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“Sounds great.”
“We leave in half an hour. Don’t dress up unless it’s on my account.” Adrian rolled off the bed in a move that showcased his arse. It was deliberate—of course it was. Didn’t stop Eric from looking.
“Half an hour,” he repeated, dragging his gaze back up right when Adrian turned around with a knowing grin. If Eric caved now—just said, “Look, I want you”… Yeah, they wouldn’t make the concert.
For a second, he thought about it. Then the impulse passed, and it might have shown on his face because Adrian’s stance relaxed. “Meet me in the garage?”
Eric exhaled and nodded. “Okay.”
“See you there.” Adrian exited with another smile and a rap of his knuckles on the wooden doorframe. Once he was gone, Eric drew aslow, controlled breath, using it to ground himself just like he did when he sat down at the piano.
Just some small-town concert. No big deal.
‘Don’t dress up unless it’s on my account.’
Why had Adrian said that? It put Eric in a position where he could only lose—if he changed, it would be implicitly for Adrian, and if he showed up in his soft-washed jeans and hoodie, he’d signal that he didn’t care. But he did.
He kept the jeans and traded his hoodie for a knitted jumper that his sister had forced him to buy because she’d claimed it was tight but not tacky. After a solid minute of deliberating the matter, he dabbed a spritz of cologne onto his neck. Then washed it off. Only to dab a little more onto his skin. Christ, he was a mess.
Squaring his shoulders, he turned away from the mirror. Enough already.
“A minivan?”
“What did you expect—a Porsche?” In the sparse lighting of a low-ceilinged garage, Adrian shot Eric a pointed look. “I run a mountain hotel not a nightclub, and sometimes, deliveries don’t come through and I need to pick up stuff in town.”
“Yeah, no, that makes sense.” Eric should leave it at that. “I always pictured you on a motorcycle.”
A slow smirk twisted Adrian’s lips. “Did you now?”
“Well—Kevin. Not you.”
“Of course.” The words dripped amusement that came with a side of flirtation. “And what, exactly, did you picture? Details, please.”
“I am one hundred percent not going to answer that,” Eric said with dignity.
“Shame.” Adrian dipped his head in theatrical disappointment, only to serve Eric with another smile almost immediately. “All right, let’s go. Nice jumper, by the way.”
“Thank you.” This time, Eric resisted the impulse to add unnecessaryinformation, like a claim that he had not put it on for Adrian’s sake.
He threw his winter coat into the backseat and went to open the garage gate, stepping aside so Adrian could drive out before he closed the gate again. Sliding into the passenger seat was a relief—the night was freezing, a hint of snow lingering in the air.
“How come your parents aren’t going?” he asked Adrian once the car set into motion, the heater blasting warm air at him.
“Oh, they are. They left earlier to meet up with some friends beforehand.” The car’s headlights sliced through the darkness, the road disappearing around a narrow bend up ahead. Adrian took it with an ease that suggested he’d done it a thousand times before. “Which reminds me—I hope you’re up for a taste of small-town mingling. Paul’s concert is the place to be tonight, so everyone will be there.”
Eric liked people. He preferred them in smaller doses though, groups of three or four rather than twenty or fifty, and he needed time to recharge afterwards. In a way, that made the hotel a perfect fit for him—which explained why he’d felt no desire to venture out.
“Sure, that’s fine.” He glanced at Adrian’s profile, details lost to the night. “As long as no one expects me to speak German.”
“You’ll be fine with anyone under fifty. Even most of the older crowd speaks some English because we get quite a lot of British tourists here.” Adrian huffed out a quiet laugh. “Although it’s been a while since the last Sherlock Holmes revival. The BBC is losing its touch.”
Right, the Sherlock Holmes connection had been part of Adrian’s introductory information because guests liked to ask about it—the nearby waterfall where Holmes had found his temporary death, and how Sir Arthur Conan Doyle had spent several summers in the region, even stayed at the Gletscherhaus for a number of nights.
“Seeing as you’re not a UK taxpayer,” Eric told Adrian, “I don’t think you have grounds to complain about the BBC.”
“If you think that will stop me, think again.” Adrian paused as he took them around another narrow corner, then glanced over. Thedark interior of the car made his voice seem strangely intimate. “Do you miss London?”
“Not even a little.” That was more honest than Eric had intended, but it was also true. Other than a few mates he’d meet at the pub, many of them musicians who travelled half the year anyway, he’d barely given it a thought.
