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Harry raised his eyebrows. “For the inspection? Please tell me you didn’t forget?”
Tristan stared blankly.
“Tristan! The new owner is coming to look at the house, and we have to make it decent!”
“They are? When?”
“Today! We got the letter weeks ago!” Harry huffed, dragging his forearm across his forehead and smearing more oven grease on his face. It made him look like a Dickensian urchin, except for the part where he was a fully grown man. “We agreed that we’d all spend the morning cleaning. Jack’s taking care of the bathroom, and you’re meant to be doing the floors. Is any of this ringing a bell?”
Tristan racked his barely awake brain and found a half-buried recollection of a conversation about what was happening with the new owners. He dug harder into his memory bank, and it started to come back to him. Of course. Tristan had received a letter, since his name was on the lease, and it had been extremely long-winded and formal, but once they’d dug through the jumble of legalese, it had said that the new owner wanted to inspect the property and make sure they were keeping it in good condition, which had led to Harry getting all flustered and panicking that they’d be homeless, which had led to him extracting a promise that all three of them would pitch in when it was time to clean up—at which point Tristan had probably tuned out, to be honest. More pressing right now, in his opinion, was the complete and utter lack of a cooked breakfast.
But Harry was still looking at him, his face scrunched up in concern, and Harry was a world-class worrier, so Tristan took pity on him. “Of course I remember,” he lied. “Coffee, and then I’ll do the floors. It’s not like they’ll turn up early, anyway. It’s Saturday.”
Harry gave him a grateful smile which lit up his adorable little face like a sunrise, and Tristan once again mourned the fact that Jack and Harry had both turned down his suggestion of a threesome. Twice. Not that he was surprised—sex for Harry didn’t exist outside of Jack, and Jack was from Goulburn, which was hardly kink central, and quite apart from that he only had eyes for Harry—but still, a boy could dream.
He manoeuvred his way around Harry and started his coffee brewing before settling for a bowl of cereal, since it seemed he wasn’t going to get his bacon today—it wasn’t like he was going to cook it himself—and sent dark thoughts in the direction of any landlord who thought it was okay to disturb someone’s Saturday. He was just putting his bowl in the sink when Rhys/Ross meandered into the kitchen—fully dressed, Tristan was happy to see, which generally meant he wouldn’t be hanging around. “Harry, this is Ross,” he said, because his mother had raised him with manners.
“Rhys.”
“Rhys,” Tristan corrected with a smile. “He has a tongue piercing.”
Harry made a sound of acknowledgement from the depths of the oven.
“So, thanks for a great time last night,” Rhys said.
“Oh no, thank you,” Tristan said, raising his eyebrows. “It was an experience.” He put his coffee cup down and stood up. “Let me see you to the door.”
“Kicking me out already?” Rhys said, clearly only half-joking.
“Actually yes, unless you’d like to stay and help clean up for a rent inspection?” Tristan asked hopefully. “The floors need to be mopped, but maybe afterwards, we could…” He raised one eyebrow and licked his bottom lip suggestively. It wouldn’t really be much of a sacrifice to take Rhys back to bed, especially if it meant getting out of housework.
Rhys laughed. “Thanks, but I’ll pass. I’ll see you around.”
“Sure,” Tristan agreed, walking Rhys to the door. He didn’t offer his number, and Rhys didn’t ask for it.
“Thanks again, last night was marvellous,” Tristan said as he opened the door, then he wrapped one hand around the back of Rhys’s head and dragged him in for one last, filthy kiss. Tristan would never get a tongue piercing—it would be a crime against his perfect teeth—but that didn’t mean he didn’t enjoy them immensely in others, and he explored Rhys’s mouth with enthusiasm. He slid one hand over Rhys’s arse and was just wondering if he’d been a bit hasty in turning down another round after all, when he was pulled from the moment by someone pointedly clearing their throat.
Rhys pulled back, cast a glance over Tristan’s shoulder and said, “Um. I’d better go.” And he did, taking his lovely piercing and perfect arse with him.
Tristan sighed and turned to address whoever had so rudely interrupted what had been shaping up to an excellent pash, only to find that the face staring back at him was both familiar and unexpected.
Except it wasn’t, not exactly. Jimmy hadn’t had much family and even less that he spoke to, so there was a certain grim inevitability to it all, but still. Coming face to face with Jimmy’s nephew, all dressed up in a suit and carrying a clipboard, really put a dampener on Tristan’s afterglow.
The dismayed expression on Leo’s face as he peered unhappily at Tristan reflected his own thoughts perfectly.
Well, shit.
“I guess you’re here for the inspection,” Tristan said loudly, hoping that the sound would travel enough for Harry to get his head out of the oven at least. He heard muttered swearing in the background and the sound of drawers slamming, so he figured it had worked.
“Yes, so if I could just come in…?”
Tristan angled his body so Leo’s entry was blocked and said, “Come back with a warrant.”
Leo’s face scrunched in confusion. “Pardon?”
“I don’t know why I said that,” Tristan said. “You’re not the police.” He paused. “Are you?” Now that he thought about it, he wouldn’t be surprised if Leo was in some sort of law enforcement. He seemed like he was that special type of buttoned-down that screamed cop, and he’d been all up in Tristan’s face about soliciting, which seemed like a very law enforcement-adjacent thing to say. “Maybe you are. Ooh, does that mean you have your own handcuffs?”
Tristan wasn’t sure what possessed him—maybe it was some vague idea of distracting Leo so the puppies could finish tidying, or maybe he just wanted to see if he could rattle Leo’s cage—but he licked his lips, ran his fingers through his hair, parted his robe slightly more so that his abs were on display and leaned forward, one hand braced on the doorframe above his head. “I’ve been a bad, bad boy, officer,” he purred with a wink. “Wanna frisk me?”
