Jago nodded. “Well, get in, then. I ain’t got all day.”
Huh. “Thought you didn’t approve of them?” Mal got in quick before Jago could change his mind and drive off.
“Think I’m letting you walk up there on a sprained ankle? I’d never hear the last of it from Tasha.”
Mal grinned. “Hang about, people are gonna start thinking you care.”
“Slander and lies. You going to manage, me driving you?”
Sod it. “One little flashback and everyone thinks I’m gonna flip my shit every time I get in a car. Who told you about that, anyhow?” Not that he couldn’t guess.
“Eyes everywhere. And just you remember that.”
Pervy old sod. Keeping shtum for reasons of self-preservation, Mal focussed on not actually flipping his shit as Jago pulled out and drove along the lane.
Seeing as (a) the old bloke slowed to a crawl every time they got within fifty feet of any pedestrians and (b) Mal’s insides were tied up so tight about Jory he could barely think about anything else, it wasn’t as hard as he’d worried it might be. “Cheers, mate,” he said as Jago dropped him off at the gates of Roscarrock House.
Jago nodded. “Call me if you need a lift back.”
And then he was gone. Mal trudged up the drive, stick in hand and his heart in his mouth.
Roscarrock House was a lot grimmer close up than Mal remembered. Or maybe it was just the weather—the grey stone pretty much blended in with the sky.
Funny to think, if things had been different, Dev could have grown up in this place. Mal would never have met him, or Tasha.
Or Jory.
He swallowed and knocked.
The door was opened by a dark-haired bloke who was shorter than Mal and apparently none too happy about it. Or, well, about anything at all, by the face on him. “Yes?”
“Um. Jory?” Mal wondered where the rest of his words had gone.
Short, dark and grumpy gave him a thorough once-over. He seemed to pay particular attention to Mal’s hands which, yeah, were definitely the worse for wear after last night, scratched up and with half the skin off his knuckles. He hadn’t managed to get all the dirt out from under his fingernails either. “You’re the boyfriend,” the bloke—Jory’s brother, Bran, had to be—spat out at last.
Was he? Mal wished he was half as sure about it. Shit, how much did Bran know about last night? “Can I just—”
“I’ll tell him you’re here.” Bran turned and stomped down the hall, leaving Mal hovering uneasily on the doorstep.
What if Jory didn’t want to see him? He had every right to be pissed off at Mal.
But Bran had called him Jory’s boyfriend. Not—and Mal reckoned this was a key point and he was going to hang on to it with both hands if it bloody well killed him—his ex.
Catching sight of Jory coming down the hall sent a wash of pure relief flooding over him. Particularly when he saw how nervous Jory looked. That had to be good, right?
Or bad. Maybe it was bad.
“Hi,” Mal said, his voice coming out in a squeak.
“Hi.”
They stood there for about three thousand years, just staring at each other. Jory looked, well, rough—there were dark circles under his eyes, his beard was due a trim, and his hair had forgotten what a comb was for. And his hands . . . “Shit, your hands are worse than mine. You okay?”
Jory glanced down at his hands, spreading them out in front of him like he hadn’t noticed that they were all scratched up, his knuckles skinned and nails broken. Cleaner than Mal’s, though. “Oh, yes. Fine. Thanks. You?”
Mal shrugged. “Better than I deserve. So, uh, that was your brother, yeah?”
“Bran. Yes. Um. Do you want to come in?”
Mal nodded, relieved, and stepped over the threshold.
Jory seemed to see the walking stick for the first time, and his face fell. “You didn’t walk all this way on an injured leg?”
“Nah, Jago gave me a lift. It ain’t so bad. Just twisted me ankle a bit, falling.” It was sort of true. It’d definitely loosened up since he’d got up this morning. “Got a bruise the size of Ireland on me thigh, though.”
“Come in properly and sit down.” Jory still seemed jumpy.
“You sure I’m gonna be welcome?”
Jory nodded. “It’s fine. Bran and I had something of a heart-to-heart this morning.”
Mal laughed nervously. “Yeah? He’s got one, then?”
“You’d be surprised. I was.” Jory took a deep breath. “Kirsty and I are getting divorced.”
“What? Shit. Is that cos of—”
“Only indirectly.” Jory half smiled. “But please do come in.”
Mal followed him down the hall to a kitchen he hadn’t seen on the tour. It was bigger than most kitchens he’d been in—even had room for a proper old-fashioned kitchen table that could seat a family of six easily, though it’d probably been years since it actually had. Jory pulled out a chair for him.
“Tea? Coffee?”
Mal shook his head. “Nah, I’m good.” Then he wished he’d accepted, cos it would’ve given him something to do with his hands.
At least they were in the kitchen. Jory wouldn’t bring him to the kitchen to dump his arse, would he? He’d use the front room for that. Keep it formal, shove Mal out the door as quick as he could.
Probably.
Jory sat down in the next chair. And waited.
Shit. Mal swallowed. “Look, I wanted to say I’m sorry. About . . . uh, about last night, obviously, but for fucking you around before too.”
“It’s . . . okay,” Jory said, his tone saying it wasn’t really okay, but he thought it ought to be. “Kirsty told me it was her fault, not yours.”
There was the hint of a question there at the end. And Mal wanted to say, Yeah, totally her, what a slapper, but he just couldn’t, all right? It wouldn’t be fair. What happened last night had all been down to him not explaining stuff properly, and if things got fucked
