“What the hell, man?” Kris ran a hand over his forehead. “A little less ambiguity next time.”
“Right.” Philip’s knees unlocked and he sagged slightly. “Sorry.”
Kris gestured to one of the chairs opposite his desk. “Sit down.”
The man dropped into it. “Thank you.”
“I would never hide Frankie.” Kris didn’t have to consider what he said next. “But you and Noel were together for fifteen years. Living in this palace together. That’s effectively a common-law marriage. That’s pretty significant.” He paused, and Philip’s frown betrayed he had no idea where this was going. “I’d like to honor your place in the Jaroka family. Move you out of the servant’s quarters and into a royal family suite where you belong. I assume we have more of those. And I’d like you to eat with us, sometimes. I won’t be a jerk. We’ll do Sunday night dinners or something.”
Philip had gone pale; his bottom lip trembled.
“Please,” Kris said, sure he’d never said the word with more conviction.
The man’s next breath was a gulp. The one after that shuddered, and then he turned his face away, covering his eyes to hide his tears.
A yes, then.
Careful not to rush him, Kris pressed his fist to his mouth and turned his gaze out the nearest window. Well. He hadn’t seen this coming. When his shock subsided, Philip rested both hands on the arms of his chair and blinked up at the ceiling. His foot tapped lightly against the carpet, betraying his grasp on control was tenuous.
“Hey, I just realized,” Kris said, aiming to distract him. “If you’d married Noel, you’d be my uncle right now.”
Philip’s attention snapped to him, and after staring in apparent consternation, he made a show of recoiling. “Ghastly thought.”
Kris pulled a face. “Yeah.”
But perhaps not quite as ghastly as either of them pretended.
“Okay.” Philip withdrew a handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabbed at his face. “Shall we move on to the issues of the day?”
An hour later, they wrapped up their most harmonious meeting yet, and Philip bowed before moving to see himself out.
“Philip,” Kris said.
His advisor turned at the door. Their gazes connected.
Kris rose, swallowing the ache that returned to his throat. For fifteen years, this man had been concealed by his lover like a dirty, common-bred secret. He’d loved Prince Noel; he had been loved but not respected in return. He’d been head of personal security before Frankie took over the role, which meant he’d have been in charge of keeping his own relationship a royal family secret. For all that suppressed humiliation, Philip had still lost his life partner and hadn’t been free to openly grieve. He’d thrown himself into the task of training cowboys—who’d arrived clueless to fill the position of the man he’d lost.
If Kris had been wearing his hat, he’d have taken it off and held it to his chest.
Instead, he placed a hand over his heart.
“I’m so sorry for your loss.”
13
The investigation sucked Frankie into a time-lapse of interviews, research, and theorizing. She kept the folder of Tommy’s attackers on her desk, dragging it open every time she had a spare second. In between organizing security for Ava’s bridal shower and Mark’s bachelor party, she visited the Bull’s Quest pub where the anarchists had met—showing photos of the men in question to the proprietor, and learning they’d been meeting with a group in the rear function room for years.
“Twice a month, without fail,” the man said. Sweat clung to the roots of his thinning brown hair, either from the summer heat thick in his office or the presence of a senior member of the royal guard who’d declined his offer to sit down.
“What’s the group?” Frankie asked.
His brow buckled nervously. “What?”
“Chess? Goat yoga? Cuddle parties?” She arched a brow. “What do they do in there?”
He looked as if he didn’t know whether to laugh or beg her not to hurt his family. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“Disclosing their activities isn’t a requirement of booking, ma’am.”
“Huh.” She narrowed her eyes. “You’re not avoiding telling a royal guard that you host anarchists in your fine establishment, are you?”
He sank into the chair with a cringe. “All they do is talk. And, you know, drink a hell of a lot.”
“How lucrative,” she said. “Do new people join or has it always been the same members?”
“Uh. The group used to be bigger years ago, but about half the members just stopped turning up. Sometimes I notice new faces, so