When his hands were pressed flat to my back, only then did I sigh, and whisper, “This is the only place in the world I feel safe right now. If you think I’m going anywhere, then you’re the crazy one. Not me.”
His body practically throbbed with tension, but he released a sharp breath that whistled past my ear. “We’ll get through this. Won’t we?”
I didn’t have an answer to that.
How could I?
I was hoping I’d feel better with a change of scene, was hoping that a different take on things, a trip to somewhere I’d always wanted to visit but hadn’t been able to go would improve my frame of my mind.
I wasn’t in the habit of making false promises, so I just told him, “I don’t want to be anywhere else but here. Even though I’m kind of stoked about London, I couldn’t do it by myself. If I didn’t have you, I really would lose my mind, Devlin. You’re the only thing keeping me hanging on.”
“So both of us are worried about the other walking out?”
“Essentially,” I mumbled.
“Let’s focus on other things then, hmm?” His voice sounded different. Sure. Confident. Devlin, the businessman. Not, what had he called himself? The fan boy.
I wasn’t sure how he could still feel that way, but I was grateful for it.
“Yeah,” I confirmed.
His hands moved to mine as he pulled back, and he squeezed them before rumbling, “Whatever happens, I’ll get justice for you, Micah.”
For the first time, my smile felt genuine. “I never doubted that you would.”
A relieved sigh escaped him, and he beamed a genuine smile back at me. “Okay, then it’s time I showed you England’s green and pleasant land.”
I arched a brow at him. “Is that a quote?”
“From a song.” He wafted a hand. “Jerusalem. Never mind.”
“There’s a song called Jerusalem about the UK?”
His nose crinkled. “We’re British. We used to think the world revolved around us.”
“Apparently,” I said dryly, then I reached up and gave him a quick kiss. One that encompassed my gratitude and the need I had for him. “But if you think I’m leaving for the airport four hours ahead of schedule, you’re crazy.”
His grin was sheepish. “What do you think about leaving three hours ahead instead?”
Twenty-Eight
Devlin
London, UK
Yawning, I got out of the car, shuffled to the side, and stretched as I waited for the driver to grab our bags and for Micah to climb out behind me.
Jet lag didn’t usually affect me, but the past few weeks had been more wearisome than I could have expected, seeing as I hadn’t been actively working at the company.
But dealing with the investigation, handling the bullshit with the press, then finally learning that the bitch had been indicted on a slew of charges, all of it took its toll.
On Micah especially.
For myself, I’d been scared that one of the Rhodes’ family would somehow make the evidence disappear. Short of setting an armed guard on the NYPD’s evidence locker, there was nothing I could do aside from wait for the blood tests that came back loaded with Rohypnol and Viagra, and make a thousand copies of the footage of her actually accosting Micah in his cubicle.
I never wanted to see that footage, but knew it might be required when the court case came around.
It was no wonder Micah was withdrawn and quiet. For three weeks, I’d lived with his ghost, and when Rhode had been indicted, not even that had lifted much of a smile.
I was hoping London would be a change of scene. For all he came from wealth, I knew he’d never traveled to the UK, so there’d be some cool things for him to see, and for all that NYC was a wonderful place, I preferred London.
Always had.
As I stared up at the Kensington house, a place I visited infrequently thanks to most of my time being spent in the States, I stretched just as two men came darting around the corner.
One of them I knew quite well as he was an author in our stable. Kurt Yeller’s biggest releases had just been made into a movie, and as a result, Astley Publishing would be ticking over very nicely on sales of his Black Blood novels for the next few years.
I recognized Sawyer Bennett, simply because Kurt had been outed last year as living in a household of six. It made the French ménage à trois seem rather prudish…
Pounding the pavement as they were, when Kurt saw me, his cheeks bright pink from exertion, I arched a brow as he flopped over, grunting, “Sawyer, stop.”
We’d all been neighbors for years, even if I didn’t visit often. I was well aware that the five men had lived together since university, but I’d believed them just to be friends... What went on behind closed doors, eh?
“Devlin? What the hell are ye doin’ ‘ere?” The braw Scottish accent had my lips twitching into a grin.
For all that I was at home in the US, this was my rightful place. To hear a thousand accents, a hundred different pitches, to evade the slight monotony of the American voice.
Considering I’d decided to fall for an American with said tone, it wasn’t like I could avoid it, but it was a pleasant auditory experience nonetheless.
“I’ve come to visit,” I said wryly.
Sawyer scowled at me—ever his charming self. “Ye live in New York now, isnae that right?”
“I do,” I confirmed.
Kurt, who’d been flopped over trying to catch his breath, stood up long enough to elbow him in the side then flop back over. “I told you about that Rhode bitch and the accusations she was stringing around.”
“You believed me?”
Kurt snorted. “I’ve had to deal with Rhode several times... more’s the pity.”
I frowned. “Why didn’t you say something?”
He shrugged. “Not my place.”
Uneasy with that, uneasy with just how many authors might have been insulted by that cow, I muttered, “What’s with the running? I thought you hated it.”
“He does,” Sawyer said grimly.
Kurt pulled a face. “You know we’re... involved now?”
I snorted, then leaned back against the limo before saying, “I’d be terrible at my job if I didn’t, Kurt. It was all the PR department bitched about for months.”
His smile was sheepish. “Sorry.”
“Yes, you could have given us a head’s up.”
“Not that feckin’ easy when the press decide to make your world implode. Wasnae like we had much say in it.” He sneered at me. “Thought ye’d have figured that out in yer current position.”
I conceded that with a crinkle of my nose, then I tilted slightly when Micah’s head popped out from the doorway. He stared up at Kurt, then rasped, “Are you Kurt Yeller?”
Kurt shot me a look, and because this was the most interested Micah had been in anything in weeks, I widened my eyes at him, dipping my chin in encouragement to make him speak.
“I am,” was all Kurt said, the words awkward.
“This is Micah Nygard,” I introduced, watching as Micah scrambled out of the back of the car. “That’s Kurt and his friend is Sawyer Bennett.”