But Larkin was a miserable fuck,at best, before a shower and cup of coffee, and grunting his way through morning banter with Snow White was… tedious. And it looked like his new—temporary—partner was one of these “happy before the sun’s up” sort too, which was Larkin’s luck.
But he carefully slid out of bed and got ready for March 31.
Because habit and routine were infinitely easier to maintain without distraction, Larkin could shower and dress—a gray checkered suit, pale blue button-down, navy tie, pink pocket square, two-toned gold wingtips—and be out the door in exactly thirty minutes. With the sky that hazy grayish blue, a whisper of the incoming sunrise they called nautical twilight, he could reach Penn Station in fifteen minutes, when Krispy Kreme’s coffee was piping hot and the donuts were fresh and soft and perfect. The drive along the FDR to 1PP, just Larkin and the thrum of the Audi’s tires eating up the miles and the golden sunshine rising over the East River—he felt different from last night.
Better.
And as if he’d won the lottery of mornings, the fifth floor was still quiet at 6:37 and Larkin crossed paths with no one on his walk to Doyle’s office. The door was closed, but not shut, and a sliver of light shone through the crack. Larkin could pick up a barely audible but constant drone from within. He knocked lightly and pushed the door open with his free hand.
The left side of the office held a large white drafting table with a closed 11x24 sketch pad on top and a currently unoccupied chair. A squat shelf lined the wall behind the chair, stuffed with what appeared to be reference books, binders of old six-packs, and a laptop and portable scanner, as well as an astounding amount of art supplies and tools. A corkboard was covered in drawings. Nothing official like wanted posters, but the sort of art small children did in school, the nonsensical scribbles that held a place of honor on the fridge in so many homes. Doyle sat at a worktable on the opposite end of the room, his back to the door. He was hunched over a bust, his big hands molding the red clay into the shape of some facial muscle Larkin didn’t know the name of, head bobbing absently in tune to music leaking from his earbuds. His sleeves were rolled back to the elbow, and it appeared he was also wearing an apron—to protect his suit, Larkin assumed.
Larkin got close enough to tap Doyle’s shoulder.
Doyle startled and spun on the stool. He tugged the earbuds off by the cord and said, “Jesus.”
“Larkin.”
Doyle laughed under his breath. He tapped his phone’s screen, turning the music off. “You didn’t text back, did you? I wasn’t expecting you so early.”
“I don’t text.”
“Uh-huh.”
Larkin felt warmth pool in his cheeks, and he wasn’t certain why. “Noah turns on the ‘read’ feature. So he knows I’ve seen the message.”
“‘Read’ is a power move.”
Larkin shrugged.
Doyle raised one of those thick, expressive brows. He gathered the apron, wiped his hands of red pigment, then collected his phone and swiped through the setting options. “Are you taking those coffees for a walk?”
Larkin held a cardboard takeout tray in his hand. Two coffees and two individual bags secured between the cups. He shimmied one free and held it out as Doyle set his phone aside and looked up again. “Cream and sugar.”
Doyle accepted the coffee before hesitating. “Come on. You didn’t deduce that by a stain on my shoe or something, did you?”
Larkin glanced down at Doyle’s shoes. “I like your wingtips.”
“Thank you.”
“Sixty-five percent of coffee-drinking Americans prefer to add sweeteners. Cream and two sugars is a fairly safe assumption to make.” Larkin set the tray on the corner of the table, picked up one of the bags, and held it out. “I don’t, however, know what sort of donuts you like. Some people have very strong opinions about sprinkles or filling or traditional cake.”
Doyle accepted the offer and removed a simple glazed donut. “Good choice.” He popped the top off his coffee and dunked the donut. After taking a bite, he said, “You look very nice.”
“You’re flirting,” Larkin remarked absently as he busied himself with a cake-batter-filled donut.
Doyle smiled, and when he stood, Larkin was reminded again of exactly how tall and perfectly proportioned he was. Doyle untied his apron, pulled it over his head, and set it aside. “I got dolled up for you. What do you think?”
Larkin studied Doyle’s navy three-piece suit in a cut that hugged…everything. A white shirt kept it understated and an orange tie—bold but not crazy—added a pop of much-needed color. Doyle had said he looked good in blue. Larkin couldn’t find the lie.
“You’re frowning.”
Larkin set his donut down. He sucked the frosting off his thumb, took a step forward, and undid the bottom button of Doyle’s vest. “This should always be left unbuttoned.”
“Is that so?”
“There are four predominate theories behind the custom.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
