“Very convenient,” North said.
“I didn’t! A friend just told me that Leslie—she’s the woman I’m talking about—Leslie is planning on crashing the con. And sitting here, listening to you, it all suddenly clicked.”
“What a wonderful coincidence,” North said.
“Exactly,” Yasmin said, straightening in her seat with excitement.
“No,” Shaw said. “He’s being sarcastic.”
“Oh.” Yasmin’s expression fell, then she brightened again. “I can pay you to see if Leslie really is in the area. That’s something you can do, right? You can just try to find her. Come to the convention. See if she’s hanging around. And if she’s not, if she’s safely back in Utah or wherever she normally is, your job is done, and you get paid. Although I really hope you’ll attend the whole convention because you’ll be our local celebrities.”
“Would you give us a moment?”
“What? Oh, yes. Of course. We can even pay you for your time at the convention. Your hourly rate. You really don’t understand—everyone will be so excited.”
When the door shut behind her, North spun in his chair to face Shaw. “No.”
“Hold on.”
“No way, Shaw. This is amateur hour. We might as well be investigating a high-school mean girls club. Samantha told Sarah who told Megan that the boys’ swim team stuffs their speedos.”
“First of all, you would know, because I remember freshman year you bragging about that water polo player and telling me, quote, ‘Turns out I like the taste of chlorinated balls.’”
North made a disgusted noise. “Shaw, we’ve got four open jobs from Aldrich right now. Four. I honestly don’t know the last time I slept more than six hours in a night, the paperwork keeps piling up, and on top of that, we’ve got independent clients who are willing to pay obscene hourly rates for us to take pictures of cheating spouses. This is a fan convention for romance readers. Gay romance readers. How are they going to pay us? In poppers?”
“Actually, that’s not a bad—”
“This is what we’ve worked incredibly hard for, Shaw. This. What we’ve got right now. We built Borealis from nothing, and it’s finally paying off. Why can’t we just enjoy that things are good right now?”
“We didn’t start Borealis to get rich,” Shaw said quietly.
“Speak for yourself, you fucking trust-fund baby.”
With a shrug, Shaw waited, holding North’s gaze.
Outside, a diesel truck lumbered past the house, engine grumbling as the driver struggled to shift up.
North let out a wild growl. “Fine. Fine. Just shut the fuck up. If you say one more fucking word, I’m going to lose my mind.”
“All I said was that you like chlorinated balls and that you might want our clients to pay us in poppers.”
“You got what you fucking wanted, Shaw, like you always do.”
“You—”
North stabbed a finger at Shaw. “Not one. more. fucking. word.”
Shaw shrugged again.
Wiping his face, North stood. He bent, caught Shaw’s hair, and kissed him. Then he gently tugged on the hair, turning Shaw’s head, and whispered, “If you ever tell anyone how easily you just made that happen, you’re going to need a truckload of poppers to handle what I’ll do to you.”
“Is that a bad thing or a good thing? It kind of sounds like a good thing.”
North scowled, released Shaw, and headed for the door. As he pulled it open, he said, “Ms. Maldonado? We’ll take the job. The contract is standard, and we do require a retainer—” North cut off, and when he spoke again, his voice was tight and hard. “I’m with a client.”
A man’s voice, familiar, carried back to where Shaw sat: “North, North, North. Is that any way to greet your uncle?”
Acknowledgments
My deepest thanks go to Wendy Wickett. Many people caught the occasional typo and graciously let me know about it, but Wendy proofed every single chapter. She not only caught my mistakes, but she made suggestions for clarity and accuracy, and the book as a whole is much, much stronger for it. I’m incredibly grateful for her clear, careful reading of this manuscript!
About the Author
Learn more about Gregory Ashe and forthcoming works at www.gregoryashe.com.
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