He was less glad for the leisure to second-guess the purpose of tonight’s . . . well, he’d call it a date, except that Mal had been so adamant that kissing him had been a mistake, hadn’t he? But planning, planning was good.
And anyway, if Mal was that set on not kissing him again, he wouldn’t have arranged to see him the very next day, would he? Jory’s heart leapt at the possibilities. He’d have left it a few days at least. Even if he’d felt compelled to apologise as soon as possible, he wouldn’t have asked Jory out for the evening too. Not unless he . . .
But this was getting Jory nowhere. Except determined to have a concrete plan for the evening. Something for them to do, so there wouldn’t be any awkward silences.
Something fun, so Mal would enjoy their time together. Would want to see him again . . .
Oh hell. Jory might as well admit it to himself. He wanted to make Mal want to kiss him again. To realise that what there was between them—what there could be between them, at any rate—was strong enough not to pose any threat to Jory’s future relationship with Dev. What would be the best way of doing that? He needed something special. Something . . . something personal. Maybe if he showed Mal a little more of himself, he’d . . . Okay, there was a fifty-fifty chance Mal wouldn’t actually like what was revealed, but wasn’t all of life a gamble? Jory took risks every time he climbed—hell, he’d taken risks as a small child, scrambling along what remained of the smugglers’ tunnels through the cliffs of Big Guns Cove with Patrick.
Jory stood up from his chair with such an abrupt move the bust of Admiral Quick wobbled on its plinth behind him.
That was it. Something personal and fun. He’d take Mal down there.
Mal turned up at the museum ten minutes early but decided it’d be awkward if he went in and Jory couldn’t leave. Especially seeing as there probably wouldn’t be any visitors, just him and Jory watching the clock.
So he wandered around a bit, having a gander at the place from the outside. It was . . . Well, maybe it was the old-time equivalent of a midlife crisis flashy car? All big and show-offy, as if the bloke who built it was all, You think this is impressive? Wait till you get a butcher’s at my dick.
Then again, Mal drove big long trains into tunnels all day for a living, so it wasn’t like he had much room to talk.
When he stepped through the door dead on five o’clock, Jory was already there waiting, leaning against the front of his desk, hands in his pockets. He glanced up, and fuck, that smile ought to come with a health warning, cos it was doing some serious damage to Mal’s heart.
“Are you up for something physical tonight?” Jory asked, stepping away from his desk.
Mal took a step back before he knew what he was doing, and threw a furtive glance around the place in case there were any late visitors still there. “Uh, mate, see, I thought we weren’t gonna—”
“I didn’t mean . . .” Jory swallowed, his face redder than the worst sunburn Mal had seen in his life, and he’d spotted a few classic English lobsters on the beach only this afternoon. “Caving. I thought we could go caving.”
Oh. Mal wasn’t disappointed. He fucking wasn’t, all right? He turned and led the way out of the museum to cover his embarrassment. “Uh, yeah. Sorry, bruv. One-track mind, me.”
“I suppose it helps when driving a train,” Jory deadpanned as he locked the door.
Mal’s laugh was a bit higher pitched and more girly than he’d have liked it to be, but at least it let out some of the tension. “Mate, that was terrible. Seriously. Never, ever give up the day job.” He coughed. “So, uh, caving? Don’t we need like equipment and stuff for that? Or were you talking about the tourist caves?” He’d picked up a leaflet about them in the tourist information place, all floodlit and a bit, well, tame if he was honest.
Jory looked smug. “There are some old smugglers’ caves almost directly under Roscarrock House that have never been open to the public. I used to explore them when I was a boy. And I didn’t have any special equipment then.”
“Weren’t your mum and dad worried you’d, like, get buried alive or something?”
Jory gave a shifty glance to the side as they walked along the path. “Um. I might have neglected to tell them exactly where I was going.”
“Bloody hell. My mum always had to know where I was going, who with, and when I was gonna be back. To the minute.”
“You grew up in the city though. Dangers around here are different—or at least, people used to think they were, back then.” Jory gave a twisted smile. “And maybe kids were different. These days you don’t worry about letting them run around freely so much as count yourself lucky if you can get them out of doors at all.”
He must be thinking about his kid. Gawen. Mal wanted to ask what he was like—except there was an ugly feeling twisting his chest and he worried he’d end up saying something he didn’t mean. “So . . . we going straight there?”
“Actually, I was planning to get changed first.” Jory’s tone was apologetic as he glanced down at his posh chinos, and yeah, Mal really ought to try thinking before he opened his mouth. “You should probably do that too. Wear clothes you don’t care about—the tunnel should be dry, this time of year, but just in case. And we’ll need torches, of course. Um. I could pick you up
