But Rory was already walking past Jade. “Kitchen’s over here, right?” He disappeared through the parlor. “Tell me you at least got coffee.”
“Did he just say he’s going to make coffee?” Arthur stared after him. “Last night that firebrand told me to go to hell and now he’s in my kitchen makingcoffee.”
“You don’t have coffee,” said Jade.
“Well, not at themoment.But I’ll import some straight from Italy if he’s willing to make it.”
Jade grinned. “Are you spinning a domestic fantasy of Rory making you morning coffee?”
“Certainly not,” he lied, as his traitorous mind immediately conjured a morning-after image of Rory making coffee in nothing but Arthur’s too-big shirt, a thought apocalyptically unhelpful to Arthur’s promise to keep his hands to himself. “I’m simply craving coffee.”
“You’re certainly craving something.” Jade ignored his dirty look and grabbed her coat. “Good luck with your firebrand. I’ll catch you up later.”
When Arthur walked into the kitchen, Rory was up on his toes, digging in Arthur’s cabinet. “So I think it’s gotta be instant ’cause you don’t have acaffettiera—sorry, what’s the English word?—a percolator.”
Oh, he was cute.
“Although actually, I don’t think you got instant coffee either—or anything, really, why are your cabinets so empty—”
“I’m not good about shopping for myself, I’m afraid. I can order up service delivered—or we could go out.” Maybe a cup of coffee would make Rory listen to reason about Hyde Park. Or maybe he could just have a cup of coffee with Rory.
Rory glanced over his shoulder. He looked at Arthur for a long moment, chapped lip caught in his teeth, then his shoulders drooped. “I gotta get back to the shop—”
“Of course you do,” Arthur agreed. “Although…” He drew the word out. “Mrs. Brodigan does strike me as a woman who enjoys scones. A woman who might be very forgiving of an absent employee if he returned with one.”
Rory made a small, surprised huff, one that almost sounded like a laugh. “Yeah all right,” he finally said, still biting that lip. “We going or what?”
Out in the crisp morning, Rory’s gaze predictably drifted across Central Park West to the snow-covered park beyond, and Arthur simply could not bear the longing another moment. He tugged on Rory’s sleeve. “Well, come on, keep up.”
“Keep up?”
“The place we’re going is on the other side of Central Park.” He’d seen the look in Rory’s eyes when he’d stared out Arthur’s windows at the park, seen the joyless room Rory locked himself into every night. He was not letting Rory deny himself the sunshine and the trees, not this morning, not when he was in Arthur’s hands.
Arthur pulled harder as Rory’s mouth fell open. “I’m afraid I must have my coffee from this particular place,” he said, long-practiced at playing to everyone’s assumptions he was an entitled spoilt brat.
But Rory snorted. “Pull the other one.” He leaned in. “I bet in the army you had to eat food even I wouldn’t touch. Bet you drank whatever you got your paws on. You don’t care where your coffee’s from. Why are we really going so far?”
Arthur blinked, uncertain how Rory had just shredded a facade that fooled the rest of Manhattan. “For the best scones,” he said slowly, which was also true, at least. “I know a French place where one of the bakers is actually from Dublin.”
“On the other side of the park?” Rory’s eyes lit, as much shine as he’d had for Jade but all for Arthur. “We get to walk?”
He was already a step ahead of Arthur as they crossed Central Park West. He scampered over the snowy sidewalk and into the park, immediately eschewing the path to crunch through the snowy grass toward the lake. His shoulders were looser, head tilted up to catch the sun as it filtered through the trees.
Arthur trailed a few steps behind, contentment warming his chest. The earlier jitters had eased and it was a pleasure to walk with someone like Rory. He was interesting company—if notpolitecompany—and cute as a button to boot.
The cutie in question paused near the lake’s edge to watch a group of children chase a ball onto the ice. The serious line of his mouth was soft for once, and Arthur realized the children were chattering in Italian. He straightened as a new thought fired him up. “You’re half-Italian.”
Rory gave him a guarded look, the porcupine quills up. “What of it?”
Yes, what of it, Ace?You’re too old for him and one reporter away from a scandal. You don’t get to care if his drunken nonsense at the Magnolia wasn’t nonsense. You don’t get to hope he meant that lovely, flirty Italian—
“Do you speak it?” Arthur said, before he could stop himself.
“Oh.” Rory shrugged. “Yeah, I mean, I spoke it more than English with my mom. I’m rusty, but I can still sell you an antique.”
“Or call me handsome?” Arthur said lightly.
Rory’s eyes went comically wide. “What did I say at the club?”
