Stories and excerpts

Godsend – excerpt

My M/M/M Viking novella Godsend will be released on August 10, but it’s already up for preorder. Today, I thought I’d share an excerpt from the book with you:

“It’s coming, lad. Your first day as a free man.”

Hrodgar’s heavy hand slapped Elric’s shoulder. His grin was as wide as when he’d told Elric about the birth of his youngest child.

“I know.” Elric smiled back. He’d be embarrassed to admit just how often he’d studied the lone apple tree behind the byre this spring. Not that Hrodgar would find it odd—Hrodgar was the one who had struck that deal with him, after all, that balmy night five years ago when he’d found Elric stealing from his crops. Elric had no trouble recalling the strong, burly farmer grabbing him by the neck and shaking him so hard that the carrots he’d hidden under his tunic fell to the ground. “What do you think you’re doing? I could kill you for trying to steal from me. I have the right.” Elric had cried and begged for his life, exhausted by fatigue and hunger and that hollow pain in his chest that had been there ever since his parents died. He’d only been fifteen, a half-grown boy who had never stolen before. And Hrodgar had sighed and made him a proposition. “Stop your crying now, all right? I won’t hurt you, if you agree to become my slave for five years. After that, you’ll have paid for what you’ve done and you’ll be free to go. Five years from now, on the day when the apple tree blossoms.” He had nodded to a large tree outside the field—even in the dusk, Elric had seen the white flowers shine like stars. He’d agreed, and Hrodgar had become his master.

But not for much longer. It had been almost five years. The crown of the apple tree was exploding with flower buds.

“Strange,” Hrodgar said, shooing away some crows. “To think that you’ll be gone soon.” They were at the edge of the field, the barley tickling Elric’s hands when he touched it. They’d been getting plenty of both sun and rain this summer—it would be a good harvest. A bearable winter.

But he wouldn’t be here for it. “I could stay until the harvest’s all done and—”

Hrodgar shook his head. His hair was like polished copper, thick and wavy. “No such thing. A deal’s a deal. If you’ll come with me to the market tomorrow, that’s good enough. Make sure the chickens stay in their place until I’ve found a buyer for them.”   

* * * *

They left for Bristol the next morning. Hilda was unusually kind, handing Elric a piece of fresh bread to eat on the way. Hrodgar’s wife had never spoken much to him, though she seemed to appreciate having him in the house. Her children were too young to be of much help and working the field was hard. It would be years before they could help their father out.

No, Hilda had always had little to do with him—but Hrodgar was different. In a way, Elric thought of him as a friend. What would have become of him if Hrodgar hadn’t taken him in? He’d had no one to turn to. In Hrodgar’s household he was a servant, certainly, but he ate with the family and slept on a sheepskin by the hearth. It was a better life than the one his parents had been able to give him. The work had made him strong, though he’d never be big and threatening like Hrodgar, and Hilda’s food had put a bit of meat on his bones. In those five years his body had transformed. He was still slender, but his hands were tan and veiny like a man’s, and when he flexed his arms they swelled with muscle. Just like Hrodgar’s.

“Going to be a fine day.” Hrodgar wiped his brow and called for the oxen to move faster. “Plenty of people in town, I should think.”

Elric had been to Bristol Market many times, and he was excited about the trip. Before he’d come to Hrodgar’s house, the only people he’d met were his parents and a couple of neighboring families. His first visit to Bristol had been a shock. There weren’t that many houses, but the people had been far more than he could count—merchants trading their goods and buyers eager to get their hands on livestock, pelts, jewelry and fancy garments. Some of the merchants spoke in strange tongues, and when Elric had asked Hrodgar where they were from, he’d shrugged.

“From all over the world, but do you think I know what they call their lands? Some of them are from the north, though, from lands of eternal snow. You and I wouldn’t survive a day in a place like that.”

