“Bash needs a little fun too, you know,” Clyde says, looking out toward him and drawing Tripp’s gaze in the same direction. “It’s nice to see him like this. He works so hard. He’s so tightly wound sometimes. Now he’s out there getting all wild. Bare feet, shirt buttons undone one too far…” I smile and nod along with Clyde’s assessment until I realize that, without his corduroy jacket, the skin on Bash’s chest and neck is far more visible than I realized. Clyde continues like a steam engine down the tracks. “A beer in his hand, big old hickey on his neck.” I freeze, but only for a beat, willing
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