Chapter Twenty-Two #2
“I want the bigger suitcase, Hamish. The Samsonite.”
Hamish was on his hands and knees pulling the suitcase out from beneath the bed frame, his corduroy-clad backside pointed at the ceiling and his glasses sliding down his nose. He reversed out with a grunt and hauled the case up onto the mattress, popping the latches with his thumbs.
“Right,” Hamish said. “What goes in?”
“Everything has to be folded, not rolled. I don’t care what the internet says about rolling being more space efficient.
It’s all bollocks.” Lysander pointed from his position against the headboard, his splinted ankle propped on a pillow.
“Jeans on the bottom. Shirts laid flat on top. And my leather jacket goes on last, draped over everything, because it creases if you look at it wrong.”
Hamish folded a pair of jeans, then laid them in the case and looked up for approval.
“That’s a terrible fold,” Lysander said. “Do it again.”
“It’s fine.”
“Jeans have a centre crease, Hamish. You fold along it.”
Hamish refolded the jeans and placed them back in the case. Lysander watched him add two shirts, a jumper, and a pair of tracksuit bottoms, correcting the placement of each item when prompted without complaint.
“You need to call me every day,” Lysander said.
Hamish looked up from the suitcase.
“Every day, Hamish. I want to know what Cassian’s eaten, whether he’s been to the library, and if Uriel’s name comes up in any context whatsoever.
” He ticked items off on his fingers. “Keep the fridge stocked. He won’t eat if there’s nothing he recognises.
He likes the Portuguese tarts from Brown Sugar, and if you let him run out I’ll know, because he’ll tell me, and then I’ll be furious with you from six time zones away. ”
“I think I can manage to feed a twenty-two-year-old, Sander.”
“You say that, but I’ve seen you eat cereal for dinner three nights in a row.”
Hamish’s mouth twitched. He folded a pair of underwear and placed it in the case with exaggerated care. “Anything else?”
“Yes.” Lysander’s voice shifted, the comedy dropping away. “The second things have settled here, come to London. Meet my family.”
Hamish rested his hands on the edge of the open suitcase.
“Meet my daddy. Meet Stephen and Max and Diwa and Ryland.” Lysander held his gaze across the bed. “I need them to know you, Hamish.”
Hamish’s glasses had slipped down his nose again, and he pushed them up with one finger. “That sounds like we’re making things official.”
Lysander didn’t smile. “Yeah. I want to introduce you to them so that they know I haven’t shacked up with a potential serial killer halfway across the world from them.”
Hamish abandoned the suitcase. He came around the side of the bed, sat down on the edge of the mattress beside Lysander’s hip, and kissed him.
His hand cupped the side of Lysander’s jaw, his thumb pressing into the soft space beneath his ear.
The kiss was slow and thorough, and tasted like the coffee he’d been drinking all morning.
Lysander’s fingers curled into the front of Hamish’s corduroy blazer and held on.
When Hamish pulled back, his forehead stayed against Lysander’s, his glasses nudging Lysander’s cheekbone. “I was saving this news for when you got to London,” he said. “To take the sting out of having to say goodbye to me and my lovely big butternut-squash-like cock.”
Lysander snorted.
“Charles Townsend,” Hamish continued, “did not get a prenup. He was so convinced that Cassian would never leave him, that the doctrine and the Lumineer and the whole apparatus of the Family would keep him tethered, that he never bothered to protect his assets.” Hamish’s grin widened.
“The lawyers working the inquiry flagged it. With everything that’s come out about the abuse, the financial arrangement with the Lumineer, and Cassian’s testimony, there’s a very real chance that our Cass walks away from that marriage with millions. ”
Lysander stared at him. “You’re joking.” He burst out laughing, loud enough that the video playing in the next room paused, followed by the soft padding of bare feet in the corridor. Cassian was already coming to find out what he’d missed.
Hamish grinned at Lysander. “First thing I’ll need to do is help him control his impulses, or he’ll be dead inside a year. Death by Portuguese tart. Death by chocolate mousse. He’ll buy a bakery and eat his way through the stock before opening day.”
“He’ll buy Brown Sugar,” Lysander said, wiping his eyes. “And then he’ll buy the Vietnamese grocer next door, just for the shelf space.”
“Our multimillionaire pastry gremlin.” Hamish squeezed his hand.
“The Calyx of Cake. We’ll have to put him on a budget, Sander.
A sugar budget. Pastéis de nata: three per day maximum.
Chocolate mousse: supervised access only.
Apple turnovers —” Hamish pulled an expression of exaggerated concern.
“Actually, turnovers might need to be a controlled substance. We’ll need a lockbox. ”
From the corridor, Cassian’s voice floated in, high. “Why are you laughing? What’s happened? Has the baby done something funny?”