Now Hrodgar handed him the reins and reached for the pack by his feet. “Best eat before we get there.” He brought a sweet-smelling loaf to his mouth and chewed off a chunk. Elric reached into his pocket and had a taste of his own bread. It was so soft that his teeth sank into it—he’d never had anything better. All the bread he’d eaten before had been stale and dry.

“Hilda must’ve meant to give this to you.” He glanced at Hrodgar, who wiped crumbs from his beard without looking at him. “It’s much too nice for me.”

“Oh, maybe she did.” Hrodgar grinned, still without meeting his gaze. “But you have it.” When he reached for the reins, his warm hand landed on top of Elric’s. Hrodgar pulled away as if he’d been burned. For the remainder of the trip, he was oddly quiet, and Elric wondered if maybe it had something to do with their hands touching. Ever since he had joined Hrodgar’s household, he’d felt a tingling in his chest every time the other man spoke to him. At first he’d thought it was pure childish admiration, nothing more. By now he knew better. They’d spent every day of the last five years together—alone in the field all day, then sometimes heading down to the brook on hot summer evenings to rinse off the sweat. The image of Hrodgar’s brawny, hairy body was etched into his mind. And he had thought, more than once, about the fact that he was a slave and that he had to do whatever Hrodgar asked of him. Including sharing his bed.

Hrodgar had never requested it. But if he’d asked, Elric wouldn’t have refused.

They reached Bristol some hours later and Hrodgar found a place for his cart in the crammed street. There were people and animals everywhere and the smell of dung mixed with that of roasted meat and beer. And something else, a smell that seemed to whisper to Elric from far away—tar from the huge, slender ships anchored by the shore.

“Watch the goods for me, will you?” Hrodgar seemed hurried, and when he squeezed Elric’s shoulder, his grip was painfully hard. “Just going to… I’ll be back soon.” He disappeared into the crowd. Off to take a leak, probably—but when he wasn’t back a long while later, Elric got worried. He hadn’t been robbed, had he? Part of him wanted to go and check what had happened, but he couldn’t leave the cart.

Then, finally, Hrodgar returned. He was with some men in strange clothing—it took a while before Elric recognized them as Norsemen. They were all bearded, with heavy woolen cloaks and cloak pins that shone in the sunlight. One of the men was older than the rest, with long gray hair and steely eyes. Hrodgar discussed something with him, both of them gesturing wildly. What was that about? Why would the Norsemen have any interest in a simple farmer’s goods?

“Hrodgar!” Elric called when the men were within earshot. “What’s going on? Are they giving you trouble?”

Hrodgar exchanged a look with the gray-haired Norseman, then made a gesture in Elric’s direction. Before he had time to realize what was happening, Elric was seized by two young Norsemen and his hands were tied behind his back.

“What—help! Hrodgar, help me!”

Hrodgar looked at him. His face was empty, as if they’d never met. “I’m sorry,” he said, but there was no emotion behind his words. Turning to the gray-haired man, he said, “Silver. You promised me silver and I want it now.”

The gray-haired man called out a command and another man came forward with a leather pouch that he put in Hrodgar’s outstretched palm. It wasn’t until then that Elric understood. He’d been sold. Hrodgar had sold him to slave traders.

“You bastard!” Tears of rage stung his eyes as the Norsemen dragged him through the crowd, away from Hrodgar and the cart. “You lying bastard!” He kicked and thrashed. The Norsemen laughed, shoving him between them like a plaything, talking in their twisted language.

He was their slave. And he would never see Hrodgar again.

At His Mercy – excerpt

It’s just a little over a week until my medieval fantasy novella At His Mercy is released. Today, I thought I’d share an excerpt from the book with you. I hope you’ll enjoy it!

They never should have taken the forest road at night.

“We could go back,” Lio said, stumbling after his father on the muddy path. “That cottage we passed a mile back, maybe we could…”

Athos grunted, his boots leaving large, wet prints in the sludge. Almost doubled over from the weight of the burlap bag, he looked like a hunchback. “You’ll walk until I tell you to stop.”

