Darling (Famous Young Things #3)

Chapter 1

One

Christian

“Should I take this and unpack it for you, Ambassador?” Gael Cazalla asks.

He’s distractingly good-looking, athletic, and has a bright, warm smile that reminds me a little of Felix’s.

The set-up of this house should make it so that a single, widowed, ‘straight’ man should have no issues with his handsome live-in male aide.

I’m having issues. “Ah, yes, thank you, Gael. Is Mrs Kennedy around?”

“Yes, in the kitchen, sir. Shall I fetch her?”

“No, it’s fine. I’ll go in there and say hello.”

Gael nods and turns to head for the stairs.

Mrs Kennedy is my housekeeper and sometimes cook, who, thankfully, also lives in.

There are a handful of staff who live here.

Staff I met the day I arrived and have yet to cross paths with again.

Regardless, being in such close quarters with someone as attractive as Gael only reminds me of how alone I am.

I suppose what I need is to get laid, as the locals say.

Though it’s decidedly more difficult to make that happen than I appreciated when I said yes to this.

Not that I said yes, exactly. It was more like I was bundled out of my office in Whitehall and into an already-moving vehicle.

Adrian Brooke’s face flashes before my eyes. The cruel smirk that I’d seen turned on others, Felix included, had finally landed on me.

You are going to regret putting your cock inside my son, Chris, I promise you that.

Let me be clear, Adrian did not get rid of me because of any kind of fatherly notions he has for his son—that, I would understand and respect—or because he cares about Felix.

I’m not sure Adrian cares about anyone except perhaps his investment banker.

Adrian wanted me out of Whitehall because I had dared to undermine his authority.

Adrian Brooke saw the world around him as his, and people should be far too afraid of him to risk touching anything of his.

And Felix was, in Adrian’s view, his. A possession.

Something to show off when it suited him and hide away when it didn’t.

I loathed the man. Always had. But I also knew the sort of power he wielded, and since he’d threatened to tell my own son what had been going on if I didn’t shake his hand and thank him for my new job, I did just as I was told.

I don’t regret Felix. Firstly, because he’d been one of the most heavenly places I’d ever been, and secondly DC isn’t the worst place Adrian could have had me shipped off to – we still had an embassy in Tehran the last time I looked.

And lastly, because Westminster was destroying me; eating away at me bit by bit, and I’d had to get out before the rot took hold completely.

A change of scenery was going to do me good.

Because seeing Felix happy and in love had been harder than I expected it would ever be.

I was happy he was happy, of course, I’d encouraged him to follow his heart with Nico, but it had made me wonder.

What if I’d been braver… What if I’d treated him how he deserved…

What if I’d been less frightened of the opinions of others, less focussed on a career that could, ultimately, be ripped away so easily?

Could I have made him as happy as Nicoló does? I’ll never know the answer to that.

But Christ, do I miss him. His humour and his wit and his perfectly conditioned body. His heart, so big and warm and desperate for love. Perhaps I could have tried to love him… I certainly cared about him.

But I only had to look at him with Nicoló to understand that he now had everything he needed and more. Nico was everything I could never be to him. I could never be that to anyone.

Which left me with what? One-night stands who don’t know my name for the rest of my bloody life.

Pathetic. I look at Gael again; perfect arse visible as he climbs the stairs.

I’m not even sure if he likes men. He doesn’t wear a wedding ring and has never mentioned a girlfriend, and so it’s easy for me to presume something about him.

Not that it makes any difference whatsoever, because that will not be something I pursue.

Mrs Kennedy, Grace, is by the large hob stirring something in a pot, which I assume to be soup. She’s taken to making me soup every week because I told her how much I missed it.

“Well that smells lovely,” I say gently, trying not to startle her.

“Ah, Sir Christian, you’re back!” She turns, smiling at me.

“Christian is fine, Grace. We’ve talked about this.”

“Well, I still feel like I should be calling you ‘Ambassador’, so let me have this.”

“Hmmm.”

“It’s chicken with carrot and some rice.”

“Gosh, sounds wonderful.”

