“Wes—”
“I love castles,” Wes said dreamily as he dug out a fistful of colored pencils. “In London, all the castles felt too shiny and set up, like theme parks. I didn’t like that. But in Wales and Scotland? Oh man. Wildness, ruins, crumbling stone walls with moss crawling over them. You could feel the ghosts there. That’s the kind of castle I’d live in. Broken towers, secret staircases, maybe a dragon curled up in the courtyard.” He grinned as if he could already see it, then tugged the book from me and turned to another page, turning it to face me and then pushing a handful of pencils my way. “Here, color that one—it looks like a ruin.”
All I could think about was that he said he’d seen castles. “You’ve been to the UK?” I asked.
He glanced up at me, then down at the coloring. “In my dreams,” he corrected.
I didn’t believe him after listening to the speech he gave, which had been oddly specific. Why would he lie about what he’d seen? I hunted out a brown in the mess of pencils and began to shade the outside of some stones. Was that the right color? I probably needed more of a gray, and I rummaged through the pile of colors until I found one.
“So why are you confused?” Wes asked.
“I’m not sure if the stones would be brown or gray,” I said.
He laughed. “No, I meant about the interview today.”
I stopped coloring and glanced up at him. He wasn’t staring at me; he didn’t seem all that bothered if I gave him an answer. Instead, he was focused on coloring in a sunset, and yes, a dragon.
Did Iwantto talk to Wes? I sipped my cocoa, which, while not as good as what my machines downstairs could do, wasn’t bad. Truth was, I needed to talk to someone, and Wes… well, he talked a lot, endlessly sometimes, but he always had a smile waiting for me, and a kind of exuberance that filled the air like sunlight. Somehow, even when I was at my lowest, that energy chipped away at my walls and made me want to smile, too.
Were we friends? Were we something else? I kept thinking about all the small, cute things he did—the way he always cared, the kindness he showed in the smallest gestures, how his smile came so easily. And I hadn’t been able to get him out of my mind since I’d held him in my arms. He’d fit there so well, tucked into me, relying on me not to let him fall. In the kitchen, in the snow, in those ridiculous tiger-striped slippers—every time he was close, it felt as if he trusted me, and damn if that didn’t shake something deep inside me.
He wouldn’t judge me for what I’d been aiming for and then changing my mind. He’d just listen.
“It was the weirdest interview,” I began. “The dean and I wandered around the college, and he was asking me all these questions about what I’d do in this lecture theatre, or whether I’d be interested in running a queer history program. Hell, he offered me the role outside the bathrooms on the third floor—Assistant Professor of History.”
“Congratulations?” Wes murmured the word like a question, so I expanded on what the role included.
“I’d be teaching undergrads, mentoring seniors, running the migration studies module, and co-leading the new Civil War archival project, plus the queerhistory review. Lots of responsibilities, but in all the ways I enjoy.”
“That’s what you love?”
That was a leading question. “I love lectures, research, and building something lasting. And the salary isn’t bad either, better than I’d dared hope for a small liberal arts college. And with the proceeds of The Real McCoy sale, I could definitely get a place near campus.”
“That’s amazing,” Wes said, although his voice still had an edge to it, wariness maybe? Then he tilted his head, curiosity sharpening his tone. “So why are you confused?”
“It’s not what I planned for,” I blurted, surprising myself with my honesty.
“You like owning and running The Real McCoy?”
God, he sounded so hopeful, and I frowned. “Jeez no, I mean I planned for other things.”
Wes tapped his lip, and his eyes brightened. “Like the time I ordered a selection of crime thrillers and somehow ended up with cupcake recipe cards instead. I thought it was a disaster, but everyone who came in wanted copies of the cards, and by the end of the week, we’d sold out of the damn things. Who knew cupcake recipes were so in demand?”
“Okay—”
“And who said that life is what happens when we’re making plans?” Wes asked.
I raised a brow. “John Lennon,” I answered automatically, surprising him—and myself—with how quickly it came. “Well actually, that quote was originally published in the late fifties inReader’s Digest, by this man called Allen Saunders, years before Lennon popularized it. Lennon made it famous, but Saunders said it first.”
He grinned. “You’re so clever. Who justknowsthat kind of thing? Seriously, Hunter, you’re like a walking encyclopedia. No wonder the college wants you.”
Heat crawled up my neck, and I ducked my head, cautious. Compliments always made me feel awkward, and coming from Wes, it felt too close.
Then before I could change the subject, he leaned forward, his gaze focused. “If you didn’t plan for the coffee shop, or this college… then whatdidyou plan for, Hunter?”
“Tenure at my old college—that’s what I planned for.”
“But you left?”
