“Depends on the season,” Wesley said. “But I was actually thinking a New York autumn is colder thanPuerto Rico.”
Oh, Sebastian’s lips formed. He looked a little lost. “That’s considerate of you.”
On someone else, the note of surprise might have been from disbelief that Wesley was capable of consideration. But this was Sebastian, who had spent three years under blood magic and then several months mostly alone. So more likely the surprise came because he was still recalibrating back to a life where he could rely on others, and Wesley really ought to have more patience while he adjusted—something that would have been easier if Sebastian didn’t also have a galling tendency to forget that not having magic didn’t make Wesleyuseless.
“I’m not being considerate, I’m being selfish,” Wesley said. “I just spent a week on a ship with you. I’m well-aware now that if you aren’t warm enough, you wake up constantly.”
“How is that selfish?”
Because I don’t know how to touch you when the fucking’s over but I crave you more than I crave smokes so I want you comfortable in my bed so you’ll keep coming back.Wesley cleared his throat. “Because I’m looking out for any light sleepers nearby. After all, if you’re waking up, so are they.”
Sebastian’s gaze darted to Wesley. “You could have the extra blanket sent up to the sixth floor instead,” he said tentatively.
Wesley could. He could sleep alone tonight in a big bed with only the blankets he needed. No crowded mattress. No overheating. No Sebastian wrapped around him, all quiet breaths and warm skin.
“Or you could appreciate that I have planned ahead so I can have my company yet not be woken through the night,” Wesley pointed out. “Almost as if I have practice making battle plans. It’s a tactical blanket, if you will,” he added, which drew a quiet snort from Sebastian.
The doorman got them a cab, and soon Fifth Avenue was rolling past, the last of the soft glow of evening illuminating the tops of tall buildings as the city’s famous night lights came to life along the darker streets.
“It really doesn’t seem like Jade,” said Sebastian, “to ask us to call and then not be reachable.”
He was frowning, which would never do. Wesley poked his calf with his walking stick. “I saiddress for dinner. Where’s your tailcoat, brat?”
A small smile curled on Sebastian’s lips. “I must have left it in Paris.”
“If Paris was an imaginary place for the imaginary tailcoat you refuse to buy, then perhaps.”
Sebastian’s smile became a grin. “I think they look better on other people.” He took another extremely unsubtle eyeful of Wesley, gaze lingering on the close fit of his overcoat, on his freshly shaved jaw above the white bow tie and wingtip collar. Sebastian opened his mouth, but then closed it, eyes darting to the cabbie.
Wesley kept his voice low. “I suspect I want to hear whatever it is you’re hesitating over.”
Sebastian’s gaze lingered on the cabbie, and then, barely audible over the engine, he murmured, “Tan guapo como siempre.”
Wesley went abruptly hot under the collar. Sebastian had translated that phrase one night on the ship. It was hard enough to resist flattening Sebastian against the nearest surface when he was sweetly clueless; a breathyhandsome as everhad Wesley’s gloved hands tightening on his walking stick, because none of the rigid formalities of his life had prepared him for honey-sweet Spanish compliments whispered like a secret in the backseat of a New York taxicab.
“How unsporting of you,” Wesley muttered, also quiet, “to say something like that where I can’t do anything about it.”
Sebastian’s small grin was back, the bastard. “It was your idea to go to dinner.”
“Did you really just implyI’mthe one with questionable judgment?” Wesley said. “You, the man who feeds strays, who decided Crumpet and Flan would make acceptable pets for my cook’s daughter?”
Incongruously, Sebastian looked delighted. “You called the cats by their names.”
Wesley pinched the bridge of his nose. “That isn’t the point. That isn’t even in the vicinity of the point.”
“I knew you liked them.”
Wesley sighed.
The cab dropped them off across the street from Arthur’s building on Central Park West. The park’s trees were bright with their October leaves, a riot of oranges, yellows, and reds woven like a tapestry into the last of the green.
They crossed the street, and Wesley spoke first to the doorman. “We’re here to see Arthur Kenzie—is he in?”
Wesley could see the doorman assessing them, the cut and fabric of their suits, the ivory on Wesley’s walking stick, the gold chain that led to the brooch in Sebastian’s pocket.
“Viscount Fine,” Wesley added dryly. “Or do we need to provide references?”
The doorman shook his head apologetically. “Sorry, sir,” he said deferentially. “Mr. Kenzie isn’t in. He left the city about a week ago.”
