“It’s not stupid,” I reassured him. “And I’m not hurt. I understand.” I squeezed his hand. “I really do. As long as you know it’s okay to need people at times. To need help. To need me.”
“I do know it’s okay,” he assured me.
But I wasn’t at all sure he did.
Still, this was his life and his decision. I needed to respect that. And I didn’t think he was underestimating this first live contact, either. The worry in those grey eyes put that concern to rest. Nick knew exactly how this would likely hit him and he still wanted to do it alone. I had to trust he’d include me, after. Doing things together didn’t mean being joined at the hip. It meant respect, and having each other’s back, and letting the other person grow and be who they needed to be. It meant sucking up my need to coddle Nick or control him. It meant letting him dohis life his way and simply trusting he’d take me with him. That we would take each other.
I reached for his hand and offered a reassuring smile. “Okay. This is me backing off. But remember, this is the first time you’ve spoken to her in forty-seven years. You’re gonna have all kinds of feelings. Big feelings. But maybe trynotto react and shoot from the cuff if she says something you don’t want to hear. There’ll be plenty of time for the difficult stuff tomorrow without getting off on the wrong foot today.”
A frown creased his brow, his eyes narrowed, and I thought he was going to tell me I had no idea what I was talking about. Which to be fair, I didn’t, so I quickly added, “I only want you to get the most out of this meeting tomorrow, and not?—”
“Fly off the handle and shut the whole thing down before it even gets started?” Nick’s mouth quirked up in a wry grin. “Yeah, I get it. I’ll try to keep my angry side in check for now. Happy?”
I considered the man I loved more than any other and nodded. “There’ll be a time for every emotion, I’m sure, anger included.”
Nick pulled me close and buried his lips in my hair. “I’m going to need you when that happens for a lot of reasons.”
“And I’ll be there. I promise.”
He pushed me away, an unconvincing grin plastered on his face. “Now go and enjoy yourself. And spend loads of money on that book I know you want.”
I rolled my eyes. “I can’t aff?—”
“Nope.” He covered my mouth with his hand. “I don’t want to hear any of that. You deserve it, Mads,” he argued. “You don’t treat yourself enough.”
I smiled at that. Nick was always fussing that I lived too rigidly and too frugally. In reply, I protested that I did have my guilty pleasures like an excellent bottle of red wine and thebest kitchen equipment money could buy... within reason, of course.
“We’ll see,” I told him. “Find me when you’re done. And don’t make me come looking for you.”
His gaze never wavered. “I won’t. I promise.” He turned and made his way through the milling crowd in the foyer toward the exit.
I watched him go, wanting to follow, to keep him safe, while at the same time knowing it would be the absolute wrong thing to do. So, instead, I took a deep breath and headed for the auction room and a chance to fondle the book I planned to bid on. A first edition 1938 copy ofYou Play the Black and the Red Comes Upby Richard Hallas, pseudonym of Eric Knight, who’d also writtenLassie Come Home. The book was the only mystery Eric Knight wrote and had been compared favourably with such classics asThe Postman Always Rings TwiceandThey Shoot Horses, Don’t They?
It was a slight detour from the core genre of my collection, but it was advertised as being in excellent condition, was certainly a rarity on the market, and came with a scarce dust cover that really caught my eye. It would likely go for far more than I was willing to pay—north of fifteen thousand, I suspected—but you never knew at an auction. New Zealand had a smaller pool of collectors willing to pay that kind of money, and even allowing for international phone bidders, it was still possible to pick up a bargain in the outer colonies.
Even just the thought of handling the book had me frothing—a fact I wouldn’t be sharing with Nick.
I slipped into the auction room, accepted a pair of protective gloves from the security manning the door, and headed for the display table.
CHAPTER FOUR
NICK
I glanced backtoward the glass doors of the conference centre, my finger poised over the number on my phone. It would be easy to simply go back and tell Mads I’d changed my mind. That I either wasn’t going to call Chloe, or that I wanted him to be with me while I did it.
But wasn’t that just more delaying tactics? More procrastination?
Dammit.I hated what her letter had done to me. I wasn’t this guy. I was decisive, and determined, and... fuck it... I was a force to be reckoned with. I’d made sure of that over the years.
I hated the fact I’d been reduced to an indecisive, terrified mess with a single fucking letter. How much worse might it get when I actually met her in the flesh? The woman who’d birthed me and then taken off and left me to deal with my arsehole father.
One letter and I was right back in that fucking house. Back to that eight-year-old kid, furious with the world and devastated his mother didn’t love him enough to even send a damn letter. To see how I was doing. To let me know that she was okay.
Or the sixteen-year-old teenager sleeping in his coach’s house until I’d finished school, too scared to come out under my father’s roof and yet confused as to why he never came to get me, either. Rejected by both parents and desperate for love. Any love. Even my father’s.
I’d often wondered why he left me with my coach. In the end, I decided he likely found out that I was gay through other sources since I came out almost as soon as I’d left home. The idea would’ve disgusted him and his homophobic drinking buddies. He was probably glad to see the back of me. Better to live as a lonely fucked-up sonofabitch than have a gay son.
Mads’ words from just a few minutes before suddenly came back to me.You’re going to have all sorts of feelings. Big feelings.