“I found the recipe online. Lady was British.” She says ‘British’ like someone might say ‘royalty’, and scoops some out with a spoon and offers it for me to taste. After blowing, I sip some. It’s delicious.

“Perfection. I’ll take two bowls, please.”

She beams wider. “It still has a while to go. I’ll bring some to you when it’s ready, sir. So how was the ballet?”

“Wonderful, absolutely divine. I may even have cried a little.”

“Oh, I hope it comes to DC. Larry would hate it, but you bet I’d drag him along grumbling.”

“Well, I’ll take you if it does. But you can watch it online for the next week. Perhaps we should do a movie night this week? Invite Larry along, I’d love to watch it again.”

“Really? Yes, I’d love to! Let’s do that. I’ll make some soup!”

I leave her to the current soup and make my way to my study.

It’s probably the room I hate most in this house.

It’s old-fashioned and too dark and has the most uncomfortable chair I’ve ever had the misfortune to sit on—and I’ve sat for prolonged periods on the benches in the commons.

I should order a new one, but this one is in keeping with the room, and so I just end up doing most of my work in the dining room, which isn’t great on my back.

After eating a large bowl of soup, I run through Monday’s schedule with Gael: morning briefing and then a meeting with the State Department, a catch-up with the Foreign Relations Committee in the afternoon, and then a meeting with HR on the ‘morale’ across the embassy network.

This one I’m especially not looking forward to since I’m certain the entire team can tell my own is in the toilet.

When Gael leaves, I head to the basement gym where I run on the treadmill while listening to an audiobook I’d begun on the flight over. There’s a text from Felix when I get off around forty minutes later.

FTB:

Thank you again for coming. We have some time off in July if you fancy some visitors? There’s a concert Nico wants to go to in NYC so we can come see you.

I’m almost certain it won’t happen. I’m not sure Nico is as enamoured with Felix and I’s friendship as he pretends to be. Not that he pretends to be, he’s mostly silent and darkly brooding in my company.

Me:

Wouldn’t have missed it, darling. July sounds wonderful. Let me know dates.

After a long, hot shower, I catch up on some paperwork in bed; a lot of overly wordy documents on exports and investments that are so dull I can barely keep my eyes open.

Not for the first time since I got here, I wonder why I didn’t walk away.

I wonder why I didn’t tell Adrian Brooke to shove his diplomatic position where the sun doesn’t shine.

Would he have spilled everything to Leo?

Perhaps. Would Leo be so disgusted he’d never speak to me again?

Perhaps. He is a liberal sort of guy, I know, but I’m his father.

My illicit affair with a guy his age could destroy us.

I was the only parent he had left. I close my laptop with a sigh and pick up the book on my bedside instead.

It’s far more engaging than the trade export summary of lithium batteries.

The following afternoon, a Sunday, I dress casually and drive into town on my own—I have a driver here for my day-to-day, as I did in London, but I have far less security here overall, and it feels nice to slip under the radar in a way I haven’t been able to for years.

There’s a secondhand bookshop that I’ve been meaning to visit since I got here, and today seemed like the perfect time since I’d finished the book I’d been reading last night and needed something new.

Inside, I head directly for the queer section.

I don’t feel the same kind of fear about visiting the queer section of a bookshop in DC as I would back home.

Another good thing about this role is actually having the time to read again.

It’s not nearly as demanding of my time as being foreign minister was, and since I’m quite alone, I’ve been filling my free time with things I haven’t had time for in years.

I’m browsing the ‘memoirs’ section when I see him.

A compact, fae-like thing with a head of dark hair, full mouth, and blush-pink cheeks.

His outfit is startling: a paisley-patterned shirt beneath a geometric-patterned sweater vest, loose, baggy jeans, and thick-soled boots.

He’s smiling at something inside the book, a sort of sly, secret smile that sits on one side of his mouth.

Suddenly aware, he glances up and around and catches me staring at him.

His eyes are the brightest, clearest blue and seem to twinkle with mischief.

I get an intense dip of desire in the pit of my stomach before I look away quickly to pretend to browse the shelves.

