“So if your crabapple was planted in the ’70s—”
“You can give John Doe muttonchops.”
Doyle laughed. “I was thinking more like a porno ’stache, but if you’ve got a thing for men in ascots, I can pick one up from the Gentleman’s Closet over in Hell’s Kitchen….”
“Everett?”
Larkin pivoted on his heels, looked down the final set of stairs leading to reception, and locked eyes with— “Noah.” He hurried down the steps, derbies once again squeaking against the wet linoleum. “Why’re you here.”
Tall, thin, blond, with cheekbones that could make a holy man sin, Noah’s dark and stormy expression was out of place on a face that could have modeled for Ralph Lauren, despite his Gap wardrobe. Larkin hadn’t meant anything by the comment that morning—had only pointed out Noah’s outfit (pastels, all pastels) looked like the spring collection of an affordable, mass-produced, commercial brand undergoing an identity crisis. And now, in what seemed to be next-level passive aggressiveness, Noah had opted to wear his baby blue Converse, which completed an ensemble already rife with too-bubbly pinks, greens, and grays.
Noah angled his body so Larkin’s touch missed his shoulder. He dug into his jeans pocket before producing a silver wedding band pinched between his thumb and index finger. “Forget something?”
Larkin raised his left hand and blinked in realization. “Oh.”
“Oh,” Noah echoed. “It was in your pocket.”
Larkin looked at him.
“I was going to take that suit to the dry cleaner for you.” Noah flicked the ring, hard.
Larkin scrambled and caught the band against his chest. “I misplaced it,” he explained, working it over his knuckle.
“Here’s an idea: stop taking it off.”
“Can we please not do this right now.” When Noah’s gaze flicked from Larkin to over his shoulder, Larkin turned to see that Doyle had reached the ground floor. The other detective raised a hand in silent greeting. “This is Detective Ira Doyle,” Larkin introduced. “Doyle, this is my husband, Noah Rider.”
Doyle took a few long-legged strides forward and reached a hand out. “Pleasure to meet you.”
Noah’s expression was sharp, calculating. He shook Doyle’s hand with an air of indifference. “Are you new?”
“Sorry?”
“I’ve been to enough holiday parties to be acquainted with the entire squad.”
“No, no. I’m a sketch artist. Just here to offer my limited expertise on a case.”
Noah crossed his arms, staring at Larkin. “For a minute I thought Everett might have forgotten to tell me something as important as being assigned a new partner at work.”
With that final and very public dig, Larkin touched Noah’s bicep and nudged him toward the front door, out of earshot of Doyle. “This is not a good day for me.”
Noah’s arms were still crossed, and coupled with the… Larkin didn’t know how to politely describe his husband’s day-off—hip?—attire… he looked a touch like a petulant teenager. “I shouldn’t have to work an argument aboutourmarriage intoyourschedule,” he hissed.
“Noah, Ican’t.” Larkin’s throat was tight, and it was another moment before he could roughly get out, “I have had too many associations this morning.”
Noah’s jaw audibly cracked before he said in a clipped tone, “There’san excuse I haven’t heard before.”
“Honey, I need you to give me a break. I’m struggling today.”
Color had rushed into Noah’s face, those beautiful cheekbones now a feverish red. “Yeah. Sure. It’s my fault, of course.”
“Jesus Christ.” Larkin put a hand over his eyes and massaged his temples. “I don’t even remember taking off the ring. I certainly didn’t mean anything by it. I’m sorry. I’m forgetful, Noah, not stupid.”
“Selectively forgetful—”
Larkin raised his eyes and shot Noah a look he usually reserved for when playing bad cop.
And it worked, because Noah looked away and muttered to his shoes, “You have an appointment with Dr. Myers tonight.”
