Chapter 1

Jason Kent-Mirelli liked plans. Order. Preparation. He didn't mind some surprises—his husband baking a triple-layer oatmeal stout-infused chocolate cake, or pouncing on him for a fabulously erotic afternoon escape in their shared trailer during a break in filming—but in general he wanted to know the direction of the world.

The world was not currently behaving according to plan. Well, sort of. In a way. In the sense that they'd agreed to this dinner party, and it was happening. It was inarguably doing that.

It'd been going well so far. Jason had hoped for that, though a small piece of his head had been busy coming up with scenarios to handle worse outcomes, just in case.

But they had new friends, who'd shown up right on time, a promptness Jason had internally approved. They had the coziness of the London flat, his and Colby's second home, shimmering in familiar bookshelves and abstract metalwork art. They had Jason's mother's rustic chicken cacciatore recipe, the simple Italian country bread he and Colby'd made the day before, and fluffy greens and herbs and goat cheese. They had Colby's adoration of all cheese, really; it'd been an impressive cheese board. Plus strawberry cheesecake tarts and gold-dusted tiramisu and tiny mint chocolate miniature cakes because Colby had been worried, that morning, about not having baked enough.

He had. Ben and Simon had been properly appreciative. The table attested to that: plates and forks scattered in the aftermath of food and conversation, nobody getting up, a space slowly filling with shared stories about filming, writing, improbable adventures in Venice, and falling in love.

Jason was happy that his husband was happy. He loved seeing that, knowing it.

He had not expected to be still entertaining guests, who after all were new friends, not old ones, four hours later. Into the night.

Not that he didn't like Ben and Simon; he did. He hadn't expected Colby to want them to stay so long. To be so comfortable. To keep opening wine, and chatting about international travels, or fantasy settings, or romance novels that three out of four of them had read.

He looked at Colby, across their dining table, in lamplight and candlelight. His husband was smiling, pouring more wine, saying, "Oh, drat, this one's nearly empty—I'll open something else—how do you feel about mead? I've been experimenting with boysenberry—" and then hesitating as if unsure boysenberry would be welcome.

Simon Ashley, gold and blue prettiness on full display, held out his wine glass Colby's direction. "You've been experimenting. As in…you brew your own honey wine?" Because he was who he was, the gesture nearly knocked over his fork, and the tumble of antique silver steampunk-design spheres and glowing candles that were serving as a centerpiece, and Colby's wine glass.

Jason started to move, old stuntman reflexes in action—but Simon's husband had also moved, understated and unobtrusive, a hand in the right place at the right time.

Of course he had, Jason thought. Ben Smith was nothing if not good at that, being in the right place, anticipating. Physically, mentally. As a theoretically retired spy-turned-agency-instructor should be.

He'd learned that little fact two days before. When they'd all been at the same literacy foundation charity gala—a foundation that Colby Kent-Mirelli had supported for years, and of course Simon Ashley had been a marvelous bestselling historical romance author presence, a draw for crowds and donations, this year—and Colby, of all of them, had looked at Ben and said, you're not a history teacher, are you…we've met before, at my father's residence, when I was twelve and everyone forgot I existed; did you get the documents you needed…?

Ben at the moment was steadying Colby's glass, entertained. The silver flecks in his hair caught the light; he might've been unremarkable, generally average in height and weight and overall shades of brown and tan, hair, eyes, skin, affability. The unremarkable part lasted until someone like Colby surprised him, or until his disaster-pixie of a husband tripped over a rug or someone else's foot or the air.

Ben said, "Our files on you were so incomplete, back in Berlin."

Colby got even more delighted. "You had files on me?" He'd worn violet, tonight: a fuzzy sweater that felt like a cloud to Jason's exploring fingertips, over simple blue pants. Jason's head had done some mental translation earlier, when they'd been getting dressed and Colby'd said trousers; Colby's voice contained a glorious medley of stories, from London to Paris to Berlin to Hollywood, but tended to get more English when they came over here, to the flat Colby'd had for years, so close to museums and history and delight. Jason loved that, too.

The outfit was a message. He knew his husband well enough to know that, by now.

No real layers, or not much. Color, if muted. Simple and cozy, nicely fitted but not new. No shoes in the flat, but Colby had on socks with tiny constellation patterns, a gift from their friend Leo. Jason himself had on a pair with tiny dragons, because his husband had bought them for him. Ben and Simon had been told about this, possibly by Colby—not by Jason, anyway—and Ben had on simple navy blue socks, having left footwear near the door, while Simon had ended up barefoot out of some protestation about his no-show stylish socks and fashionable shoes.

They'd both dressed up to some extent. Jason had tried to hint that they didn't have to, but he guessed that Ben—who'd been a massive Colby Kent romantic comedy fan, a fact Jason was trying to wrap his head around in terms of deadly spy missions—had thought maybe they should, coming over to the Kent-Mirelli flat for the first time. Ben's suit was clearly nice, classic and minimalist, dark grey with a crisp white shirt, something Jason himself might've worn before Colby had introduced all sorts of colors into his life.

