“You ran out on me last night.” Rivington’s voice was low in Jack’s ear, his arms tight around Jack’s back. Jack caught the familiar scent of Oliver’s laundry soap. The bush hid them from anyone who might chance to come along the road, so Jack let himself relax against Oliver’s chest. He took a deep breath, and the warm June air felt cold in his lungs. “I’m an idiot,” he said for the second time in as many days. A pair of wiry arms tightened around him. “Is that what you’re going to say every time you try to push me away?” Every time? Every time? What could Rivington possibly be thinking? Jack
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