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The lights were on in the kitchen and the living room. The voices were coming from the kitchen. Harry rounded the corner and stared at the sight. Tristan and a guy in a sparkly silver crop top were sitting at the wonky little table, and Jack was at the stovetop, cooking something. Something that smelled much better than it had any right to, especially if he’d found the ingredients in their fridge.
“Hey! There he is!” Tristan exclaimed. “How are you feeling, Harry?”
Harry grunted.
“This is Matt,” Tristan said.
“Max,” the guy in the silver crop top corrected.
“Max,” Tristan repeated with an airy laugh like it didn’t matter. He had a crazy knack of not being punched in the face despite doing shit like forgetting the names of his hook-ups before they’d even left. Even Max was smiling back at him like it was no big deal. Harry could only assume Tristan had charmed him with his dick. It was a talent of his, apparently.
Jack turned, spatula in hand, and waved it in his direction. “Hey, are you feeling any better? You went downhill pretty fast last night.”
“Um, yeah,” Harry rasped, throat dry. “I don’t remember much once we got home.”
Jack filled a glass of water and handed it to him, and Harry drained it quickly, the water a relief on his parched throat.
“I hope you don’t mind, but I stayed in your spare room. I didn’t want to leave you here alone.”
Huh. That was…unexpectedly nice. Especially given that the spare room only had a crappy old double bed that sagged and squeaked, and the sheets hadn’t been changed since Ambrose had moved out. Now that he thought about it, Harry wasn’t even sure there were any sheets.
“Thanks,” he said. Jack smiled at him, his face lighting up with relief. Harry hadn’t seen Jack smile before now, and it was a good look on him. He smiled back.
“Jack’s making omelettes, because he’s a god among men,” Tristan declared.
Harry’s brow furrowed. “Since when do we have eggs?”
“Since Jack went and bought some,” Tristan said. “Isn’t it great? He’s going to be an awesome housemate.”
Harry shook his head to make sure he’d heard correctly. “He’s what?”
Tristan grinned broadly. “Well, you said we needed a new housemate, and Jack saw the flyer and asked me about it, and I said yes. So, that’s that problem all sorted out.”
Harry’s jaw dropped. “Tris! He almost killed me yesterday!”
“Almost! I only almost killed you!” Jack protested, then paused. “Shit,” he said with a sigh. “That doesn’t really sound any better, does it?”
Max watched silently, his mouth open and his mascara-rimmed eyes wide, as though he’d stumbled onto the set of an exciting soap opera.
“It’s not Jack’s fault you have a dangerous job,” Tristan said. Then, to Max, he said, “Harry is an escort.”
Max gasped.
“I am not an—” Harry groaned. “Okay, technically I am, but it’s not how it sounds!”
“He’s a terrible date, except it’s deliberate,” Tristan supplied. “People pay good money for him to be completely awful. He’s really good at it. He’s been banned from—how many restaurants is it now?”
Harry scowled at him. He wasn’t feeling nearly well enough for Tristan’s particular brand of bullshit. “Only one,” he grumbled, but then he stopped and thought. “Okay, two—but only if you count that karaoke bar.”
Max wrinkled his nose. “Why would anyone want a terrible date?”
“Actually…”Harry said, then had nowhere to go with that.
“Actually,” Jack said, and darted a glance at him, “it’s sort of brilliant.”
Harry did not feel a warm glow in his chest at the unexpected praise. He did not.
“Except when it leads to getting assaulted by your client’s idiot brother,” Jack added. “With a smoothie it turns out you're massively allergic to.”
