“Okay. Let me put this stuff away while you’re getting dressed, and then we can go out.”
“You hate going out to dinner during the week.” Tom felt oddly uncomfortable dropping the towel, so he tried to do it casually. He turned his back, and where yesterday he would have made a slow production of drawing the silk boxers up his legs, now he had to battle not to scramble to get into them.
“I don’t mind—”
“Look, don’t do me any favors, okay? Besides, you always spend Mondays with your kids.”
“I told Reba I couldn’t tonight.” Jack pulled a face. “She was some pissed, let me tell you.”
Tom couldn’t help grinning. He’d met Reba Jackson, nee Benoit, on the same day he’d met Jack, when the twenty-year-old had barreled into him, practically burying Tom under his big body. Tom had gotten hard in spite of himself.