Shortbread and Shadows - Amy Lane Page 0,20

your hands on my hips, Tolly. I’m going to kiss you again.”

Bartholomew did, and maybe it was the deliberateness of the action—not instinct, or even raw hunger, but actual forethought. That he wanted to kiss Bartholomew, not only in the heat of the moment. His mouth moved gently this time, exploring, not ravishing, and Bartholomew responded, just as gently.

Lachlan pulled back, his breathing growing urgent. “So sweet,” he said. “I knew all along you’d taste so sweet.”

This time the kiss went deeper, and Bartholomew found his hands rucking up underneath Lachlan’s sweatshirt on purpose. He wanted to touch skin, glide his palms along Lachlan’s back, feel the muscles bunch under his fingers.

Lachlan groaned, and his wide-palmed hands felt so right cupping Bartholomew’s behind, and Bartholomew wriggled against him, groin to groin, as his cock started to ache and grow in his jeans.

A noise echoed through the garage, and they both startled back. Lachlan looked over his shoulder and gasped. “Shit. C’mon, Tolly, we’ve got to go. The freight elevator—look!”

Bartholomew hopped into the truck, and Lachlan started it up before they were both even belted. He drove one-handed as they buckled up, and as they rounded the first corner out of the parking garage, Bartholomew glanced over his shoulder and saw the first of the crowd start to spill out into the darkness from the elevator, looking frantically around.

“Hurry,” he urged. “Before they see us enough to recognize the truck.”

Lachlan accelerated carefully, because parking garages could be tricky, but Bartholomew didn’t see anybody sprinting to catch up with them. He did, however, see his own van, parked farther from the freight door, and sighed.

“I wonder how much stock was left. We’ll probably have to throw it all away.”

“What about the… the whatsit? The spell you wanted Jordan to perform?”

“Yeah, but that was only around the stock in the booth.” Bartholomew pulled out his phone and texted Jordan about the girls who’d helped them out.

How’s it going? Still crazy?

No. We just performed the spell. People are looking dazed but not desperate. Lachlan’s doing a rocking business, though. Don’t worry—Josh and Kate have him covered, and me and Alex have your booth. How’re you?

Worried. The crowd followed us into the parking garage. They still looked a little crazed.

There was a pause, then thought bubbles. We might have to do something more permanent and wider reaching. Have Lachlan bring you home tonight, and we’ll see if we can’t break the food spell permanently.

Tonight?

Well, yeah—don’t you have things to talk about?

Bartholomew swallowed. But cleanup and preparation and stuff.

Bartholomew, man up! You’re going to need to talk to him sometime! Your serious unrequited almost caused a riot!

Unrequited? Well, not COMPLETELY unrequited….

Good. That’s the kind of communication we need if you don’t want to be mobbed by the entire cast of Stranger Things.

Aw, man! I MISSED THAT? It was one of Bartholomew’s favorite shows.

Priorities, Barty. Now sac up and have a relationship, okay?

Fine. See you at five.

Seven. Make him buy you dinner, at the very least.

Whatever. He took a deep breath. Thanks, Jordan.

Don’t thank me—you’re conveniently forgetting part of this is my fault.

We all told a lie, Jordan. I’m the only one who fed it to a crowd at a con.

Hang tough, Barty. See you later.

Later.

Bartholomew sighed and pocketed his phone, looking around. Lachlan had effectively steered them down J Street, away from the convention center and toward the freeway, funnily enough taking the freeway onramp that would lead them to H50, the same one Bartholomew would have needed.

“Where are we going?” Bartholomew asked.

“My house, out in Jackson,” Lachlan said, like of course they were going there.

“That’s a ways from my place,” Bartholomew said glumly. “That sucks.”

“It’s an hour, Tolly. Not days.”

Bartholomew nodded, depressed. “I know. Sorry. Just… daydreaming.” Planning. Hoping. Imagining sleepovers. Moving in. Still visiting friends. Where the wedding’s going to be?

“It’s my grandparents’ place,” Lachlan told him. “They passed on, and Dad asked if I could stay there. Grandpa’s workshop is sort of amazing, and I was so over teaching. It worked.”

“You were a teacher?” Bartholomew asked, awestruck.

“Yeah, for about ten minutes. The kids were great. The adults were… not so great. I managed to piss my administrator off three times in a month. Let’s just say I was not asked back next year.”

“What did you do?” Bartholomew asked.

“Well, for one thing, I fed them. They were high school kids, right? All hollow legs and hormones? So I brought granola bars.”

“And that was… bad?” Bartholomew couldn’t imagine this.

“It was,” Lachlan nodded, obviously as flummoxed