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“Ethan Holsden,” Rory said, softer again, an edge of wonder in his face, softer there too. “Y’know, you’re a lot like your books.”
“Er…”
“Fantasies. Hope. People trying to do the right thing. I like a good mystery, myself. Finding answers, solving problems. Sorting things out. A bit of a challenge, seeing if I can figure it out.” His fingertips came back. Touched Ethan’s shoulder, this time, over thick blue knit. The feeling tingled even through winter-weight fabric. “More glitter.” But his hand didn’t move, after.
Ethan, that hand on his shoulder, breathed, “It does get everywhere. Terrible.”
“It does. We’ll tidy up.”
“Solving problems before I’ve asked.”
“Figuring things out.” Rory’s fingers slid upward, touched him more, drew him closer; somehow they were in each other’s space, a shared caress in a castle banquet hall doorway. “Might be figuring something else out. You’d not answered, earlier; how d’you feel about mistletoe? Honestly.”
“I think,” Ethan managed, “I’m in favor.” At the moment, with this happening—with this tantalizing heat, Rory’s smile, the way this moment felt shared and brand new, tumbling forward around them, only them, together—he could be in favor of all the decorations in the world.
“Oh, good,” Rory said, a rich low purr of delight that Ethan felt, because they were standing together, moving together, fitting together, “look up, then.”
Ethan looked. The mistletoe, already in place above, dangled happily. And Rory leaned down and kissed him.
Rory’s mouth was firm and hot and gently flavored with some sort of sweet cinnamon candy, and the kiss was tender but thorough, full of conviction and the flirtation of Rory’s lips and the scruff of a hint of auburn beard against Ethan’s face, and all of Ethan loved every sparkling astonished thrill of it, the sensation and the surprise and the recognition of certainty underneath.
Rory leaned back to look at him. One big hand had slid into Ethan’s hair. Ethan had at some point got his own hands on those resplendent shoulders, holding on; he stayed put, breathless.
Rory rumbled, pleased, “Good thing you like mistletoe. And being kissed.” He hadn’t moved, either. Solid as a stone, a building block, a home.
Ethan took a deep breath. Met those holiday gift eyes with his own hope. In the background some of the decorating team called to each other, shouted merry instructions, made rustling sounds with fir branches and ornament hooks. The ancient bones of the castle cradled them all. Stories, histories, continuity. A carol, a symphony, holiday scene encouragement. A future, being shaped.
He breathed, “If you wanted…I think my, er, rooms could use some decorating…you know, the private rooms. Upstairs. They might like more…mistletoe?”
Rory grinned at him, leaned down to brush warm sugar and spice lips against Ethan’s joyful mouth, and answered seriously, “Yes.”
Staircases and Stories
Somewhere in the 1920s, in a Southern California hotel…
The staircase curled and curved, vertiginous, spiraling. The steps narrowed, dwindled, threatened. Each loop held arched doorways to halls, spinning mysteriously away into the hotel’s depths. The sinuous line of the rail—only one, and too low for comfort, Perry decided—formed a dizzying spiral. It tugged at his eyes.
The depths also tugged at his hat. He straightened, standing on the artistic architectural rooftop walk. Fanciful arches, brickwork, acts of dismaying imagination, twirled around him. The view was tremendous, out over the hills and orange groves and ranches. The hotel was lavish, indulgent, a sumptuous spot for the wealthy and powerful to stay.
And for the unscrupulous to lurk. Thieves, spies, opportunists, folk with guns and grudges.
They’d need some extra security, more agents, before the Senator rolled into town for that vote-stumping visit. Between the roaring parties and the champagne girls in sparkling dresses and the winding layout of this decadent outskirts of Hollywood hotel, Perry was starting to think they might want to rethink the whole choice of venue.
In his professionally suspicious opinion. According to his job’s priorities. As a US Marshal.
Even if this particular job, far from chasing down bootleggers and fugitives, hadn’t been his choice.
He’d been told it should be easy work. Checking security, advance evaluations of the location. A pity assignment, a plush one, while his leg healed from San Diego’s shootout and those vicious bullets. It mostly had healed, by now. A twinge or two. Not more, not that he’d admit.
He eyed ominous narwhal depths again. Nope, still a problem. An evil staircase, that one. Lots of hideouts, in those twists and turns.
Movement caught his eye. A man, slender but nicely proportioned, elegant and disheveled in the way of idly wealthy bright young people, had emerged from one of the doors along the upper walkway, the most expensive rooms. Hatless, his hair shone gold as a baby sun, in defiance of on and off cloudy weather.
Perry noticed the radiant color, noticed the slim strong lines of the young man’s forearms under rolled-up shirtsleeves, noticed the curve of those hips, that backside. And then got annoyed with himself for noticing. Not part of his job.
At least, not unless the young man might be a threat. In which case looking was definitely in order. Helpful. Required, even.
The baby sunshine wandered over to the perilous staircase of doom, leaned both arms on the top railing, gazed down into forbidding depths. Murmured, “Well, I could certainly murder someone on those stairs…”