Lio drew his hand over his eyes to wipe the icy rain away. “But…” He racked his brains for words that might make his father see reason. They were far away from the manor by now, and they had merely taken some tools and iron from the smithy, after the smith and his apprentice had left for the day. With luck, the theft wouldn’t be noticed until morning. Lord Callen certainly had enough gold to replace the tongs and hammers he’d lost. To Lio’s family, though, the stolen goods meant they could repair the hole in the roof, and his father could forge nails and horseshoes the villagers would be only too happy to pay for. Athos had been a blacksmith once, in his youth, but Lio had never dared ask why he had left such a good profession. His work was fine, and although there were some people who’d never buy anything made by his hands, he could make enough money this way to see them through the winter.

Athos coughed, a nasty, hollow sound Lio was all too familiar with.

“Father, you’re not well. Let me carry it.”

“No!” Athos spun around to give him a wild look. He towered over Lio, the way he always had. “I don’t take orders from a whelp like you, understand? While you’re living in my house, lad, you do as I tell you.” He coughed again, but pressed on through the darkness. The lantern swinging in his hand wasn’t strong enough to light up much of the surroundings, and a shiver ran down Lio’s spine at the thought of packs of wolves out on the hunt, or trolls and monsters eager to lure wanderers into their lairs. Traveling through the woods in daytime wasn’t so bad, though he wouldn’t like doing it without company, but everyone knew that one shouldn’t be out after dark. His mother would scold them when they got home—if they did. Lio had accompanied his father on similar business before, but they had been closer to home then and back by the hearth before midnight. Athos didn’t steal unless there were no other options, and before this he had only taken the odd bread loaf or piece of meat from those of the nearby farmers who spat after him and his family. ‘Only steal from those who deserve it,’ he had told Lio often. Lio didn’t know much about Lord Callen, but if he owned half as much land and gold as people said he did, he deserved it more than most. It wasn’t fair that someone like him had everything, while others starved.

“I can carry the lantern, at least,” he tried, uneasy at the sound of his father’s labored breathing.

“The lantern?” Athos scoffed. “It weighs nothing. Now be quiet, all right? I brought you as a lookout. Wouldn’t expect a wisp of a thing like you to carry anything, would I?”

Lio bit back an angered reply. He was small compared to his father, it was true, closer in height to his mother and with her slender build, too. From her he had his ghostly pale hair as well, that made the villagers hiss ‘Devil-child’ and other such nonsense after him. The one thing he had from his father was the dark color of his eyes. His little brother and sisters had those eyes, too, but their hair was dark as coal. He often wished his own was, too.

Wrapping his arms around himself in a futile attempt to get warm, he wondered how far they had left. Their cottage was on the other side of the woods, in a clearing out of sight from any other people. The nearest farm was only a short walk away, but Lio and his family had never been counted among the villagers who were their neighbors. Young women sought out his mother secretly, when her herbs were the only thing that might help them end unwanted pregnancies or cure their sick babies. His father was the one the villagers called for when they needed shameful or dangerous tasks done, like gelding foals or burying disease-spreading corpses. Shame, filth—that was all they were associated with. They always had been.

A strange sound pierced through the roaring of the rain. The neighing of a horse? He stopped, throwing anxious looks around him. “Father, did you—”

“Quiet!” Athos trudged on, muttering to himself. The rain streamed down Lio’s face, plastering his hair to his skin. He shivered, not sure if it was from the cold or from fear. Another sound came through the darkness—a voice? Several voices?

“Father, run!” But he hadn’t taken more than a step forward before someone grabbed him by the neck, pulling him back. In front of him he saw his father stop as a rider blocked his path. A dark-clad man on a black steed, carrying a torch in his hand. His hair was obscured by a helmet. There were four men in total, including the one with the forceful grip on Lio’s neck. Lio struggled in vain to free himself, and the man chuckled in a low, raspy voice.

