Page 12 of Coffee and Tea

Jason flexed a bicep. “Totally happy to, y’know, tell them you don’t want to talk.”

“I’d rather not cause a scene…oh, drat. Too late.” Colby put on and turned up that smile: movie-star practiced, red-carpet polished. “Hello, Simon. So glad you could make it; your name on the list brought in quite a few donations.”

True, and Colby even meant it. Colby could lie, and pretty damn fluidly, too; but not to Jason, and not about this. He did love this cause and this evening.

“Colby.” Simon thrust out a hand, faltered. The sapphire of his eyes held a wince. Up close the eyeliner was even more dramatic. He was also wearing lip gloss, something shiny and no doubt expensive. “No, sorry, someone said—you don’t like being touched, you don’t shake hands, right? I forgot.”

“It’s fine.” Colby put out a hand, touched Simon’s like a butterfly brushing a flower, tucked the hand away. “Again, thank you so much for coming. The Foundation appreciates your support, and of course you’ve done so much for the romance genre, and for your readers. Have you had one of the sweet potato and walnut cups? They’re marvelous. And interestingly spiced. Of course if you aren’t a fan of nuts—or sweet potatoes—there’s also those bacon and water chestnut bites—or the miniature quiches, though honestly my version is better so perhaps not that, but of course if you like mushrooms perhaps you’d like them anyway—”

Jason put a hand on the back of his neck.

“Oh, fuck,” Simon said. He was looking at Colby with more insight than Jason would’ve guessed: head on one side, taking in the flow of words. “Colby, I’m so sorry.”

Jason absolutely knew what the next words out of his husband’s mouth would be, and he was right, and he hated being right. A slicing-open. Old scars tearing wide and red again.

“Oh, no, I’m sorry, I know I talk too much, often about food, please ignore everything I’ve said and go and enjoy yourselves!”

Jason folded an arm around his husband. With maybe a little more display of muscles than necessary. He didn’t exactly glare. Well, not much.

Simon swallowed. Visibly. Good.

Simon’s person, on the other hand, looked moderately amused. And had a small thoughtful quirk to brown eyebrows: evaluating the moment, or Colby, or Jason, or all of them collectively.

Colby smiled. It was the smile Jason’d seen him deploy in interviews, on press rounds, in front of cameras and microphones.

“Colby…” Simon hesitated. “I don’t know how to…you’d think I’d have words, but I honestly…oh, damn. I’m better when I can revise and write multiple drafts. I told myself I was going to talk to you. To apologize. This is me trying very badly to do that. Even if you throw cheese at me.”

Colby blinked, lifted both eyebrows, echoed, “Cheese…”

“Ah.” Simon’s cheeks went pink; he told his own shoe-tip, “Never mind,” and then looked back up. “Can I…introduce you to someone? Someone important. My husband. Ben. He’s actually a fan of yours, a properly devoted fan, in fact, he’s seen every—”

Ben shifted weight, adjusted position, kept the hand on Simon’s shorter shoulder; and drew attention like a magnet.

Presence no longer a shadow but a solid order, given shape and physicality. Even Jason kind of wanted to snap to attention. To focus on him. It was that sort of command.

In charge, powerful, assured. Dominant.

Colby’s eyes had gone huge. Jason, who was made to take care of his Colby, forever, felt his own stance subtly respond. Ready to do some protecting.

And then Colby said, “You look so familiar…I’m sorry, have we met?” and made everyone including Simon’s stylish shoes and the museum-shelf backdrop goggle at him.

Ben’s expression flickered with surprise, though he caught it. “No, I don’t think so…unless you know a lot of history teachers? Maybe it was at some charity event, or, you know, we both like books, so maybe just randomly in a bookshop?”

His voice was unremarkable as well: smooth, warm, no distinctive accent-traces or word-choices beyond generally American. Not the aristocratic English of his sunlight-sharpness pixie husband, and also not Colby’s anxious tapestry of London and California and various European castle-spires and parental diplomat’s homes. Might’ve been from anywhere. Wherever he taught history.

Wherever he’d picked up, Jason’s head pointed out again, those excellent physical reflexes.

“I’ve met a few teachers, at Foundation events…” Colby had forgotten about Simon for a second. Jason wasn’t sure whether that was good or the opposite. “But no. I’m sure it’s not that. Someplace else, some time ago…”

“Ben doesn’t travel much, anymore.” Simon’s voice had gone oddly tight. Defensive, almost. “And I’m sure he hasn’t met you.”

“No, but I’m normally good with faces…sorry, what was your last name?”

“Smith,” Ben offered. No pause, no obvious lies. Nothing to justify the prickle along Jason’s arms. “The worst, I know. The definition of ordinary.”

Simon glanced all the way up at him. “As if you’re ordinary, love.”

Ben laughed. Some of the granite dominance gave way to humor. “Thanks.”

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