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Oh, right. They were eating dinner.

He took in the very thoughtful meal Dylan had cooked, then at Dylan. “Not that I don’t appreciate the effort, but…”

“Sex first, then dinner?”

“Yes.”

“Read my mind. Let me show you the master bedroom. Kind of the best room in the whole house.”

They didn’t eat dinner at all that night. Neither much minded.

CHAPTER 39

Henri woke up with his head between Dylan’s thighs. Not a bad place to wake up.

He stretched and rolled so he could take in the room. The master bedroom occupied the circular room Henri had noticed when he’d first arrived. A king-sized bed took up one wall, with built-in shelving above it housing all manner of books, knick knacks, and photos. Across the bed were large windows facing due east and the wilderness beyond the neighborhood. It was the rising sun that had woken him, the bright light shining right into his eyes. Dylan didn’t seem to believe in curtains.

Mmm, Dylan.

Dylan was still asleep, sprawled across the sheets and snoring lightly. Henri kissed the inside of his thigh. He was probably imagining it, but it looked like his lips twitched into a smile.

Henri hadn’t been in an actual relationship for years. He’d had partners. Some he’d slept with once, some several times. Nothing lasted more than a few months, and it’d never been anything but casual. Henri’s schedule, the unpredictability of his contracts, and the desire to remain in the closet, it made it impossible to commit to more. That had been the best part of being in LA: how easy it’d been to find a willing body who expected nothing but a fun time. And they hadn’t known shit about hockey. A bonus.

This wasn’t casual. Not for Henri, and he got the impression Dylan wasn’t capable of casual. For all of Dylan’s claims that he didn’t know how to do real relationships, Henri would bet good money that he’d been a very good boyfriend to Sokolov.

It’d just been wasted on the man.

Henri drew a hand down Dylan’s leg, first one, then the other, more to soothe himself than anything. Still, Dylan didn’t wake. The most Henri got was a deep sigh followed by a snore catching. Dylan Everett was a deep sleeper and a snorer. Adorable.

He would’ve stayed like that all morning. They had hours and hours before their game versus the Boston Militia forced them back to the city, and Henri fully intended to luxuriate in the time with Dylan. At his house, a place that wasn’t as intimidating as he’d thought. Sokolov’s ghost might still linger in some distant guest room, but Henri had found no traces of another occupant in the master bedroom. Just Dylan, and now bits of Henri with his scattered clothes.

He really would’ve stayed…but he heard a phone vibrating somewhere among the abandoned clothes. After a quick glance at Dylan—still very much asleep—Henri gently pulled himself away. Sliding off the bed, he found his phone under his abandoned pants. It was his father calling, and he cursed silently as he tried to find his underwear. His father might not know he was naked, but Henri would know, and that was embarrassing.

“Salut, Papa,” he said as he wiggled into his boxer briefs. “Ça va?”

A pause. “Ti-loup, why are you whispering?” his father asked in French.

Well, he certainly wasn’t going to explain that. So instead he rushed out of Dylan’s room on tiptoes, pulling the door almost all the way shut behind him, before answering, “What do you mean? I’m not whispering.”

“Hmm.” His father didn’t sound convinced, but was nice enough to let it go. “Did you book your flight? Normally you send me the details before now.”

Shit.

“I did.” Thankfully true. “I will forward them to you. Sorry, Papa. I’ve been…” He fumbled for the right word. In French, it wasn’t the vocabulary that eluded him; it was that he didn’t want to reveal too much. “Distracted.”

He reached Dylan’s living room and collapsed onto the leather sofa. It was cool against his skin. He should’ve put on more clothes.

“It’s okay. As long as I have warning so I can meet you at the airport. You are arriving Saturday, yes?”

“Papa, I can rent a car. You don’t need to drive all the way to the airport.”

“What? I’m not allowed to pick up my own son?”

Henri didn’t bother protesting. This was a fight they always had, but one that Henri increasingly won as his father grew in years and the drive became harder for him. “I can only stay until Thursday. We have practice on Friday in New York. The team is flying out together on Thursday⁠—”

“I know, I know. I’m happy for any days I can get around the holidays. It’s not too early to call? You aren’t busy? No practice?”

“It’s not too early, no.” Henri had no idea what time it was. Maybe 8 a.m. based on the sun. “I was already up. No practice today. Game tonight. Versus Boston.”