Simon, on the other hand, would've dressed up no matter what. Pale pink trousers and jacket, a sort of silvery clinging shirt that hugged petite curves, a tumble of sparkly jewelry and heavy bracelets and eyeliner and lip gloss. Simon Ashley had the kind of beauty that could start wars or stop hearts, and Jason had come up with those two descriptions for a reason; it was a provocative reckless kind of beauty, a display, a confrontation that demanded a response.

He reached over to hold Colby's hand, just because.

"Mostly just that you existed." Ben moved his husband's knife out of the way. "We didn't know you were some sort of child prodigy handwriting analyst and accomplished lock picker." The warmth of his voice was very American in contrast to Simon's upper-class English, but might've been from any region, nothing specifically identifiable; Ben, Jason had concluded, must be good at blending in.

Colby considered, "I could've had a very different career, imagine," and lifted Jason's hand, kissed it, bounced into the kitchen and back, holding home-brewed mead. "An actor and a spy, perhaps…though truthfully I'd be too nervous around people to be a good agent. Possibly some sort of analyst. In a friendly little office with snug walls."

"But you're an actor," Simon objected, leaning in. The table glittered in candlelight, old silver and bronze, the plates with the green-blue pattern that looked like ancient dragon scales. The table, the plates, the centerpiece artistic tumble of steampunk etched metal spheres, were all new. Both Colby and Jason had wanted renovations and redecorations, for at least two reasons. This home, like the Los Angeles house, was theirs now. New memories.

Simon explained, as if that was necessary, "You have to be good at playing roles," and gestured with mead. Golden liquid leapt but didn't splash. He looked at it in some astonishment, and had a sip. And then a longer one, with enthusiasm.

"I am, sometimes," Colby said. "But I wasn't back then. At twelve…oh, goodness, I never knew how to talk to anyone. Conversations, having to worry about what everyone thought, whether I was doing it well enough…I'd panic and babble non-stop about fantasy novels or astrolabes, or else just make a sound or two and run away. But you know that. That was me even when we met, and that was several years later."

At some of those aristocratic evenings, parties, diplomatic receptions, luncheons: the sort of events that Simon, a duke's younger son, and Colby, the child of a well-connected ambassador and an upper-crust poet laureate, had grown up attending. Jason and Ben, decidedly not on those invitation lists, shared a brief wryness across the mead.

But Simon had winced, at that. "I'm apologizing to you again, darling. I know I was awful to you. I know me saying so doesn't magically make anything better."

"Oh, no, it does." Colby's eyes got very wide, big and earnest, deep blue as autumn nights. Jason knew he'd been nervous, optimistic, hopeful about friendship; throughout the evening, Colby had had a decent amount of very good wine, but also had an impressive alcohol tolerance, practiced at those aforementioned diplomatic receptions and events. This was Colby letting himself relax somewhat, anxious edges taking some sharpness off, but not much more than that. "You saying so, telling me that…it matters. You're not who you were, and neither am I, and I think—I hope—we're both much happier, these days." His leg found Jason's, under the table: touching, getting closer.

"We are." Simon's smile was for his husband, hot and wicked and intimate. "Much. By the way, this is marvelous; can I ask you for, oh, a dozen bottles?"

Colby opened his mouth. Jason said, "You don't have to, babe," and reclaimed the bottle and poured more for Colby. "Here, you made it, have more."

"You helped. I do think it came out good. Er…not a dozen, but I've got one or two more from this batch? You can have at least one. Or two."

Jason could've given that answer a second before his husband, a prediction beyond doubt. Colby would give someone anything—wine, an autograph, his own coffee on the day he and Jason had first met—if it'd make them happy.

He said, "If we have two left, they can have one," and picked up Colby's wine glass and held it to his husband's mouth, because Colby hadn't taken a sip yet.

Maybe he himself was a tiny bit more reckless than he'd intended. Not drunk—he needed to be here for Colby, and he did not like being out of control—and anyway it was more about the way Simon was looking at Colby, and the way Colby wanted to be sweet and good and please people, and Jason's own protective instincts.

Colby let him do it, Jason's hand giving him sips of berry-rich honeyed wine, blue eyes surprised but extremely willing, fond and pleased. The sight, the action—his command, Colby's response—sent a pleasant throb of heat through Jason's gut, and lower.

Maybe this dinner party, which after all had gone well, could be done soon. In the next five minutes. Colby's leg was resting against his.

"I can't imagine," Simon said, "that you eat like this all the time. I mean, I would, absolutely, if I knew how to cook. But you have to be on camera." He'd worn the thick onyx black bracelets again. The symbol drank in the candlelight and held it, light and dark, when he moved. Ben had an arm on the back of his chair, and had taken off his tie.