“Well,” said the rider in black, as two of his henchmen closed in on Athos with their swords drawn. “We found our prey at last. Did you really think I’d allow anyone to steal from me?” His voice was smooth but cold. It was difficult to tell his age—Lord Callen was hardly a young man, but he was well-built and tall, with broad shoulders and a straight, proud posture. His eyes were just as icy as his voice.

Athos dropped the burlap sack, rising to his full height and taking a step closer to Callen, as if to challenge him. “You’ve got enough for a whole village, but we ain’t got a thing!”

“Oh, is that so?” Callen curled his lip. “While I applaud your courage, I really can’t let a thing like this slide. You understand, surely? Men, how should we punish this pitiful crime?”

“Their right hands,” said one of the henchmen, giving Athos a nudge with the blunt side of his sword. “Off with them.”

“Death,” suggested another man with an ugly grin. “That’d stop them from doing it again, my lord.”

Callen nodded. “Why, certainly, but I personally feel it’s a tad…boring?” His cool gaze landed on Lio’s face. He scrutinized him for a few moments before turning away. “Seize them,” he said. “We bring them with us.”

“I’ve got little ones at home, sir!” Athos called out. “They’ve had nothing to eat for the last week, and me and my wife—”

“What a pity,” Callen said.

Athos roared, trying to make a run for it, but one of Callen’s men stabbed his sword into his shoulder before he’d gotten away. Callen snorted as Athos was tied up and thrown over the back of one of the horses as if he were a sack of flour. Lio stared, his eyes fixed on his father’s shape. That wound… How bad is it?

“Now the boy,” said Callen.

“Yes,” murmured the man who held Lio captive. He jumped to the ground and pulled Lio toward him, his breath hot and revolting against Lio’s neck. “I’ll take care of you.”

“Let me go!” Lio squirmed, but the man quickly tied his wrists together and put him face down in front of the saddle before mounting the horse again. Lio’s breath hitched in his throat as the man put a big, gloved hand on the back of his thigh.

“Keep still now,” he said, voice low. “Filthy little thief. You’re going to regret what you’ve done.”

Yes. As the riders started retracing their tracks through the woods, back to Lord Callen’s manor, Lio thought bitterly that he regretted everything. He couldn’t see his father, but he heard his pained groans and whimpers, and the men shouting at him to keep quiet. If only he could do something! What would happen to them once they reached the manor? His father’s injury—how bad was it? His mother would have been able to stop the blood—she would have healed him in no time. But Lio didn’t have any of her knowledge. He couldn’t do anything but hope, in spite of everything, that they would make it out of this alive.

Read the rest of the story in At His Mercy – out on March 2!

Excerpt: Alone With The Captain

Astray‘s release is just one month away. Because of that, I’d like to share a short excerpt from the book with you today. In this scene, Nick has been part of Captain Hart’s crew for just a few days. He is still struggling to find his place, and trying to understand what the Captain wants from him.

When supper is over and the sun has begun to set, Hill asks Nick to bring a message to Hart.

Goldie, listening in, slaps Nick’s shoulder when he hears. “Wouldn’t want to go in there myself. Seems he’s in one of his moods today.”

Nick thinks of this as he waits outside the Captain’s cabin.

“Yes?” Hart calls from the opposite side of the door.

“Sorry, sir,” Nick blurts out as soon as he steps into the room. “Mr. Hill said to bring word. They emptied another barrel of hardtack tonight. There are six left.”

Hart is sitting at the table with the book open in front of him again. The sunlight is fading, and the room is a little too dark to read, but the candlesticks aren’t lit. “Thank you.”

Nick turns to leave.

“Wait. Now that you are here… how are your sewing skills?”

Nick turns around to answer Hart’s question. “Fine, sir.”

