Rory flopped back in his chair in despair. He was pretty sure Mrs. Brodigan had never cottoned on that he had eyes for men, but he’d never had to hide feelings this strong. “Someone ought to be making Ace happy.”
She raised an eyebrow, so he quickly made himself add, “Some doll, I mean. A real smart one, who’s got money, who’d be good enough for him. Not that anybody is—” He flinched. “How’s business been today?” he said desperately.
Mrs. Brodigan’s smile was back, but she didn’t comment on the subject change. “Slow,” she said. “Just one customer, a lovely English girl. But she didn’t buy anything, just said she heard about us from an art gallery in Chelsea. She barely gave me half a glance before she left.”
English? Rory took a sharp breath.
“Mrs. B.,” he said carefully, as his heart began to race. “You ever think about getting out of town—say, Hyde Park?”
Arthur’s gymnasium was a private affair near his home, and right now he was getting his money’s worth from the punching bag.
Do the sodding math. Fists gloved, stripped to the waist, he let the punches fly until sweat beaded on his skin and bare back.Twenty years old. Cloistered in a church at thirteen, thrown into an asylum at sixteen, in hiding since his escape. Rory locks himself up and rarely leaves Hell’s Kitchen—how often do you think he’s let himself have another person? If you take him to bed, you might be his first man.
Or simply his first—
Arthur threw a punch too hard and pain shot up his arm in a shockwave. He cursed but stopped, panting and sweat-soaked.
Up in the sky, Rory had almost kissed him back, and now every inch of Arthur wanted to go after him.
And instead he was going to stay where he was and beat this poor punching bag until his body surrendered and his rational brain was in firm control.
Because so what if Rory had almost kissed him? How many reminders did Arthur need that Rory was in a terribly vulnerable place? He was a twenty-year-old asylum escapee whose sanity was under siege from powerful magic. He might have been desperate for some kind of comfort. Or he might have had a passing fancy for a kiss at the top of a skyscraper—neither meant he’d still want Arthur on the ground. And Arthur was bigger, older, wealthier—what if Rory changed his mind but thought he couldn’t say no?
And there’s the ice for your blood. Arthur wiped at his forehead with his arm, his fight finally gone. Rory needed people to trust; a friend, not a lover. So Arthur wasn’t going to chase, he was going to leave Rory alone. What Arthur himself wanted, well. That couldn’t matter.
Arthur showered at the gym. The exercise endorphins had worn off by the time he arrived home, leaving his muscles pleasantly sore but his heart still heavy.
He’d just poured himself bourbon from his illegal stash when the door opened and Jade’s heels clicked their way to his study. “Rory said he’d think about Hyde Park,” he said, without preamble, as he picked up his drink.
“Ace, that’s wonderful!” She clasped her hands. “Is he here?”
“Ah, no. In fact, I was thinking if he agrees to go, maybe it’d be best if you took him to Grand Central, he likes you—”
“And I’m terribly fond of him too, butyou’rethe one who fancies him.”
“I don’t—”
“Ace, please. I’ve never seen you this smitten.” She took one of the club chairs and kicked off her heels, crossing her legs under her. “I know you must be careful, but Rory would never sell you or your family to the press or a rival politician. Why are you haunting your flat alone instead of with him?” She held up a hand. “And don’t deflect by pretending it’s because he likes women; you know very well there are people like Stella, who likes both and everyone else too.”
“He’s twenty,” Arthur said, bringing the bourbon to his lips.
“He is.” Jade made an exaggeratedly thoughtful face. “Remind me, how old were you when you dropped out of college to fight a war?”
Arthur gave her a dirty look over the top of his drink. “That was different.”
“It certainly was,” she agreed. “You were the indulged youngest son of a wealthy congressman. Rory’s a self-reliant paranormal who faked his own death to escape an asylum.”
Arthur dropped heavily into his own chair. “All the more reason for me not to complicate the poor boy’s life. I won’t pressure him.”
“Yes, because Rory would never tell you what he really thought. He’s such a wilting flower.”
“Even hellcats can be taken advantage of—”
“Of course they can,” Jade said, more gently. “But you’re overprotective as a bear and he triggers all your soft spots. All I’m suggesting is perhaps by trying to protect him, what you’re really doing is trying to make his decisions. Let Rory decide what Rory wants.”
Arthur opened his mouth—and found he didn’t have an argument for that. The ringing of the phone spared him from having to conjure a retort. Arthur picked up. “This is Ace.”
“I’ll go to Hyde Park,” Rory blurted, voice too high. “I’ll go anywhere if I can bring Mrs. B.”
