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Dev smiled wryly. Not a big talker, Pete. He unfolded the note and looked down at the forceful, jagged letters:
This deal won’t last forever. Take it now, before I take it all.
He got back in the car, but rather than driving straight back to Harrison House the way his heart urged him to, he drove the circuit, passing each of the empty houses, his gut clenching tighter at each one.
They needed people to need them, to live in them, to love them. And Home needs those people.
Instead of heading to his cottage, he drove back to Harrison House and parked in front of the door—completely on the driveway, which was perfectly adequate, no matter what Bradley fucking Pillsbury said. He couldn’t help the way his heart lifted as he banged through the front door and headed for the office. It gave an extra leap when Casey looked up at him over the monitor with a smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes.
He patted a neat stack of paper on the corner of the desk. “Got the budget for the antique fair sorted.”
Dev blinked. “You did?”
“It wasn’t too hard once I tracked down the missing formula. I had no idea Home did anything like this. It’s pretty cool.”
Dev fumbled with the papers, staring almost blindly at the neat rows of figures. The total was still red, but there weren’t any more of those judgmental #REF! errors dotted all over the place. “It’s really done? I was only gone for twenty minutes.”
Casey shrugged. “Like I said, it wasn’t hard once I traced the formulas.” He widened his eyes, shaking his head. “Although, wow. Who knew Port-a-Potties cost so much?”
Dev gazed at him, heat growing in his belly. “Twenty minutes and you’re done?”
“Um, sorry?” Casey bit his lip, that delectable blush throwing his freckles into relief. “I hope you don’t take it as a slam on you. I mean, I can’t cook. You’ve got an accounting weakness. So what? People have different abilities.”
Dev set the papers down. “Twenty minutes and I’ve been wrestling with the fucking thing for days.” He stalked around the desk until he was looming over Casey. “Twenty minutes and you’re done?”
“Dev? Is that bad?”
Dev grabbed Casey’s hand and pulled him up against his chest, claiming his mouth, devouring his moan as Casey laced his hands behind Dev’s neck. Dev pulled back. “As much as I want to throw you across the desk right now—”
“Yes, please!”
“I’m not going to.”
Casey pouted. “Why not?”
“Because”—he nipped behind Casey’s ear—“I’m taking you on a date.”
“A date?”
“Yes. A date. A real one. Wear something comfortable. Bring a light jacket.” He dropped a kiss on that spray of freckles. “Be ready at five.”
Naked except for the towel around his waist, his hair still damp from his shower, Casey glared at his wardrobe—if he could use that fancy a word for his motley collection of clothes, which didn’t come close to filling the armoire.
“Dress comfortably,” he groused. “What does that even mean? Sweats? Shorts? Jeans? A freaking caftan?” Not that he had one of those, but he preferred a more precise guideline for a mystery date than dress comfortably.
Randolph Scott, perched atop the armoire again, didn’t deign to respond, since he was occupied by the serious business of grooming between his toes.
Casey huffed. “You’re no help.” Although expecting fashion advice from a cat was probably unreasonable.
He glanced back at his bed, currently strewn with half a dozen garments he’d already considered and discarded. Was he overthinking this? Probably. But he hadn’t been on an actual date since his first year at business school. Remembering that series of one-and-dones made him want to curl up in a ball and hide under the bed.
The first guy who’d asked him out oh-so-casually suggested that the perfect place for their date would be Chez Donatien. Casey suggested a quiet coffee shop instead, someplace where they could get to know one another, someplace Casey wasn’t completely incapable of eating because his stomach was perpetually tied in knots anytime he ventured into one of his dad’s restaurants. The guy had grudgingly agreed—but then no-showed, leaving Casey sitting alone with a congealing latte for hours.
Alden, the second guy, had been low-key flirting with Casey all semester in their marketing class, and Casey had bitten the Chez Donatien bullet because Alden had claimed it was his birthday, and had seemed so sad that he was away from his family for the first time. Casey hadn’t made the reservation himself, of course—despite what anyone thought, he had zero clout with his father and therefore with restaurant management. He’d asked Uncle Walt to intercede.
Once they were seated at the restaurant, Alden proceeded to order every appetizer on the menu—“To start,” he’d said—and ordered the most expensive wine on the list. He’d been so occupied with the appetizer that the waiter had handed both IDs back to Casey, who—totally not intentionally—had spotted that Alden’s address was in Westchester and his birthday was in July.
Casey hadn’t said anything, pretended he hadn’t seen. When the check came, Casey suggested they split the check in half, which he thought was more than fair considering he’d barely managed a bowl of soup and a sparkling water, while Alden had scarfed up all the appetizers, salad, entrée, dessert, and the wine.