Hart stands and walks over to the bed to get something. The bed-hangings obscure the view but then Hart pulls out a dark bundle of fabric—his coat. He strides to the window and places the coat on the low leather bench. Comes back to the bed to rummage through a chest underneath it. “I tore it on a nail earlier. I had meant to mend it tonight but I don’t think I can find the time.” He finds what he has been searching for—a needle and thread.

Nick is reminded of Hart telling him off for idling earlier. The pad of his thumb is still tender from working on the sails. At least this time the cloth isn’t as hard to work with as canvas.

“Sit here.” Hart places the items on top of the coat, before returning to his book. “You will need the light.”

Nick sits. The bench is upholstered—a comfort he isn’t used to. He runs the fabric of the coat between his fingers. It is wool, pitch black and lined with some fine, thin material Nick does not know. Cotton? His fingertips find the tear quickly—a sliver of lining bursting through on the left side, right beneath the pocket. He works, the same way he used to in the winters when his mother’s hands were dull from ache and he and Jamie split such chores between them. The coat’s embroideries mock him with their silver threads, their shine and fancy. Like taunting voices from inside a world he can never enter.

Hart takes no more notice of him. He sits with his back turned and neck bowed down, focused on his work. Occasionally he lifts the quill or turns a page. The faint light makes his shirt appear whiter and his hair almost black, where it rests against his collar. If he’s in a foul mood or not, Nick can’t tell, but it’s a relief when he’s done with his task, the tear made undone with a net of stitches.

“It’s finished, sir.”

Hart comes over. Takes the coat from Nick, examines it. He frowns, and Nick braces himself for a scolding.

“Good.” Hart runs his fingertip over the mending. “Thank you. You may leave.”

Nick does as he is told. But he hesitates at the door and turns to glance at Hart again. The Captain is holding the coat in front of him still. Like he is searching for holes or broken seams. Or like he’s deep lost in thoughts.

Release day! + snippet

The release date for Entertaining the Sombrevilles has finally come. I’m so excited, and so grateful that it’s happening. This has been my dream since I was in my teens, though to be honest I don’t think I ever imagined being published in English. It’s beyond what I thought was possible then.

To celebrate today, I thought I’d share with you a snippet from the book. This is from a scene where Lucas, the youngest of the Sombrevilles, has escaped from a dinner party together with a handsome stranger:

~~~

While his siblings were leaving the dining hall together with the other guests, Lucas Sombreville sneaked into the garden in the company of Giles Perry, Viscount Atherton. Atherton had made it quite clear, from the first time their eyes met in the hall earlier, that Lucas was his number one priority tonight. The other guests around their table probably saw it as nothing other than an older man’s genuine interest in a boy who seemed destined for a bright future, maybe reminiscing on his own adolescent years and the dreams he once had.

For all Lucas knew, Atherton might have some nostalgic reason for being drawn to him. His main interest, though, was something else entirely and Lucas sighed contentedly when they were finally outside and Atherton pulled him into an embrace.

“I could lose my entire career for this,” the man groaned, strong fingers digging into Lucas’s hair. “You’re practically a schoolboy.”

“I am a schoolboy,” Lucas said, and Atherton groaned even louder.

“I should go back inside,” he said, “I really should. Christ, my wife is in there. And my father-in-law.”

Lucas had been introduced to Lady Atherton earlier: a pointy-nosed, decidedly unpleasant woman. He had not been the least surprised to learn that she counted herself as one of Lady Blackford’s closest friends.

“Please don’t,” he said, tugging at the man’s lapel. “You promised you’d show me the view.”

“Oh, my dear, I’d show you anything.” Atherton cupped Lucas’s face in his hands. His eyes were a light grey, almost the same shade as his hair. “Just let me kiss you and you can have anything you wish for.”

Lucas let him. Atherton’s lips were dry and warm, his breath tinged with wine. They were still on the stairs leading down from the back terrace and the thought of how easily they might be spotted excited Lucas even more. Atherton must have thought of it too, for he ended the kiss and took Lucas by the hand.

“Come with me, it’s too risky… it’s all too risky…” But he kissed Lucas again before they were even off the stairs, pushing him against the wall and running his hands along Lucas’s chest and belly.

“Oh, sir,” Lucas moaned, knowing exactly what men like Lord Atherton wanted most of all. “I-I’ve never…”

Atherton’s hips pushed forward and Lucas grabbed him by the shoulders just to keep himself from reaching down the man’s trousers. Might spoil the illusion.

“Don’t worry, my darling.” Atherton’s voice was so thick with arousal Lucas could hardly make out the words. “Don’t you worry about a thing.”

“You will take care of me, won’t you?”

Atherton kissed his forehead, his nose, his cheeks. Hands sneaked inside Lucas’s jacket and stroked his back and shoulder blades. “I will, dear, I will.”

