He stared at Dumont’s eyes—the color of cognac, the color of old leather—and his blond hair, cut long on top, tapered on the sides. The perfect length to run fingers through. The perfect length to grab hold of. The perfect length to brush over the tops of eyebrows, to tease his lover’s eyes behind a curtain of cornsilk and sunlight. The other features matched, too. An angular jaw, sharp in places. Clean shaven. Lips on the thinner side. It was like looking at a photo of Cole. “Jacob,” he murmured. “Get me the photo of Lane Boyer.”
