“Yeah, that’s grumpy, babe. How was the?—”
Thinking he wants details of the nuptials, I gush details of the ceremony and reception like a fountain before two upturned palms fill my field of vision.
“Noooooo. I don’t want a word about the wedding,” he seethes. “But I’ll hear about Harbour Island. The last time I was there was amazing until we had to leave when a hurricane was bearing down on us. Good times,” he adds, almost wistfully.
“Mason took me sailing,” I gush again. The four days spent away with Mason in a setting so relaxed you almost had to feel for a pulse were surreal. Media Mason was back here in New York, and I was accompanied by a charming, adventure-loving rogue who refused to shave and was mostly in our Buré naked.Gloriously so. My artist's eye drank every pore of him in with renewed appreciation. From the dark hair dusting his legs, arms, and across his chest, to the way it thickened, forming an arrow bisecting his lower abdomen and Adonis belt. He moved with an easy assuredness, whether delivering me a perfectly brewed coffee after unfurling me from the toga of sheets I’d draped myself in, or dragging me under the frigid outdoor shower with him when we’d returned from a day sailing.
“He loves to sail but doesn’t get out as often as he’d like.”
“He told me,” I say, jostled from the memory of the way the ship’s wheel glided through his capable hands as he deftly steered us toward an island for a closer inspection. “Look at these photos!”
Trystan catches my phone and flicks through the dozens of shots of Captain Mason, eyes focused on the horizon as we cut through the water like a blade.
“He looks almost human again,” he jokes, his index finger swiping one way, only to go back and study an image further, eyes crinkling as he focuses on the small screen.
“Christ, woman, how many shots did you take?”
A lot! “I was thinking of doing one as a charcoal drawing. So, I took several bursts to help with tone and definition. I’m not sure what shot I’ll use but there is enough to make the decision an easy one.”
“This one,” he offers, tilting the screen my way before sending a copy of the photo to himself. His eyes bore into the image with a kind of softness I haven’t seen from Trystan before. Old memories unlock a surge of dopamine and serotonin in tandem. Did Trystan sail with Mason? They’ve worked together for a long time, so it wouldn’t be out of the ordinary.
“By the way, here are your messages. Who is Geoffrey?”
I stare down at the neat lines of text. Confirmations ofupcoming meetings, a request to meet with a vlogger, and the message from Geoffrey. Please have her call me. I can’t seem to get in touch with her private number. Shit. I took one phone with me to Harbour Island, and it was my work cell. I didn’t think an absence of four days would warrant anything catastrophic. If something had worsened with Caitlin, Mom would call, not Geoff? Unless it was something with Liam?
“Did he say why he was calling?”
“No, just said he’d tried your number twice over a couple of days and it had gone to messages.”
“Did you tell him I was out of the country?”
“Fuck no. In this business, you throw no bones to any dogs. Who is he, anyway?” His chin rests on his fist as he stares at me with wide eyes and a hint of a curl on his lips.
“Geoffrey is my brother’s partner.”
“His what?” he hisses, head turning left and right in search of eavesdroppers. In Trystan’s executive office, there is no one. The only other person who could overhear our conversation is Mason, and I have nothing to hide from either of them.
“My brother’s partner. Boyfriend is a little lame when he’s in his mid-thirties.”
“Wait. Your brother… is gay?”
“Yes. One is. One might be bisexual, but he’s still working that out, and we’ll support him, regardless. The eldest one is married with kids, and the other just got back from backpacking around Europe with his girlfriend.”
Trystan’s jaw sits slack, the fist it was resting on now gripping his desk. “I assume he is chasing up a charcoal piece I’m doing of the both of them. It was our mother’s suggestion, and she’s almost as bad with the nagging about when it will be done.”
He shakes his head incredulously, mouth still agape. “Yourbrother is gay,” he says, raising one hand, “and your mother knows about it?" Up comes his other hand to mimic the other.
“Yes, and yes. Trys. You make it sound like some dirty secret, when it’s far from that. Love is love, my friend.”
He nods at me with pursed lips as if on autopilot. The truth of my words smacking against him like the wave colliding with the yacht hull from yesterday. Is Trystan homophobic? For someone so modern and progressive, I’d hate to think he harbors such outdated and outlandishly sheltered views on same-sex relationships. But Mason mentioned something about Trystan’s ex being the groom rather than the bride?
“Yeah, Bri. Love is love until it isn’t.” Leaning back in his chair, he swivels to face our CEO, his head barely visible as he clacks away at his own keyboard.
“Hold the fort here while I bring Captain Grumpy up to date with everything, including some news about the Fenkel/Grenfer arrangement and the Warner night that he’s now going to.”
“He said no to Warner…”
“Oh, I remember. This comes from higher up the food chain. He’s going. They all are. Sean will take the bulk of the calls, obviously, but has his own meeting at ten, so just be prepared to chain yourself to the desk in the interim, okay?”