~~~

Get the book here or here to find out what happens next!

AU short story: Skyline

I’ve written lots of short stories recently, as I’ve told you before, and some of these are for an AU part of the Wavesongs verse, where Captain Hart has turned into Mr Hart, a wealthy corporate leader, and Chris into his young intern. I write AU:s sometimes because it’s fun, and it’s liberating because you don’t have to stick to your usual timeline, you can do whatever you feel like. Now, these stories are silly and they don’t make much sense, but I still want to share one with you today. It might give you a sense of what the characters are like in the novel, at least. So here goes:

Skyline

(Rating: PG)

”Come in.”

Chris stepped inside, took tiny steps so as not to spill any coffee on the exclusive rug in Mr Hart’s office. Nina, the secretary, had handed him a couple of letters on his way in and the only way he’d been able to take them with him was to hold them between his teeth. Fuck. He looked like a complete idiot, and this the morning after he’d sent that stupid text.

See you tomorrow.

Looking forward to it.

Who wrote something like that to their boss? Chris did, apparently, after a few rounds with Alec and the lads by the poker table. He hadn’t even been that drunk, which was the most embarrassing part of it all. He’d just sort of… felt like it.

“Oh, let me help you with that!” Mr Hart hurried forward, tried to suppress a laugh as he took the coffee tray and the letters. “Nina’s hopeless… she could’ve easily given me those herself.”

“Thank you, sir,” Chris said, putting the stack of newspapers and the brown paper bag from the nearby Starbucks down on the desk. “I got the bagels like you asked… the ones with goat’s cheese and arugula, you still like those the best, right?”

Mr Hart sat down. Smiled at him. Was he going to say something about the text? Chris had been working in his office for six months, but he still couldn’t read the man.

“Take a seat,” Mr Hart said. “Just look at you, all worn out already, and it’s barely eight o’ clock. You work harder than anyone else in here, you know.”

“I really don’t.” Praise? Mr Hart had never scolded him for anything, but praise was equally rare.

“I take it you got home safely last night, then.” Mr Hart removed the Starbucks mugs from the tray, and threw it in the bin. “I did worry about you for a moment or two, when I got that text and thought you might’ve had too much to drink.”

“Well, yeah,” Chris said, too quickly. “You know what it’s like, out with the boys… I don’t really, um, remember texting. Sorry if I woke you up, sir.”

“Oh, you didn’t wake me. Never getting enough sleep is, well, one of the many drawbacks of my position. But that text made me smile, Chris, so thank you. Whether you recall sending it or not.”

Chris thought of what he’d written. Wished he really had forgotten. “Yeah, I know it was stupid. I mean, I can guess. Glad you got a laugh out of it, though.”

Mr Hart was silent for so long Chris had to look at him, only to see the kind, serious expression on his handsome face. “Stupid? Dear God, no, that’s not what I meant. Not at all. You… you made me happy. Thinking you might actually mean what you wrote last night, made me happy.”

