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“And it was the best I’ve ever felt. To answer your question.”
“Who even are you,” John said. “Is this what you’re like after sex? A terrible sense of humor?”
“Maybe,” Sam said. “We can find out.”
“You’re not bothered by this.”
“I am, but…” He waved the hand, put it back on John. More touching. “I don’t know. I should be. But it’s you, and it’s me, and it’s…”
“Family.”
“Family. We’ll have to tell Kit, at least.”
John’s lips parted, a protest. “You said they wouldn’t be eavesdropping!”
“They won’t be—they’re probably doing exactly what we are, or close—but they know you came home with me. And they did catch you in the act.”
“You said we’d be all right—”
“And you said you don’t trust me, because I lie to you.” Sam hesitated. “But you do. I think you do. And I do. Trust you.”
“Oh, fuck me,” John said, rolling away across the bed, draping one arm over his face. “We’re both idiots. Yes, of course I trust you. With my entire heart.” His leg nudged Sam’s, despite the melodramatic arm.
Sam wanted to say something practical, something responsible, and instead just lay there feeling John’s leg against his, feeling John’s warmth beside him, hearing my entire heart, and being foolishly wondrously contented.
John nudged him again. “My heart would like something right now.”
“If you want a third round, I’m happy to lie here and oblige, but it’ll be all you—”
“No, no.” Laughing, John rolled into him, kissed him, draped a leg over Sam’s hip. “But I love that you’d be happy with that. I’m keeping it in mind. Very…obliging of you.”
Sam grumbled, inarticulate with bewilderment and lightness and love.
“I was thinking,” John said, “about biscuits. Or bread pudding. Or plum cake. Some sort of sweetness, anyway.”
“Your heart wants pudding?”
“It knows what it likes. Do you at least keep a cook? Don’t tell me you do your own bachelor cooking.”
“Her name’s Mrs. Crewe, she comes in during the day and leaves something for the evening and the next morning, and I pay her an extravagant amount of money to put up with my schedule and general absence of instructions as far as menus.”
“Worth every penny, then.”
“If we see each other in passing she scolds me for not eating enough.”
“She and I would have something in common, I suspect.” John sat up. “Is she good at chocolate biscuits?”
“I…honestly have no idea.”
“Come on,” John informed him, grabbing Sam’s hand. “We’re going on a nighttime expedition.”
Chapter 4
Chocolate biscuits did not exist. But small fruit-laden plum cakes did, along with a caraway-seed morning cake, a solid cheddar, sturdy bread, and, possibly in honor of the Midwinter season, a small mountain of spiced molasses-soft gingerbread.
John pounced on the last of those offerings with sheer delight. “Spiced and festive. Does she know you at all? Or perhaps she does, and she’s trying to help.”
Sam had been into the townhouse’s kitchens often—Mrs. Crewe left him plates and notes, to which he dutifully responded—but tended to eat when hungry or aware he should, and then clean up, depart, and not consider sneaky hidden motivations regarding holiday festivity. “She knew I was out tonight, as far as supper…you didn’t want anything more substantial, did you? I could…”
