Rory’s stomach jolted with excitement. They needed into Arthur’ s apartmentnow. He glanced over his shoulder, where Arthur’s giant raccoon coat was still laid across the back seat from the drive down from Hyde Park.
“Maybe I got an idea.”
“Good evening, Mr. Kenzie.”
The doorman held the door open wider for Arthur, who was carrying Rory’s regular coat over his arm. The doorman’s gaze darted to Rory, a half step behind, and Arthur tried not to feel sick.
Not at how Rory looked, never that. Besides, Rory lookedgood. The coat was too big, but it was meant to look that way, and when Rory wasn’t hunching, he wasn’t nearly as short as he normally seemed. He was standing tall as he could now, Arthur’s fedora pulled low and covering his curls, and his glasses were tucked in the pocket of his coat. He was tailing a little too close to Arthur—probably because the poor man couldn’t see—but not close enough to seem strange to a doorman.
Rory looked like a different person; had transformed himself not because he wanted to, but to better blend into Arthur’s world.
Andthatmade Arthur feel sick.
The doorman’s gaze swept over the raccoon coat and hat and then right back to Arthur without a beat. “Your trunk was delivered,” the doorman went on, “and your mail is in your apartment—”
“Thank you,” Arthur said, just a hair more impatient than usual. “This way, Mr.—ah—Westbrook.”
He stumbled on the name. It had been Rory’s suggestion, to use his father’s name, but it felt wrong too.
As soon as they were in the elevator and the doors had shut, Arthur slouched against the wall. “I can’t believe I made you wear a disguise just to visit me.”
Rory jammed his glasses on his face. “Did it work?”
“Doorman didn’t look at you twice. If the clothes are expensive enough, most people I know are happy to ignore everything else.”
Rory touched the fedora. “I’d do a lot more than hide to be with you.”
“You shouldn’t have to.” Arthur made a face. “And I hate your father’s name. Let’s not even acknowledge that wretched excuse for a parent exists.”
Rory shrugged, and that made Arthur’s chest burn, that he was so accustomed to having no decent father that he wasn’t even angry about it. “Not like a building like this is full of people with names like Brodigan or Giovacchini. What else was I supposed to use?”
“Kenzie,” Arthur said, before he’d thought it through.
Rory’s eyebrows went up.
“Ah.” Arthur scrambled for words. “We could pass you off as my nephew again. It works for Mrs. Brodigan and you don’t have an ounce of Irish heritage.”
Rory snorted. “I’m not calling you Uncle Arthur.”
Despite his lingering guilt, the corner of Arthur’s mouth quirked up. “ZioAce?”
Rory’s expression softened with vulnerable surprise. “How d’you know that word?”
“You used it once, for your great-uncle.”
Rory’s surprise was becoming a heart-stopping smile. “And you’re, what? Learning Italian words now?”
“I know at least five. That’s more French than I mastered my entire time in Paris.” Arthur added, a little awkwardly, “I’m unfortunately hopeless at languages. But I like yours.”
“Yeah?” Rory stepped into Arthur’s personal space as the elevator slowed, his smile now a grin. “Well, tough shit,” he said, head tilted back so he could peer up from under the brim of Arthur’s fedora. “Still not calling you uncle.Ordaddy.”
“Sure, baby,” Arthur said in a low voice, as the elevator stopped on four, and a rare flush darkened Rory’s cheeks.
They both moved faster than normal down the hall, and as soon as Arthur had the door opening, Rory was darting under his arm. He turned to grab Arthur by the wrist, urgently tugging him into the foyer and down to his lips. “Come on, come here.”
Arthur kicked the door shut behind them. He tossed Rory’s coat on the closest surface, then knocked the fedora off Rory’s head and dove in for a deep kiss, fingers weaving into overgrown curls.
“No one else here,” he whispered, backing Rory toward the wall. He shoved at the raccoon coat and Rory eagerly freed himself from it. “No family. No staff.”
