Micah’s gaze darted between both men, but his cheeks were flushed, bright pink with excitement.
To say I felt relieved to behold that level of energy he’d been lacking since the attack, was an understatement. The relief was unreal, to the point where I allowed the limo to take more of my weight, because I hadn’t really known what to do with him.
I’d resented how little time we’d had together before the attack, because it meant I was incapable of helping him through this. And the entire situation wasn’t aided by the fact that his parents hadn’t called even though news of his situation had to have hit the West Coast, and the friends who’d cast him aside since his coming out hadn’t bothered to get in touch either. Sadie and Rachel had visited a handful of times, but when he’d been sullen and quite unwelcoming, they hadn’t bothered to return even though I knew they wanted to. He’d just seemed uninterested in their presence.
At those moments, his isolation had revealed itself to me. Most of it imposed upon him by the daring steps he’d taken to be free to live his life how he wanted. When I’d seen the toll of that, what had surprised me the most was that it didn’t make me shy away from things as I might have expected.
There was no doubt in my mind that I’d stick with him through this—for as long as he let me. There was no doubt in my mind that, when I returned to the UK, he’d be coming with me. There was no doubt in my mind that, when I visited my family, he’d be there too. That I’d introduce him as what he was to me. I just hadn’t decided how to verbalize that yet.
Mine felt a little too possessive. Especially in his current state.
Boyfriend? What was I, fifteen?
Partner? We hadn’t known each other long enough.
See? Verbalizing was hard.
Because Micah was evidently star struck, I left him to his gawping and prompted, “The running?” I knew Kurt well enough to know that he wasn’t a runner.
“I had to get fit for the next book tour,” he said glumly, his cheeks still bright pink from exertion, but his breathing was calmer. “Sawyer’s helping me. When Sascha, she’s my... you know, well, when she had our twins, I had a—”
“Sympathetic pregnancy,” Sawyer inserted dryly when Kurt hesitated.
My lips twitched. “Really? I didn’t think that was a thing.”
“It is. He got a gut and everything,” Sawyer said cheerfully. “The doctor said it’d disappear, only it didnae because most of that gut was feckin’ pretzels. The bastard went through ‘em faster than Sascha went through jelly beans.”
Kurt glowered at him. “It wasn’t all pretzels.” His tone was harder, revealing his roots as his German accent was stronger now his irritation was bleeding through.
“Just most of it,” Sawyer teased, smirking at Kurt’s disgruntled glower.
“I didn’t realize your... wife was pregnant again. I’m sorry, I’d have sent flowers.”
Kurt wafted a hand. “We kept it as quiet as we were able. You’ll have to visit some time. Come meet her. I think you’d like her.”
“I’d like that,” I said, surprising myself by meaning it. Any woman who could take on two Nobel-prize winning mathematicians, a quantitative analyst, a criminologist, and an author was a woman I wanted to meet. “I can pop around—”
Kurt shook his head. “She’s in Surrey. We have an estate there.”
“Oh Christ, I remember.” My lips quirked. “You really have given the PR department enough work to keep them on their toes for a lifetime.”
“I’m sure you’ve forgiven me though. Black Blood’s sales are through the roof, are they not?”
“The movie deal certainly helped swing things,” I agreed. Then, I grinned. “Congrats on the Oscar nominations.”
“Shut up, Devlin, Christ. He’s already git a big enough head as it is. He dinnae need ye fillin’ it wi’more shite.”
“I don’t have a big head.” Kurt smirked. “For an Academy-Award nominated screenwriter…”
Laughing when Sawyer scowled at me, I asked, “What are you doing in London?”
“Meetings with the producers.” He pulled a face. “We won’t be here for long.”
“Neither will we,” I said.
“Just long enough for the story to have blown away?” Sawyer nodded. “Best way. The press are like feckin’ vermin. Cannae get rid ‘er the bastards, and there’s always a smell of shite lingering around after they’ve supposedly fecked off.” He grunted, then slapped Kurt on the shoulder. “Come on. We havnae finished.”
Kurt scowled at him, then as Sawyer took off, to us, he muttered, “Wouldn’t think the bastard had been at death’s door last year, would you?” He rolled his eyes then shot Micah a smile before he ran about thirty yards down to their house.
The Astleys had lived on York Crescent in Kensington since its construction. Though we were a duchy, back then, we hadn’t been as wealthy and had been unable to afford a mansion in the capital.
Instead, we’d had to make do with a twenty-two room terraced house—yes, worthy of anyone’s pity.
The Crescent was a pleasant enough estate, with only fourteen or so houses to the block. It looked onto a small, gated park which, if memory served, housed a duck pond. At least, it had the last time I’d been here. I didn’t often visit, as this was where my parents lived when they were in London.
Staring up at my childhood home, I pulled a face at the bad memories of summers spent here, bitter arguments between my father and I over my bad behavior at school. All those arguments had, of course, culminated in my being tossed out for six months.
Micah wasn’t the only son to have been exiled from his family.
Pursing my lips at the thought, I turned to him, saw he was peering around as well.
“You’re a fan of Kurt’s then?” I asked softly, not wanting to jolt him—he was quick to startle. Who the hell could blame him?
“Yes. Ever since his early works.” He shook his head, a smile dancing on his lips. “I can’t believe I’m going to be staying next door to him.”
A foreign desire hit me.
One so startling, I raised my arm and just let it hover there, long enough for Micah to notice. For him to arch a brow at me.
When I didn’t say anything, he sighed, shuffled toward me, and dipped down so my arm could settle on his shoulders.
My gulp had him retorting, “I thought we’d got past this?”
“I’ve just never wanted to hug someone before. Not in public.”
He shook his head. “What do they do to you in boarding school?”
“Nothing fun, I can assure you,” I muttered bitterly. “And that’s when you’re popular. It’s even worse if you’re a misfit.”
“Which you weren’t. You’re too cool to be a misfit.”
“How you can pick up on that when I act like a dork around you is beyond me,” I said dryly.
“I consider myself blessed,” was his rueful reply. “But I’ve seen you with other people. You’re charm itself. I can’t imagine you’ve changed much since.”