Page 75 of Honey Cut
There’s no way he knows, and besides, Isolde and I haven’t done anything wrong. We haven’t broken any rules. Technically.
“Good morning, sir,” I say as I answer.
“Good morning, my knight,” purrs Mark, and my skin heats. Even though I just engaged in some thorough self-abuse, a low stir in my groin tells me that I could get it up again in a heartbeat. “I wanted to see how the trip was going.”
“Fine, sir,” I say. “Safely, at least. I can’t speak for how Isolde’s work is going.” I’m so grateful it’s not a video call. Mark has that way of making me feel like he can see every thought I’m having, like he knows everything I’ve ever done and ever will do.
Again, not that I’ve done anything wrong.Technically.
“That’s good,” Mark says. The phone crackles, like there’s a gust of wind.
“Are you outside, sir?”
“Did you know it snows in October in Sweden?” asks Mark conversationally.
“I could have guessed. Why are you outside again?”
Another gust of wind. “I’m treating myself to some sightseeing while I’m here. Off-the-beaten-track kind of places, obviously. I’m not some everyday tourist.”
“Of course not, sir.” I hesitate. “Is anyone else with you? Goran or Nat?”
“Worried for my safety, Tristan?”
“Eternally,” I mutter. Mostly because Mark doesn’t seem to worryenoughabout it.
“I’m without security, but I assure you I’m fine. I’m with an old friend who’s as capable as Goran or Nat in a pinch. But we have no plans to get into any pinches, only to explore the countryside a little. In fact,” he adds, “I visited a farm yesterday. There weren’t any adorable lambs like you described, though. Just some rams with kinky harnesses on.”
I could laugh at his one-track mind. “They’re notkinkyharnesses; they just have a crayon attached to the front so the farmer can track which ram mounts what ewe.”
“A crayon?” Mark sounds skeptical.
I laugh for real now. “It’s not like—okay, it’s not what you’re thinking. It’s a block of wax, and it’s strapped to the ram’s chest. When he mounts an ewe, the wax is smeared on her back. Then the farmer can tell by the color whose lambs she’s carrying.”
I’m wandering into the kitchen now, pulling out a small pot of overnight oats left by the hospitality crew and kicking on the coffee machine.
Mark’s voice is musing. “You know…”
“Are you thinking of ways to try this at Lyonesse?”
“It might play well with certain crowds.”
“Next time, take me with you to a farm, and I’ll point out all the potentially kinky things, sir,” I say.
“I’d like that,” he replies. Simply. Warmly.
My heart is suddenly too big and in the wrong spot. I’m defenseless against these honest little admissions of his.
I hear the roar of a vehicle—a truck maybe. “I should go,” says Mark, and I hear someone else speaking rapid-fire Swedish on his end of the line. “Goodbye, Tristan.”
“Goodbye, sir,” I say with as much normalcy as I can manage, and then he’s gone.
twenty-eight
TRISTAN
The restof the day is easy. Short. Isolde doesn’t go to the museum—instead she meets with a retired professor who scowls at me from their café table until Isolde comes over and apologetically explains that he’s not a fan of the American military and has somehow guessed my former occupation by my demeanor. To be polite, I step outside and sip hot black coffee as colorful leaves flutter down in the park nearby.
Even though I’ve never seen Morois House in any season but late spring, I find myself daydreaming about what it looks like in autumn. Falling leaves and mushrooms congregating in the shade. Blackberries, ripe and staining, and silver rain to chase us inside.