Colby laughed. His gaze had flickered to the bracelets, for a second. "We don't. Not all the time. We do both like to cook—Jason's mother's a chef, and I taught myself; I wanted to be good at it—so we love doing it, when we can. Of course sometimes it's a question of training for the next spy thriller and what we can manage with grilled chicken and broccoli. But we're on vacation for the next couple of weeks, and the next project isn't too physically demanding, it's the follow-up cozy murder mystery, so there're a few stunts and falls and dramatic deaths and reenactments, but it's not the next John Kill installment or anything on that scale."

Jason, thinking about the first table read and a specific scene or two, tried not to flinch. Colby looked up at him, then tucked himself under Jason's arm, having to slide chairs closer together to do so. "I know you don't like the swimming pool scene."

"I don't like you being held underwater by a murderer. Even if you do get to fight them off and get away."

"We can talk about it. I've got some ideas about how to set it up, and safety, and I want your input." Colby, not being shy at the moment, stretched up to kiss the side of Jason's jaw, affectionate and cuddly. Vivid and alive. "Later, though. Would anyone like anything else? More wine, coffee, that marvelous sheep's milk brie that's wrapped with hops and thyme…"

Simon made a noise very much like a stifled laugh. Ben put a hand on the nape of his neck.

Colby's eyes got wider, concerned, as if the cheese offer might've offended someone. "I'm sorry, I—"

"No," Ben said. "It's just…look, okay, before your literary charity event…" Colby nodded. "…he was so nervous about talking to you, and—"

"I try not to be nervous about anything," Simon said, "but in this case it's the right word."

"—and one of the things he came up with was, what if Colby hates me so much he decides to throw a plate of tiny cheese at me? I did tell him you probably wouldn't."

Colby's expression was one Jason had never seen before: bewildered, adorable, in love with cheese, perplexed by the entire idea of himself throwing anything at anyone, much less at a fancy dress gala. "I…"

Simon said, "I want to clarify that I didn't seriously think you would. It was an example." When he waved a hand, his arm threatened the edge of a plate. Ben moved it.

Colby did a second's worth of more internal processing, and then tossed Simon a smile. It was one of the real ones, bright and mischievous and devastating. "I could put some sheep's milk brie down your shirt if you'd like."

"Oh, darling." Simon fluttered long eyelashes at him. The eyeliner was swooping and skillful. His eyes, like Colby's, were blue, but lighter: morning sun versus evening lakes. "I'm honored you'd want to. Feel free to cover me in anything you'd like. Also, look at both your other half and mine, would you? They're imagining it."

Jason kind of had been. Not Simon, as such. Colby shirtless and laughing, though. In that specific playful mood. It was a good mood. Very fun.

Ben said, "On a related note—sort of—we brought you a present. Simon?"

Simon hopped up, managed to almost take out two plates and his chair with a hip, and ran over toward the door. They had brought in a couple of bags; one had had good dark beer and some of the wine. The other had remained mysterious.

Ben said, "While he's doing that, can I help clean up?" and got up, picking up plates. "Can we do some dishes?"

"Oh, no, you don't have to!" Colby got up too, audibly alarmed by the suggestion that he might need guests to do any work. Jason followed because his husband had moved, and brought what few leftover desserts remained, and stuck them in the refrigerator for now. Colby tried, "I can…I mean, we can, in the morning…oh, dear, you really don't have to, you're our guests, you shouldn't…well, please at least just put them in the sink and leave them…"

Ben set down the plates—mostly rinsed—and turned around, folded his arms, shook his head, smiling crookedly. "Colby Kent. I never would've guessed."

"I've heard that before." Colby fiddled with one sweater sleeve, which did not seem in danger of sliding down. Jason nudged him back toward the table and chairs and maybe sitting down, in case his husband needed some more cuddling. It wasn't an entirely unjustified concern, though Colby seemed to be doing okay. "Even Jason said it. Apparently I surprise people. I don't know why."

"You're more or less the top of the Hollywood A-list, darling," Simon said, on the way back, a medium-sized dark satin box in one hand, "no one expects you to know how to cook or clean or do anything for yourself. Here, this is for you." He did not, Jason noticed, mention Colby's parents, or privileged lonely upbringing, or anything that might've sliced open old wounds.

Simon was after all a romance author, an observer of character, and a good one. Jason decided to like him a little better, despite the flamboyance and the history with Colby. Simon was clearly trying to make up for that.

Colby took the box, thin fingertips like decorations against black discreet satin, and set it on the table. "You didn't have to get me anything!"

"I know. I wanted to. It was my idea. Go on."

"Er…yes, all right…" Colby considered the lid, and lifted it. And then stopped in place, hand hovering. "Oh good heavens."

Simon's smile belonged on a spirit of pure sinful temptation. "I thought you'd like them."

"I…"

"And they'll look good on you."

"Simon…"

"You know," Simon said quietly, standing next to him, "you can ask for some things, if you want them." More lightly, he threw in, "Happy to help."

"You are," Colby said, not without some amusement. "But this…"

Jason stepped in closer. Folded an arm around him. "Can I see?"