Page 89 of Short Stack 3

We start to walk across the muddy park, Tom’s hand in mine as we watch Mr Peterson attempting to terrorise one of the goalposts. The rain starts to fall harder.

“I love our Sundays,” I say happily, thinking of the pub with our friends and then roast beef and Yorkshire pudding.

Tom snorts. “I love you.”

Bee’s Amsterdam

A new short story. This is set after the epilogue ofOn Circus Laneand during the events ofMerry Measure. I like the idea that while Arlo and Jack are busy falling in love, Bee is having his own romantic adventures in the background.

Chapter One

Bee

I lie in the tumble of sheets, panting and trying to draw in air. “Fuck,” I finally say.

There’s a chuckle, and then the sheets heave, and Tom’s head pops out. His brown hair is a wild mess, and his cheeks are flushed. “Good?”

“I don’t have any words to describe how good that blowjob was.”

He rolls his eyes. “You lie. You always havethousandsof words.”

I snort and tug at him. “Come here. My turn.”

“No need.” He slumps to the side of me and wipes a wet hand very slowly and deliberately down my torso. “I took care of it.”

I start to laugh and shove him. “You’re disgusting.”

“And you still love me.”

I snuggle into him, ignoring the sticky come that is going to have the consistency and durability of wallpaper paste very soon, and kiss him. When I pull away, I whisper, “So much.”

We lie awhile, watching the shadows move across the hotel room. It’s a beautiful space with a huge bed and a view over the canal. Even the duvet and sheets feel expensive.

I wrinkle my nose. “This must have cost a fortune, Tom.”

“You’re worth it.”

“Well, I knowthat.”

He chuckles. “I’ve got so many points from travelling with work that I thought it would be nice to use them.”

I turn my head on the pillow to study him thoughtfully. He travels with work often, so that statement made perfect sense, but I know Tom Wright — probably better than I know myself — I know he’s concealing something. I’m not extraordinarily perceptive; it’s just that he is incapable of lying. It’s one of his most endearing traits.

I consider whether to entertain myself by questioning him. It always yields amusing results, but I decide against it. He’ll tell me in his own time.

“That was a good idea of yours, babe,” he says sleepily.

“Which one? I have many.”

He pinches my hip, making me squirm and chuckle because I’m ticklish there, and he knows it.

When we settle again, he continues speaking. “Suggesting Jack and Arlo share a room was a good idea. I was worried that Jack would end up in another hotel. He needs to be with us.”

That last bit came out slightly messianic in tone, but I ignore it.

“He gets on well with Arlo,” I say tentatively.

He hums in agreement. “Yeah. They’re practically brothers.”

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