“That’s not worth your time or money,” he says. His voice is soft and a little sweet. When I turn my head, he’s slotting the book he was holding back into its place.

“Pardon me?”

“Shit, are you British?” That smirk again. It’s even more wicked from this angle, and coupled with the slight tilt of his head… I swallow. He comes toward me.

“It’s not a good read,” he says, indicating the book. “I binged it over lockdown and regretted it immediately, came out the other end with more issues than I went in. Now this one…” He reaches up and slips out a book with a neon pink cover and indigo text and hands it to me. It reads: BOY SLUT.

My cheeks flame.

“I loved it.”

“I’m not… sure… it’s my thing.” I try to imagine Mrs Kennedy or one of the other maids finding it on my bedside table, and I feel a little nauseous.

“Oh, I think it’s definitely your thing,” he says in a voice so sinful it makes me think about pushing him against the stacks and doing unspeakable things.

The look in his eye is one that suggests he might be able to read my mind, and that the thoughts I’m having are ones he’d very much enjoy me acting on.

“I… um, okay. Well, thank you.” I speak for a living and yet this little smirking boy has me bloody mute.

He beams, and it’s a shiny, sparkling thing that lights up his whole face.

“You’re welcome.” When he goes to move off, I get the sharpest stab of panic at the notion that I’ll never see him again, that this was a single encounter that I’ll be replaying over and over in my head for years, regretting not doing something.

Once again, like he can hear my thoughts, he stops and turns.

“I come here most Sundays, by the way. Usually after I go antiquing, though sometimes before. Just in case you were wondering...” He gives me a sweet smile this time—he seems to have a whole catalogue of them—and strides off toward the exit without buying anything.

Did he just say antiquing?

I look down at the novel I’m holding, quickly grab a few others, and head for the cashier with the lot.

I don’t go back to the bookstore for three weeks.

There are a few reasons for this, but the main one is a kind of bone-deep fear.

I haven’t wanted a man (boy? I’d put him mid-twenties, but Christ, what if he was younger?) this much since Felix, and I’m not certain what to do with it.

I should do absolutely nothing with it, frankly, but…

he was… tempting. I also didn’t want to look too eager.

I wanted to finish reading the book before contriving a meeting with him.

(I’d been hiding it in my underwear drawer each morning before picking it out again at night because the staff leave my laundry on the bed for me to put away myself).

I’d enjoyed it, though I couldn’t help but imagine him as the writer whose memoir it was, and as though he were telling me his story through the pages.

He said he’d loved it. Emphatically. Which suggests he feels an affinity for it or the character. It had led to me calling him Zachary in my head after the author.

When I enter the store this time, the cashier, a pink-haired, excessively tattooed girl, smiles at me.

The place is quiet, quieter than it had been the first time, though not empty, and I move around the stacks to the place I found him last time.

Of course, he isn’t there. It’s not surprising, but there is a sag of disappointment all the same.

It’s been three weeks. He’d probably forgotten about my existence.

He’d probably given me the line he gives to every guy he catches ogling him in a book shop.

I come here before I go antiquing, though sometimes after.

It was still early.

There’s a coffee bar on the upper level, which has a perfect view of the door, and so I head up there and order a cappuccino and a slice of pecan pie and arrange myself in a chair with a view of the front door.

I don’t question how pathetic any of this is until I’ve ordered my second coffee.

He’s not coming. Of course he bloody isn’t.

Had I seriously thought he’d come here the last three weeks, just hoping to bump into the old British guy intent on buying the book he’d hated?

With a sigh, I set down my half-drunk coffee along with a tip for the barista and head for the stairs.

Now I suppose I’ll have to avoid this place.

Perhaps coming on a Saturday would be alright.

I’m pulling open the door at the same time it’s being pushed, and since it’s covered in leaflets and posters, I can’t see the person on the other side.

All I can do is step back to let them in, mouth ready in apology.

“Pardon me, that—”

Zachary takes one look at me and smiles wide and bright as a cloudless sky. “I totally knew it would be today,” he says.