Shortbread and Shadows - Amy Lane Page 0,16

fidgeting with hair spray and colored wigs and some truly fabulous costumes, and hauled ass for the back of the room, where Lachlan pulled Bartholomew into the second-to-last stall.

“But our feet!” Bartholomew protested in a whisper—right in Lachlan’s ear.

“I’ve got an idea.” Normally, Lachlan would have stood up on the edge of the seat and crouched down—it was how he’d cut school for most of his senior year. But they couldn’t both do that, and if they tried it, the odds of one of them ending up ankle-deep in toilet water increased exponentially. “Here. I’m gonna sit down.”

Lachlan grabbed a handful of the paper liners from behind the bowl and threw them on top of the seat and then shoved himself backward so his bottom was on the back ridge. He thrust out his legs, jamming them against the door, and whispered, “Sit in my lap!”

“What?” Bartholomew’s voice cracked high enough to register back on the vendor’s floor.

“Straddle my legs and shove your feet against the wall!” Lachlan whispered. “Hurry!”

Bartholomew’s heat across his thighs almost did him in.

Heaven knew, a ladies’ restroom wasn’t romantic—not in the least—but augh! Bartholomew’s thighs were pressing against his, and he leaned forward close enough for their groins to touch, their chests to touch, and then just stared at him with those ginormous gray eyes.

“Do we think they’re going to follow us?” Bartholomew whispered, his lips brushing up against Lachlan’s ear.

Lachlan wanted to moan, but he managed to speak actual words, face buried against Bartholomew’s neck. God, he smelled like yeast and vanilla, and a little like sweat, and even a little like lavender and patchouli from the candles he’d been handling.

Intoxicating—that’s what he smelled like. Earthy and exotic and intoxicating.

“I don’t care,” he murmured, wrapping his arms around Bartholomew’s waist and raising his face up in supplication.

They both heard the door to the bathroom crash open, and several excited female voices cried out, “Did you see him? Did you see him? You guys, we’re looking for the baker—the guy who makes those fabulous cookies. Did you see him come in here?”

The questioner was sounding more and more hysterical, and Lachlan sucked in his breath. Bartholomew buried his face against Lachlan’s neck and murmured, “Let them not see, let them not see, she’s not really looking for the boy who’s me.”

“Nn… no,” muttered one of the girls at the counter, and then another one, more strongly.

“No—no—I’m sorry. We haven’t seen any guys in here. We’d notice, right?”

There was a rustle and a patter of feet, and Lachlan kept his arms wrapped around Bartholomew’s shoulders as shoes appeared in his line of vision under the bathroom stalls. His stomach muscles were shaking and so were his thighs, both of them meeting the end of their endurance for the pike-crunchie he was doing in an effort to not let his bottom hit the toilet water or his feet hit the ground.

“He’s not here, guys!” one of the young women called. A chorus of groans met this pronouncement, and the feet and legs—all clad in a phenomenal array of footwear, costume, and hosiery—shuffled out toward the entrance.

“Not yet,” Lachlan mouthed, seeing one or two sets still lingering. He flexed his stomach and prayed for fortitude, and felt Bartholomew’s thighs trembling over his.

God, he wanted to be this close to Bartholomew while not hovering over a toilet. That would be fantastic. He smelled amazing, and the way he clung to Lachlan’s shoulders made Lachlan feel strong and protective and the king of the world.

Bartholomew shifted silently, obviously trying to keep his thighs from cramping, and the friction rubbed Lachlan right across the package. He sent Bartholomew a heated look, and Bartholomew mouthed, “I’m so sorry!” without uttering a sound.

Lachlan’s eyes went half-mast. The feet disappeared, but he didn’t move yet.

“Don’t be,” he mouthed, and then he licked his lips.

Almost unconsciously, Bartholomew licked his in return, and then bit his lower lip shyly. It was those white teeth, not quite straight, sinking into the pink softness that did Lachlan in.

“They’re gone,” Bartholomew whispered before biting his lip again.

“Don’t care.” Lachlan lowered his feet to the floor and kept his bottom braced so he didn’t sink into the water. He lowered his hands to Bartholomew’s thighs, keeping them wrapped around his waist before he leaned forward.

“Don’t care?” Bartholomew asked, staring into his eyes with definite hunger.

“Don’t care.”

Bartholomew’s lips tilted up at the corners. “Oh,” he breathed.

“Kiss me, Tolly.”

Bartholomew smiled so brightly his nose wrinkled, and then he sobered and lowered his