“I don’t like imposing on strangers. I’ll just wait here, thanks.”
“Strangers?” Knight said. “Well, considering you tackled me and we rolled around in the mud, I think we’re past the point of strangers.” He scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Mom left when I was five. Dad left when I was fifteen. I spent three years with my grandma ranching in Montana. I got my mining engineering degree at Montana Tech, and I was smart on a few deals and got lucky on a few others. I moved here so we could be closer to my boyfriend’s family, and then he decided he’d had enough of me, but I’m too damn stubborn to give him the satisfaction of leaving. And I hate eating alone. So, there. Not strangers anymore.” The corner of his mouth quirked, and he added, “And I really do like Louis L’Amour books.”
Magnus worked his jaw for a moment, reeling from the barrage of personal revelations, hating the way he suddenly felt sympathy for Knight. He settled for saying, “I hate eating alone too.”
“Well,” Knight said. “Think we can be civil long enough to have a meal?”
“We did pretty well so far,” Magnus said, “but that’s probably because we weren’t talking.”
“I think I’d like to talk. And listen. I told you my stuff; you can tell me yours over dinner.” Taking Magnus’s hand, Knight squeezed it once and then pulled him toward the kitchen.
“You’re so good at this,” Hazard grumbled as he worked the next envelope out of his pocket. This one said The Fight. “How are you making all this stuff up on the fly?”
“As you like to point out,” Somers said, “I watch way too many romantic comedies.”
Hazard wasn’t sure if it was Nickolas Knight or John-Henry Somerset who crashed into him, peppering kisses along his neck before laughing and dragging him towards the candlelight dinner in the next room.
IV
FEBRUARY 23
SATURDAY
7:01 PM
MAGNUS STORMED THROUGH Knight’s house. Over the last few months, as he had spent time there—first nights, then weekends, then stretches of days at a time when he’d leave from Knight’s house and go to work, only to come back at the end of the day—it had started to feel like a home. Now, though, the illusion was stripped away. Now he could see what had been going on the whole time.
“You fucking monster,” Magnus said as he came into Knight’s study. Dark wainscoting, bookshelves, windows that looked down on the river. Magnus threw down the eminent domain notice. “I cannot fucking believe you.”
Knight was typing on a laptop; he frowned, glanced up, and then his attention went back to the screen.
“Don’t ignore me,” Magnus said.
“I’m working,” Knight said. “Shouldn’t you be back at Joaquin’s place by now?”
The words were a slap. “Excuse me?”
“You make such a pretty couple. And he’s not—how did you describe me? ‘An arrogant, uncultured asshole obsessed with things that are totally meaningless in the big picture.’ He’s a painter, right? Poor as dirt, but at least he’s got ‘culture.’”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“You said—”
“I know I said those horrible things. But I was angry, and I didn’t know you back then. You weren’t supposed to hear that. I’m sorry.”
“Fuck your sorry,” Knight said. “You were just fucking me to keep me from moving forward with the redevelopment of downtown.” Knight trembled, and then he shoved the laptop away and stood. He wasn’t as tall as Magnus, but he had so much anger right then that he seemed to fill the whole room. “I told you things I’ve never told anyone. You want to talk about someone who doesn’t know what’s really meaningful? Take a look in the mirror, dickwad. I can’t believe I thought we had something.”
“I was fucking you to get what I wanted?” Magnus laughed. “God, you are unbelievable. This is what I wanted? This?” He shoved the eminent domain letter across the desk. “Good job, Nickolas. You screwed with my head until I told you what you needed to know. As soon as I told you that the store’s historical designation had been withdrawn, you turned around and used it against me. You stabbed me in the back. I trusted you. They’re going to chop up my store so they can build a fucking road to your new stripmall—”
“For which you’ll be fairly compensated.”
Magnus laughed again. “You are really unbelievable. You know that’s not going to be enough money, not with the debts my aunt left me. This is it. Page Turner Books is done. I’m done. You ruined me. I hope you’re happy.”
“I am happy,” Knight said, whirling away and yanking open the drawer of a filing cabinet. He pulled out an envelope and tossed it at Magnus. When it hit the floor, photographs spilled out.
Magnus picked up one, his stomach churning. He recognized himself in the picture. And Joaquin. Naked.
“Where did you get these?”
“See, you can’t even pretend to deny it,” Knight said. “Your face is right fucking there, pardon the pun. His too. If you want to talk about being stabbed in the back—” He cut off with a furious noise, gesturing at the photographs. “Get the hell out of my house. If you come back, I’ll have you arrested for trespassing.”
It should have been a laugh, but what came out instead sounded like a sob. Magnus waved the picture. “This? You believed this? These pictures are old, Nickolas. Joaquin and I have been broken up for over a year, long before I met you. I don’t know who took these pictures or how you got them, but I can’t believe you’re so fucking naïve.”
“I’m naïve?”
“Yeah, Nickolas. Take a second look at the picture. Joaquin got a tattoo on his neck right when you and I started dating; you’ve seen the tattoo. You saw the