Chris sat there opposite him, thoughts racing through his head. Happy. For six months he’d waited for Mr Hart to even notice him, as more than a new intern who’d soon be replaced by someone else. You made me happy. “I… I like working for you, sir.”

A mug was pushed his way, and Mr Hart carefully placed one of the napkin-wrapped bagels in front of him. “Here. You haven’t had breakfast either, have you?”

“But you asked me to bring this stuff yesterday,” Chris said. “I thought you had a meeting with someone.”

“I did.” Mr Hart took his mug, tasted the macchiato. “With you.”

Chris bit into his bagel – had been hungry ever since he left home at seven. “Me?”

“We’ve never had time to sit down like this, just you and me. Don’t you think that’s strange? After six months in the same office. And I’m supposed to be teaching you everything.”

“You’re a very busy man.”

Mr Hart chuckled. “Oh, I am. Far too busy for my own good, but that’s another story. See, Chris, I picked you for this internship myself. We had tons of applications, but I wanted it to be you. So the least I could do is make sure you get the most out of your time here, don’t you agree?”

“I suppose,” Chris said. He’d had no idea he was handpicked by Mr Hart himself.

Mr Hart was silent for a moment, sipping his coffee. Broad-shouldered under his black Prada suit, with the city skyline glowing red behind him, he looked every bit the successful businessman he was. “Don’t you want to know why I chose you?” he said at last.

“Yeah, I do.”

Mr Hart smiled. Looked like he couldn’t decide which words to use. “Well, firstly, I saw your potential, of course. We’re always looking for people who might be of value to the company after their internship is over and… you haven’t let us down so far, Chris. But I had other reasons. Some rather selfish ones, if you will.”

“Like what?”

Mr Hart got up from his seat. Went over to the window, turned to watch the burning sky.

“You’re a handsome boy, I thought… it would cheer me up, having you around every day. And it has.”

Chris had sort of hoped Mr Hart might be gay, had heard a few rumours here and there. Was this proof?

“But ever since you started working here, I’ve come to enjoy your company more and more. And I’ve tried not to, because not doing anything is the only sensible option.”

Chris got to his feet. “Why?”

Mr Hart did not turn around. “Because I’m thirty-three, Chris, and you’re a twenty-year-old boy.”

“Twenty-one!”

“And because I’m your boss. Which is why it would be awfully unethical and, apart from that, I wouldn’t want people to start talking.”

Chris went up to him. Put a hand on his arm, didn’t let go. “But…?”

Mr Hart sighed. “Go back to your seat, Chris. Please.”

“What if I don’t want to?”

“Oh, for God’s sake, then stay. No touching, though, not… not here. Like I said, I don’t want people to find out.”

Chris removed his hand. Mr Hart was right; everything in this building was made of glass. Nina would have a field day with something like this, and Chris wasn’t eager to go back to working at his local Sainsbury’s, far away from the city. “Sorry.”

Mr Hart glanced at him, softness in his dark eyes. “Don’t ever say sorry for doing something like that. Let’s just… let’s just pretend we’re admiring the skyline, okay? And while we’re doing that, I might just happen to ask to take you out to dinner this weekend. No need to answer now. But I’d be thrilled if you said yes.”

“Are you crazy?” Chris said, eyes still on the skyscrapers in the distance. “It’s a yes. It’s a very, very quick and definite yes.”

“Good.” Mr Hart went back to his desk, sat down again. Motioned to Chris to come sit down as well. “Friday at seven, my car will come pick you up.”

They exchanged a smile; a smile that made Chris feel like his body had suddenly turned to jelly. Friday wasn’t even two days away, and it still felt like an eternity.

“Now for those budgetary reports,” Mr Hart said, every bit the corporate leader again. “Did Nina get notice from the board, or should I give Mr Yamamoto a call?”

He was already checking the notifications on his phone, rummaging through the files scattered over his desk. Concentrated, focused on another workday.

But when he looked up at Chris, he was still smiling.