Oilman Max has just inherited a passel of trouble. His old boss has passed away and left him a house in England, a family full of squabbles, and a heck of a lot of money. He’s thinking London is the worst place to be on earth until he meets Morgan.
Colorful, carefree, and a little crazy, Morgan is just what Max needs to shake up his life, and the two set out on an adventure of a lifetime, chasing pleasure wherever it takes them, learning that together they can make anything fun. And sexy.
Too bad reality has to set in sooner or later, and Morgan’s multimillionaire father has a lot to say about what reality looks like. Can Max and Morgan hold it together, or will their different worlds conspire to separate them just like oil and water?
The one thing Max could deal with about England was the beer. Sure, it was warm, but it had good flavor. He liked the pubs well enough too. Dark wood and dart boards and shit. Hell, if he kept his mouth shut the folks were even nice enough. It was when he opened his fat yap and came off like the know-it-all redneck he was that he got in trouble.
Which was about every day.
Tonight he was all about the low profile. He'd gone for the tweedy cap instead of the gimme or the cowboy hat, and had even left the ostrich boots at home. He just wanted a nice quiet drink, to be left alone for a bit, because God only knew he wasn't getting that at the stone monstrosity he called home these days. Damn that Morrie anyway for kicking off and leaving him a man about town in a town he knew nothing about.
Max settled in a corner seat and pulled his cap low, just grooving on the relative silence, even in a crowded, smoky pub. No one was talking near him for a change, and that? He liked.
There was a ruckus at the door, a quartet of big, burly guys, pushing people around and hollering, obviously looking for someone. Funny, how assholes were universal.
Something brightly colored and tinkling -- tinkling? -- slipped beside him, ducked down in the shadows of the corner.
Either he was about to be assaulted by a midget clown or somebody quick and skinny had just slid right in between his legs and the wall. Now, he was usually one to get a bit upset about someone invading his space, but he had a feeling he knew who the jerks at the door were looking for, so he just leaned a bit to cover, sipping his beer again, casual-like.
The four spread through the pub, looking, growling. The presence behind him stayed quiet, pretty quiet. Well, barring the low-level tinkling that came with every shiver and shift.
Whoever it was back there sounded like Vixen or Blixen or somebody, and was going to make those guys look at him funny for having a jingly ass in a minute. Max groped back with one hand, finding something, a shoulder maybe, and gripping tight to hold the... whatever still.
The jingles stopped, the fabric under his hand silky, the body bony and warm.
There. That was better. Max nodded as he met the eyes of one of the guys, trying not to be obviously sizing them up, but man, they were all fucking big. As in goddamned big. He wasn't one to shrink from a to do, even one that wasn't his, but there was enough muscle there to make him just stretch out his legs and cross them at the ankle and make like a bump on a log.
He got two or three long looks, but the brute squad finally regrouped, heading down the street, unhappy and pushing at each other.
''Dude. I so owe you man.'' A willowy guy unfolded from the corner, a bright belled and laced shirt bloused over the tightest pair of leather pants on God's Earth. ''Seriously.''
Well, now. That was something he'd never expected to see, and the voice? Not a bit upper crust. Sounded like home only without the hick. ''Yeah. It's not often I let someone slip into my back pocket.''
''You had the safest looking pocket here.'' Obviously fake blue eyes smiled at him, undershaved dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. ''You're from back home. Cool. I have wicked luck. Can I buy you a drink?''
''You can.'' What the Hell. A fellow wayfarer was always welcome, even if the guy was brighter than a parrot. ''Might as well.''
''Fucking A.'' Jingles settled beside him, a long black case plopped on the table, one hand held out. ''I'm not usually running from gorillas. I appreciate you playing smokescreen. I'm Morgan.''
''Max.'' He shook, looking Morgan over. ''Why were you this time?''
The skin over those high cheekbones went pink. ''That would be because one of them popped my ass while I was playing and didn't appreciate my response. Sort of didn't appreciate the crowd's response even more.''
''Playing what?'' He figured the case had an instrument of some sort, but since he'd avoided band like the plague back in the high school day he had no idea what.
''Flute. And don't give me that 'oh, flutes are girly' thing. It takes effort to blow like I do.''
Max looked up, kinda startled. Surely the guy couldn't be that blatant. Of course, the way Morgan was dressed maybe he really was. ''I bet. Takes talented lips.''