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Seconds later something heavy landed in his open palm. Lake caught the book before it tumbled. The Princess Bride.
“If it’s romance you want,” Knight said. “Read this.”
“It’ll have to join my big, fat moat of books downstairs.”
“It’s not about how many you read, Lake. It’s about how thoroughly you read them.”
Lake hugged the book to his chest, smirking. “I’m spying on Harry and Philip now. Stay if you want, but no commentary.”
“I’ll return to the garden.”
Lake shrugged. “I mean, a little commentary never hurt.”
“Do you want me to stay, Lake?”
“Yes, please.”
Knight scooped up Taylor’s binoculars. “A lot of commentary.”
He traded binoculars for the book and perched on the sill across from Lake.
The lovebirds stood together in the gazebo, soft golden light stretching over them like a fairytale. Philip looked toward Harry, and—smiled?
Lake side-eyed Knight, triumphant. Any moment Philip and Harry would kiss, if they hadn’t already. All because of him.
“I don’t like him,” Knight said.
“Who?”
“Philip. He tries too hard and he clings to you.”
“Clings to me?” Lake said, skeptical. “I think you mean Harry.”
“Harry clings to you too. But not the same way.”
Fright punched into him, but he shrugged it off. Harry and Philip stood so close—okay close-ish—and Harry was smiling. “You’re seeing things.”
“You’re not seeing things.”
“Philip and I are friends. We’ve volunteered together for months and he’s never come on to me. Why would he now?”
“Maybe he was focused on someone else who didn’t work out?”
Lake frowned. “Are you calling me his option B?”
Knight rolled his eyes. “Are you hearing my point?”
“You think Philip wants in my pants. I think you’re wrong.”
Knight leaned against the window frame and raised his palms. “It’s just commentary.”
“You should return to the garden.”
Knight laughed, but it was Harry’s sudden dash from the gazebo that stole Lake’s attention. “What on earth?”
Lake raced downstairs, confusion hammering in his chest.
Harry burst into the kitchen, pale, Philip on his heels.
“I’m late,” Harry said. “I forgot Grandma’s birthday dinner. I need a present. I need to show up.”
Lake sagged with relief against the oven. He thought maybe Philip had told Harry he wasn’t interested in him, and Harry was heartbroken. But that was Knight getting into his head.
Harry was fine.
Late, and reliant on the bus system. But fine.
“Philip,” Lake said, thinking quickly, “you live close to Harry’s grandma, would you take him? Maybe drop in at a store on the way?”
“I wanted to spend more time here.”
A tendril of alarm made Lake’s belly sick, and he met Philip’s eyes.
Philip waved away his complaint. “Of course I’ll take Harry. I’d love to.”
Lake let out a relieved breath. Philip had been disappointed his time with Harry had to end. That’s all.
Shoes and crocodile-print shoes were donned, and Philip and Harry shrank down the path towards Philip’s car.
Lake shut the door and sagged against it.
He must be imagining Philip’s disappointment as he waved goodbye, and that offer to drive back again after . . .
The man was lonely. That was all.
Knight found him at the door. “Sprinkler’s on a timer, I’m ready to eat.” He gave Lake a double take. “Are you okay?”
“I need to flip my mattress.”
Knight stopped stuffing his feet into a pair of brown sneakers. “What?”
“Gonna flip it real hard.”
“Are we talking about actual mattresses?”
“I could flip yours, too.”
“Okay, you really need to explain.”
No way would he let Knight know there might be a teeny, tiny possibility he’d read Philip better. “I need to get my mind off things.”
“And flipping mattresses helps?”
“It’s also really good for the mattress.”
Knight smiled grimly. “Get your shoes on. We’re doing dinner.”
They’d barely reached the tree-lined street when Cameron popped out from his car, waving.
Such a gorgeous man—a striking face, under the glasses. Pity his clothes were two sizes too big and cinched at the waist with a belt.
Clueless to the power of his killer dimpled smile.
Lake halted, arm brushing and lingering against Knight’s, and prepared for an update on Cameron’s LGBTQ+ period-drama YouTube channel. How he, his brother, and his crew were Live Streaming Austen monologues to grow their audience, how he had hired script writers and directors to adapt short classics into film. How they were running the operation from a friend’s basement—
“Exciting news!”
“Exciting?” Lake said skeptically, earning a chastising glance from Knight.
Cameron nodded eagerly. “You know the queer Ask Adam advice column?” Okay, maybe Lake was listening. “The magazine’s gone under—”
“Ask Adam’s gone under?” Lake blurted. He loved that column.
“That’s not the exciting part. The exciting part is they contacted me to see if I was interested in buying the rights to the concept for my channel.”
Lake needed a moment to digest the speedily said words. “No more My Bisexual Crush Dated My Sister and Now Wants to Date Me commotions?”
Knight side-eyed him. “You were into them?”
“So dramatic,” Lake said, because it said everything.
A low hum. “So forbidden.”
The word dove through Lake, surfacing in rings of shivers at his hip, his knees, his crotch. His breath snagged and he was glad Cameron swiftly continued, “That’s what I’m saying. My channel can adapt it! We’ll redirect letters to us and Ask Adam—or rather Ask Austen—could deliver live responses based on quotes from Austen’s works.”
