“It is a good idea if you set it up properly.”
Joe pursed his lips, a failsafe clue that he was about to explode.
Dylan took pity on him—and Harry—and plucked the paperwork from his hands. “Do you know where he put the money?”
“Nope.”
“No idea at all?”
“Emma reckons it could be in an ISA or some premium bonds, but I didn’t know we had any of that shit.”
“Okay.” Dylan took Joe’s arm and tugged him out of the kitchen to the small office Joe hated so much. “First, we’ll find the money, and if we can’t do that, we’ll explain to HMRC that you might need some extra time.”
“Tried that,” Joe grumbled. “They’re shut for Christmas.”
“Nah, they just want you to think that. I’ve got a direct number.”
It took twenty minutes to fix Joe’s tax woes. The friendly accountant had set up the payment for the wrong year—a simple typo that was easily rectified.
Joe fell back in his chair. “Jesus Christ, this financial stuff is gonna kill me one day, I swear.”
Dylan chuckled mirthlessly, his bones aching for the piece of his heart he’d left slumped at the kitchen table. “It’s really not that bad. You just need to pay more attention so it doesn’t creep up on you.”
“About that.” Joe’s eyes—darker than Angelo’s... wilder—were merciless as they bored into Dylan’s soul. “Ain’t it what you and Angelo have been doing for weeks? Ignoring shit to the point where you can’t even look at each other?”
“I can look at him.”
“So why aren’t you locked in that chalet, fucking like bunnies like you usually do when matey boy can walk straight?”
It was Joe’s way not to waste his words, but after a lengthy spell of talking to no one outside the world of debt management and financial services, Dylan was unprepared for how deep they flayed him. “I don’t know. I was kind of counting on us doing just that, so I’m not sure why things are the way they are.”
“Bollocks. You know everything about everything.”
“I really don’t. Not when it comes to real life.”
“You meanyourlife.”
“Whatever.”
Joe hummed. “Well, you’d better work it out, ’cause you know he can’t.”
Brutal, but true. The anxiety that had plagued Dylan most of his adult life had nothing on the ME-induced brain fog that impaired Angelo’s thinking so much. Sometimes Angelo didn’t make things right because hecouldn’t. Because he couldn’t think around the complications Dylan’s own bad habits had created for them.
This isn’t your fault either.
But it didn’t matter. None of it did. All that mattered was making things right.
Which meant figuring out what was wrong.
Dylan drifted back to the kitchen. Everyone had gone, leaving Angelo on his own with a pile of cats, some of whom were closely related to the feral queen who’d taken up residence in Dylan’s own father’s house.
He plucked the one who looked least likely to bite him from the back of Angelo’s chair and dropped it on his lap as he claimed a seat. His legs slid instinctively to entwine with Angelo’s, and Angelo finally looked up. “Hey.”
Angelo smiled a little. “Hey.”
“How are you feeling?”
“I’m okay.”
