“It’s relaxing.”
Was it?
Really?
We were in the gated garden opposite the Crescent, after having gone for a run together. Now staying in Kurt’s home, I’d admit that my stress levels were down as I no longer had to interact with my parents constantly. That was enough for an Olympic marathon runner’s blood pressure to go on the blink.
Not having lived with them both for a very long time, and now being an adult with choices, I was glad that Kurt had let us stay next door because Claridges was in the heart of the city and when I wasn’t sharing a roof with them, I quite liked popping in for tea with Mother in the afternoon, and discussing business with Father in his office before supper.
Maybe I was getting maudlin, or maybe Micah really had given the Tin Man a heart, because spending time with them was a pleasure—so long as they weren’t together, and I could close two front doors between us at night.
Grimacing at the thought, I let out a yawn.
“It’s working,” Micah confirmed. “You’re relaxing.”
“Am I?” I asked sleepily. “I think it’s more that you kept me out past three last night.”
He laughed. “You’re getting old if that’s late.” His hand slipped over my belly. “Nothing about you is old, Devlin.”
He certainly made me feel like I was twenty-two, even if the activities he was interested in were more fitting for a fifty-year-old.
We hadn’t gone to any of the gay clubs that London was renowned for, even though I’d suggested it. He was young, hadn’t had much opportunity to explore that scene, but he wasn’t interested. It might have been because of Rhode or simply because it wasn’t his way—with his past, I had a feeling it was the latter.
Instead, we’d gone to the West End several times, visited Buckingham Palace thanks to his new obsession with that Netflix show—and if ever I deserved a reward for the Most Patient Partner ever, it was for visiting that hive. We’d gone for several meals to spectacular restaurants, and had generally been enjoying ourselves.
This, I thought with satisfaction, was dating.
“Devlin?”
“Pretend he’s not here,” I muttered to Micah, upon hearing my father’s call.
He snorted. “He knows all.”
“He will if you don’t shut up,” I grumbled.
“I know you’re in the garden,” Father yelled. “I wish to speak with you.”
Heaving a sigh, I muttered, “I only spoke to him an hour ago.”
“Must be important then,” Micah said with a laugh as he jumped to his feet seeming to possess more energy than I had in my pinkie finger, and leaned down to haul me up.
I’d never imagined that he’d take their side against mine, but for whatever God-awful reason, Micah liked them. Actually liked my parents.
I was still flabbergasted by the prospect, but seeing Mother and him together, her peppering him for advice on this year’s Winter collection—she was nothing if not a cliché—and him being patient with her was actually pretty sweet. Last night, I’d seen him reading up on all this stuff so that he could advise her properly.
I knew why—why wouldn’t he cling to her when his own mother hadn’t even called him since the Rhode situation?
Mother wasn’t being kind to him because of that, but I’d told her the sordid details, and had watched as a militant gleam appeared in her eyes. The next thing I’d known, they were taking brunch together most days, and she’d even invited him to the greasy spoon she used as inspiration for her poems. Next, she’d be taking him to Ascot.
Heaving a sigh now I was on my feet, I peered over the fence and saw Father leaning against the front door to Kurt’s place.
“The whole point of moving there was to avoid him.”
Micah just chuckled.
Gaze clashing with Father, I scowled. “You could have waited,” I groused at him as I crossed the road and let him lean on me while Micah dashed to the front door and unlocked it.
Heaving him up the stairs was a revelation of just how thin he was getting, but also, how out of breath such simple exercise weighed on him.
The thought hurt, enough to rob me of my breath too, so I didn’t chide him anymore, just guided him into the back room where there was a more comfortable lounge. Plunking him on the sofa, I turned around and saw Micah was in the doorway, two bottles in his hand that he tossed to me. He pointed upstairs, and I nodded, unsurprised that he was making himself scarce.
I gave the water to Father, and cracked open the orange juice and took a deep sip as I plunked my ass on the coffee table to avoid dirtying the cream sofa.
“What’s wrong, Father? Couldn’t it wait until later?”
He grimaced. “I—”
“What?”
“I just got off the phone with Dr. Harvester.”
Tension filled me. “Bad news?”
His smile was dry. “It’s all bad at my age, Devlin. But in this instance, there was some light at the end of the tunnel.”
“Oh?” Hope filled me. “What is it?” I asked eagerly.
“Do you think your mother really means it when she says she’s looking forward to me dying?”
“Probably, you know her. Then, you’ll die and she’ll wear widow’s weeds for the rest of her life.”
Father heaved a sigh. “Well, that settles it, then. I can’t let her wear black just yet. You know it makes her look drawn. She wouldn’t like that. Your mother—” He wafted a hand. “—like a butterfly, you know. Never did suit black.”
Though I was curious, I agreed, “No. She doesn’t. And she is like a butterfly.”
His nose crinkled. “Never meant to hurt her.”
“Why did you, then?”
“Just in my nature,” he said with a grunt before he took a sip of water and squeezed the bottle so it crackled. “Then it derailed, and we were engaged in a thirty-year battle of tit for tat.” His eyes drifted to mine. “Harvester says there’s a radical therapy in the US. Costs a fortune, of course—”
“What doesn’t when it’s radical?” I said ruefully.
“True, true. Thirty percent chance it’ll work.” His already gaunt cheek was sucked in some more as he gnawed on it. “Not good odds.”
“Better than the hundred percent chance of death now though, hmm?” I countered.
He wagged the bottle at me. “True, dear boy, true.”
“Plus there’s the issue of Mother having to wear black.”
“Far more important,” he concurred with a hum. “I’ll tell Harvester to get things started. Should take a while for the paperwork, you know.”
“Can’t take that long,” I pointed out softly. “You already look like death warmed up.”
His nose crinkled. “You’ve grown decidedly frank in your old age, Devlin.”
My lips twitched. “I suppose I get that from you.”
“I suppose.”
“Want me to help you next door?” I asked. “Next time, just call and I’ll come over.”
He wafted a hand. “Wanted to speak with you anyway.”
“About?”