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“We didn’t get to finish our conversation. But I was hoping to do so this weekend.”
Fear was a physical ache in him now. “What if it was just small talk? What if falling over you was an accident?”
“I was paying close attention, like you told me to. He definitely colored after the fall, and he was so kind on Sunday night. He made us dinner, even though you weren’t there. Pasta with a paired white wine.”
Lake rose once more to shaky feet. He was about to throw up. “I . . . I . . . This can’t be happening. Knight is . . .” His voice cracked, and he turned away and strode out of the room. He’s mine.
Knight wasn’t his though. Lake just wanted him to be.
He climbed into Knight’s bed like he’d sneakily been doing all week. Sheets cocooned him as he breathed in Knight’s scent on his pillow. He read the chat messages from the week. All very Knightly messages, wishing him a good day and good night. Nothing that suggested more. Or . . . less.
Only one stuck out. From the group chat, where Taylor had unjustly gushed about Lake’s generosity in letting Cameron use his distillery.
Knight: Is that so?
* * *
Taylor: Lake’s the best.
* * *
Knight: ??
What did that mean? How could it make him hope this violently? He groaned into the pillow, thrashing his fist against the mattress.
He’d been foolish. He’d made a mess of everyone’s love lives, including his own. If he hadn’t meddled to begin with, Harry wouldn’t have lived with them, and any feelings between Knight and him wouldn’t exist.
Did feelings exist?
Could Harry have misread Knight?
He had to know.
Lake: I know you care about me.
* * *
Lake: But I need to know . . .
Do I come first?
Lake stopped himself from typing more, then deleted the messages.
He set his phone facedown atop Moby Dick, and sighed. He hadn’t read a single page since Knight left. How could he hope he was someone special, when he never finished anything? When he’d shown Knight how horrible he could be?
How could he hope so strongly when he hadn’t done anything to deserve Knight?
He sat up and grabbed the book. A fifth left. He could do this.
Lake cracked it open, removed the tabloid bookmark, and read.
Lake gulped and set the book down. His phone told him it was six in the morning. He’d read through the night.
He should be exhausted, not bubbling with eagerness to tell Knight. Just because he’d read to The End, didn’t mean Knight would care. Lake rolled out of bed, making a mental note to make it properly before Knight returned, slipped on some jeans and a T-shirt, and snuck downstairs. Sleep was beyond him.
He tiptoed down the hall, not wanting to wake Harry—
His bedroom door was open?
The bed was untouched and there was none of Harry’s usual mess. No sign of anything Harry.
“Harry?” he called, like the man might emerge spontaneously, at six in the morning.
Lake retreated to the living room, and into the kitchen—
A note.
Harry thought it was better if he didn’t stay there.
Lake slumped into the garden. Garfield found him on the cold gazebo bench, and Lake cuddled her close. An ache washed over him and the hairs on his arms rose.
How could the brink of happiness be so torturous?
He loved—
“Knight!” Lake stood abruptly, Garfield coming with him. “What are you doing here?” His voice shook, bewildered, apprehensive, hopeful.
Knight looked taller in the morning glow. Hair darker, chin squarer. No trace of laughter creased his mouth or his eyes. He’d not shaved this morning, nor perhaps combed his hair, and it added to the urgency emanating from him.
He jaunted up the gazebo steps and strode forward, halting abruptly before him. Soulful brown eyes connected with his, and Garfield meowled at how hard Lake was clutching her.
He loosened his hold, and she jumped out of his arms. Lake felt exposed without her. He hugged himself, catching sight of Knight’s dusty dress shoes. “Did you walk from the airport?”
“Not exactly.” Knight’s voice sounded raw. “I saw your messages before you deleted them. They popped up on my screen, and I grabbed my things and caught the earliest plane back I could. Too early to wake you like I wanted. So I left the taxi a few blocks back and took my time walking.”
Lake’s mouth dried. “Not too early. I-I couldn’t sleep.”
“That makes two of us.” Knight ran a hand through his hair. “Can I sit with you?”
They sat. Lake’s chest seized with a million butterflies. “Emerett . . .” Knight stood again.
Lake had never seen him so flustered. There was nothing happy about his expression; he seemed tense. Worried, determined. What did that mean? “Should we walk? Around the garden?”
“It does need a water.”
Silently, they set up the hose and Lake took charge of the nozzle, aiming it at the base of the honeysuckle. Knight kept looking at him; he felt the prickle on his profile.
