And judging by the manner in which Cassian had then reacted to James looking at him so longingly, he must have realized the extent of James’s feelings, too. Consequently, when James had then fled the lounge, as he’d been commanded to do, he’d been convinced that he had obliterated whatever had been blossoming between them, friendship included. But then later, in the saloon, Cassian had attempted to continue on as though nothing had happened.
And now James had no idea what Cassian wanted. Or needed.
All James knew was what he himself wanted and needed, which was to be whatever first-class passenger Mr. Livingston needed him to be. Friend. Lover. Steward. All or none. All James wanted was to please him. At whatever cost to himself. He’d cast his morals aside, cast his lingering fears over inevitable heartbreak aside, if only to make Cassian smile.
Never had James felt like this before. Never had he fallen for someone so fast and yet so completely. Gracious God, it was wonderful and magical and terrifying and everything that James had ever wanted.
And now James couldn’t help but worry that he’d bungled the whole Goddamned thing.
James was still spiraling, still bouncing his leg while his thoughts and feelings swirled and raged inside him like theoften-unforgiving sea, when there was a knock. Exhaling, James looked over only to see Cassian standing in the entryway, his expression a confusing mix of hard and soft lines that momentarily made James’s heart stop.
“Cassian,” James rasped, his throat tight. “Oh, bloody hell, Cassian, I’m so sorry.”
Cassian simply held up his hand, wordlessly ordering him to stop speaking. James pressed his lips together, leaving his unsaid words to fester, and their bitter taste caused bile to creep up his throat. How fervently he wished that he could make things right between them.
For the next minute or two, James sat with his mouth firmly clamped shut as Cassian surveyed the room, slowly walking in between the bunks with his hands hooked behind his back.
“It’s more cramped in here than I’d imagined it would be,” Cassian finally said.
Heat bloomed on James’s cheeks. Something about the comment made his stomach roil. Even while Cassian held firm to their relative roles, James had never once been made to feel small. Even when Cassian had requested the perfect coffee or had practically forced him to put his feet in the pool, James had left those interactions feeling... cherished.
But he felt far from cherished now.
“It’s not too bad,” James said, fighting to find even a shred of self-respect here in the overfilled bedroom. “I had my choice of bunk.”
Cassian huffed a soft laugh, the sound imbued with a particular color of self-importance that James hadn’t heard from him before.
“Ah, well, that must make it more palatable, then,” he said. “Having been given the luxury of choosing which corner of the too-small room to sleep in, of choosing whether to sleep on the lower bunkor—”
“I prefer the bottom,” James countered. He cringed the moment the words escaped his mouth as the filthiest fantasy of Cassian pressing him into the mattress flitted through his mind with such clarity that he feltcertainCassian could see it, too. “Bunk, I mean. Obviously. Not, ah, I mean, I’m not referring to other... things that other people—men, specifically, maybe—might... enjoy in the, uhm, the bedroom,” he tried to clarify before immediately burying his face in his hands as he realized his error. “Sweet Jesus.”
James was busy trying to poof himself out of existence when Cassian kicked his shoe. Cassian’s subsequent laugh—real and happy, without even a hint of contempt or haughtiness—reached James’s ears, and the sound was so wonderful it made James laugh a little too. He came out from behind his hands.
“Sorry for that bit of... strange humor,” James said as Cassian sat beside him.
“Don’t be,” Cassian said, chuckling some more as he knocked James’s knee with his. “I like the occasional crass joke as much as most other people.”
James smiled a little, some of his embarrassment melting away.
Neither of them spoke for a while. Eventually, James began to relive their befuddling interaction in the lounge and his woeful mistake in the saloon.
“Cassian?” James said. “I’m . . . confused.”
Cassian crooked an eyebrow. “About what?”
“You.”
Humming, Cassian seemed to think this over. “About what happened in the lounge? Or in the saloon? Or—”
“All of it.”
Cassian pursed his lips, but he offered no explanation. Or comfort.
“Are you... cross with me?” James asked hesitantly.
Straightaway Cassian replied, very matter-of-factly, “Yes. I am.” James’s heart sank. “I won’t lie to you, James. Iamcross with you, as you Londoners seem to put it. I’m cross because you clearly think so little of me. I’m cross because you seemed to assume that I’d react poorly to the mistake you made with my meal. And, even before that, it seemed as though you were certain that I’d somehow blame you for whatever that was that happened between us in the lounge, too. So, yes, James, Iam, in fact,cross with you right now.”
James looked away.
