had a fight, and—”

“Rachel?” Cole interrupted.

“Yes, dear?”

“Why don’t you ask him?”

Logan stood there, looking back and forth between the pair, and when Rachel turned and placed her hands on her belly, Logan felt a genuine smile spread across his face.

“Will you please be one of our baby’s guardians? You know, in case—”

“Don’t say it,” Logan grumbled quickly, raising a hand. Then, he laughed out loud. “Congratulations, you two! But are you crazy? Me? Are you sure?”

“No, not really,” Cole replied dryly.

Rachel whacked him in the chest. “Yes. We wanted both of our brothers.”

Logan looked over at Cole, extremely moved by the gesture he never would have expected, and when his brother finally smiled, he felt their relationship shift back to where it belonged. The only thing that was missing was the one thing that he’d driven away.

“Then, I’d be honored.”

As Cole hugged his radiant wife to his side, he glanced over at Logan and mouthed, We good?

Logan tipped his chin in agreement as his mind began spinning—spinning, planning, and plotting his next move. It all revolved around one thing—getting Tate back into his life.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Three and a—fuck, something hours later, and I still can’t stop thinking about him, Tate thought as he stared at the fan rotating slowly above him. Nothing would have been odd about that, except that his fan was turned off. Yep, the alcohol was doing its job, and he was nice and buzzed.

Lying on his back, he picked up his cell phone from his bare chest and stared at the screen. Still nothing. No calls of outrage from the family and not one call or text from that asshole telling me how sorry he is.

Well, fuck him, Tate thought, dropping the phone back to where it had been, as he lifted the bottle of Cuervo to his lips. Actually, don’t fuck him. He’d like it too much, Tate told himself just as his phone vibrated.

Picking it up, he made out the name and text he’d been waiting for. Swiping open the message, he stared at the two words on his screen and felt his mouth fall open. Twisting around and sitting up way too fast for his head, Tate continued to stare at the screen.

That arrogant fuck. Instead of the two words he’d expected—I’m sorry—there, staring back at him, was, I’m coming.

Tate glared at the phone as if the man who had typed it would be able to see. Placing the bottle down on the floor beside him, he typed back.

You’re not coming here.

Logan was in for a rude surprise if he thought Tate was going to let him in, and an even ruder one if he thought he was going to come in any way, shape, or form near him until he apologized.

Logan: Be ready.

“Unbelievable,” Tate sputtered, reaching down for the tequila.

Fuck you.

Not ten seconds later, there was a loud pounding on the door that startled him as his phone lit up. Looking down at it, Tate read a reply that made his buzzed brain take notice and his traitorous cock stiffen.

Logan: No, Tate. I’m gonna fuck you.

“Open the door!” Logan called out.

Tate stood, making his way—one foot in front of the other—to the door. “Go away, Logan. I don’t wanna talk to you,” Tate called out, leaning against the wood as he raised the bottle back to his lips.

“That’s too damn bad because I have a lot to say to you.”

Bringing the bottle down by his leg, Tate closed his eyes. “Then, say it.”

There was a long pause, and then Logan’s voice, softer this time, vibrated through the door. “This morning at my office—”

“Yes, Lo-gan—” Tate half-sang through the door.

“Are you drinking?”

Again, Tate repeated, “Yes, Lo-gan.”

“Open the door, and say that to me,” Logan demanded, calmer this time around.

Tate rolled his shoulders along the door until he was resting his left side up against it. “And why would I do that?”

He heard a thump and wondered if Logan had used his fist or his head to hit the door. “Open the fucking door, Tate.”

“Apologize,” Tate countered, determined to hear the words.

“Open the door, and I will,” Logan argued back.

Sighing, Tate knew they were at an impasse. He unlatched the dead bolt, turned the lock, and opened the door. Logan was standing there, with his arms stretched out, bracing him against the door frame, with his jacket parted and his tie falling forward.

Guy’s all fucking sex, Tate thought as he stared at the eyes behind the glasses.

Being this close to Logan with only his jeans—oh shit, they’re Logan’s jeans—between them, was not going to help him resist the man in front of him. So, as soon as Logan dropped his hands off the frame, Tate raised the bottle to his lips and downed more of the smooth, warm alcohol, trying to keep some distance between them.

“You going to let me in?” Logan asked.

Tate had a feeling that statement meant a lot more than permission into his apartment.

“You going to apologize?”

Logan ran a hand along his jaw. “You want me to do this here?”

Taking another drink as he thought about it, Tate scratched a hand over his naked chest, and then he moved it down to the button on his jeans. “Yeah, I think I do,” he agreed, and then blamed the alcohol when he added, “Down on your knees. That’s where most people grovel.”

* * *

 Logan managed to keep his mouth from falling open—barely—as the words Tate had just spoken made it to his brain.

Glancing at the bottle of tequila in Tate’s hand, Logan questioned much more calmly than he felt, “How full was that?”

Tate lifted the quarter-empty bottle and shrugged. “Unopened. Why?”

“I’m just thinking about how brave you’re being,” Logan drawled out suggestively.

“Maybe I should always be drinking around you then.”

Logan reached up to loosen his tie. “No doubt. Now, what exactly is the criteria for me to get into your place? Me on my knees, apologizing, right?”

Tate dipped his head forward and gave Logan a confident leer. “That’s right.”

Looking up and down the narrow hall he was standing in, Logan lowered down to his knees in the doorway and had to admit that the game, which was most definitely on, was making him horny as hell.

Tate took a step back from the door and then another before he stopped, widened his legs, and unbuttoned the top of his jeans. Logan’s mouth practically watered as he remembered exactly what Tate did not have on under the denim he’d borrowed this morning.

“Tate…”

Tate focused his eyes on him and unzipped his jeans. The cocky shit is going to tease me to death. When I finally get my hands on him, he is in so much trouble.

“Yes, Logan?”

“I’m sorry.”

“For?” Tate urged as he slowly pushed his hand into his jeans.

Logan was finding it difficult to concentrate, as he remained kneeling in place. “For being an ass.”

Tate moved his hand around behind the material, and then he pulled his erection up straight with a relieved groan. It was visible through the open zipper, and Logan wanted it. He wanted it so bad that he was close to crawling across the floor and begging for it, but why crawl when—