“Baby, any way you take me is fine by me.” Mal grinned, stretched, and sat up. “Hey, you gonna stay for breakfast? You’re welcome, but I ain’t gonna be hurt if you can’t face Tasha smirking at you over your cornflakes.”
Jory rubbed his beard. “I’m more worried about Jago Andrewartha’s reaction if he finds out I spent the night here.”
“Think he’s gonna go all medieval on you for sullying my virtue? Nah, he’d be cool with it. And not just cos he knows I ain’t no blushing damsel. He gave me a lift up to yours yesterday, didn’t he?”
“Still, I’d rather not rub his face in it.” Jory cupped Mal’s face with his hand, which, yeah, if he was honest, made Mal feel pretty damsel-like, but fuck it, he liked it. “Will I see you later today?”
“Yeah. Course. Uh, you’re not working, are you?”
Jory shook his head. “It’s Monday. The museum’s closed. Fortunately, as I’d be a couple of hours late already.”
“Then you should come and meet Dev. At the cottage.”
“Are you sure? Maybe I should meet him somewhere more . . . neutral.”
Mal frowned. “The cottage is neutral.”
“No, I mean . . . he might prefer somewhere he can walk away from.”
“He ain’t gonna walk away from you.”
“He might. After all, what claim do I really have on him? I’m just the brother of the woman who rejected him.”
“No, you ain’t. Well, you are, but the main thing is, you’re my bloke. So he ain’t gonna walk away.” He paused. Jory was smiling at him in a way that made his insides do weird somersaults. “What?”
“I’m not sure who’s luckier, here—you, for having a friend like Dev, or me, for having met you.”
Mal rolled his eyes, cos it was that or blub like a little girl. “Well, duh. It’s me, innit? Cos I got you too.”
Jory’s euphoric haze lasted all the way from the Sea Bell, right up to when he got out of the car at Roscarrock House. That was when he got a text from Mal saying he’d spoken to Dev and arranged for them to go to the cottage at two.
Then the nerves set in.
The trouble was, Jory wasn’t only preparing to meet his long-lost nephew who had no reason to feel kindly towards anyone from his birth family. He was also about to meet one of the most important people in Mal’s life. And despite what Mal had said, Jory didn’t want Dev just to tolerate him for his friend’s sake.
It was probably partly hunger that was making him feel queasy, he told himself, so after a quick shower, he rustled up a hearty brunch of bacon and beans on toast.
Bran wandered into the kitchen as Jory sat down at the table to eat. “You were out last night.”
“Yes.” There didn’t seem to be a lot else to say.
Bran paused. “With . . . the boyfriend.”
“Mal. Yes.” Jory wished Bran would get to the point and let him enjoy his bacon in peace.
“You don’t have to move out,” Bran said abruptly.
Jory put down his fork. He wasn’t quite sure how to take that. As an olive branch? That was most likely how Bran meant it. “Thanks. But would you be happy for me to have my boyfriend over for the night?”
Bran’s jaw tightened. He didn’t say anything.
“Then I do have to move out,” Jory said gently. Not that it was the only reason, but it was the easiest one to make Bran understand without it coming to a shouting match. Then, because he genuinely wanted to know, “Is it because he’s male? Or because I’m technically still married to Kirsty? Both?”
Bran looked away. “I’ll draw up a list of properties that will be convenient for the school,” he said, and walked briskly out of the room.
Christ, he was so bloody frustrating sometimes. Jory jabbed angrily at his bacon, then took a deep breath.
If Bran needed to feel like he was doing something for him, well, maybe Jory should learn to live with it. He didn’t have to take any of the places his brother found. And . . . it was nice that Bran was trying to help, in his own way.
Two o’clock seemed to take an age to arrive—until all at once Jory was panicking he’d be late. He hurried out of the house, only now questioning whether he should be taking a gift of some kind. Why the hell hadn’t he done some baking?
He’d arranged to meet Mal outside the Zelley cottage, and when he half jogged down the cliff path, he saw a familiar lean figure already there. Mal was standing outside the little cottage garden, his phone in his hands. He lifted his head as Jory approached, and smiled. “Hey, I was just texting you.”
“Sorry I’m late.”
“Nah, you’re good. I was early.” Mal shoved his phone in his back pocket. “Didn’t wanna go in without you, though. So it’s lucky Kyle and Dev ain’t looked out the window.”
They walked up to the house, which bore a slate plaque proclaiming it to be Mother Ivey’s Boudoir, and around to the front door. Jory had always thought it a rather saucy name for what was presumably merely a typical, well-kept Cornish cottage. Then again, he’d never been inside it before. Maybe it was all tarted up in red velvet like a Victorian brothel?
“You nervous?” Mal asked.
Jory gave him a twisted smile. “What do you think?”
“Yeah, me too.”
Oh. He hadn’t thought of that, but of course Mal would be nervous. Dev was his best friend. If this went badly . . . Jory made up his mind firmly that it wouldn’t go badly, and tried to be unobtrusive about wiping his palms on his jeans.
Had the jeans been a step too far? Would Dev take them as they were intended, an attempt to be informal and relaxed, or would he think Jory was taking the piss?
Oh God.
The door opened. The slightly ethnic-looking young man Jory remembered from Mal’s photos
