Page 54 of Our Radiant Embers

I was getting used to seeing Adam around.

Most days, he showed up around lunchtime since he and Cassandra met for regular morning workouts at some posh gym. It made me aware that my current fitness regime consisted of lugging stuff around the workshop and backyard. Not quite the same.

Maybe it was time to shake off the dust, not only literally but also physically—the trainers I’d used frequently in uni hadn’t seen the light of day in far too long. I made time to order a new pair and considered it an investment in both my body and mind, striving for a semblance of balance in the chaos.

The first couple of morning runs were a bit of a slog. After that, it got easier, my body remembering how to do this, and I realised I’d missed it—simply moving, one foot in front of the other, my brain slowing down for once. I tried to apply the same principle to the prototypes—one step after the other, slow and steady. It helped, at least a little.

Adam helped too, enormously so. A few days before our interviews with The Times and The Evening Standard, we found ourselves in the fresh sheen of my office. It boasted sleek furniture and large windows, accessible via a dedicated staircase next to the front door. With daylight spilling across the large desk, we pored over the intricate blueprints sprawled before us to make sure there was enough space for the waste recycling unit. Between the two of us, we’d made great progress, but its size surpassed my original plans.

I hadn’t expected George to drop by that day. If I had, I might have made the time to explain how Adam was becoming…something to me. A friend of sorts.

Too late. Because when George ambled in, it was to the sight of Adam and me sitting so close that I could feel the warmth radiating from him. George’s arched eyebrow was a work of art.

“Good afternoon,” he drawled. “Hope I’m not interrupting?”

“Hey.” I straightened and narrowed my eyes at him, a warning that I knew he’d ignore. “Not at all. Adam and I are just discussing a small change to the plans—nothing that affects your work on the park area.” Which reminded me…“You’ve met, right?”

“Loosely.” Adam’s smile held an edge of caution. “You redid the Hartleys’ rose garden, didn’t you?”

George levelled him with an unimpressed stare. “I did, yes. Met your fiancée a couple of times in the process.”

Ah, damn. I really should have caught George up on things. I’d just been…busy. Or maybe I just didn’t quite know how to put it all into words.

“Cassandra is not my fiancée,” Adam said calmly. “I know Liam told you we hooked up a couple of times. I don’t know whether he also mentioned that I’m gay?”

Surprise flashed across George’s face, then his expression eased. “Not in such clear terms.”

“Well, I am. Cassandra is well aware, in case you were wondering.” Adam raised his chin, voice crisp. “Not that it’s any of your business, but neither of us has any plans to marry, or at least not each other.”

George nodded. “You’re right—it really is none of my business. Thank you for clarifying it anyway.”

“And this,” I told Adam, “is one of the reasons he’s my best friend. How many people do you know who readily admit when they’re wrong?”

Adam shot me a small grin. “Neither you nor I, that’s for sure.”

“I’d like to think we’re getting better,” I said.

George’s eyebrow went back to full-blown arched mode. Time to change the topic before he jumped to incorrect conclusions.

“What brings you here?” I asked him. “Thought we were on for tomorrow.”

He dropped into one of my visitor chairs with the dramatic flair of a third-rate stage actor. “Needed to vent about my breakfast date.”

“Another bad one?”

A couple of years older than me and an only child, George’s parents wanted him to marry a compatible woman. In principle, he was willing, but his requirements were that she had good values, didn’t bore him after five minutes, and could genuinely see herself wanting to marry him. A pretty face was a bonus but not mandatory because “looks fade, but character doesn’t.”

His parents had hired a matchmaker who had yet to grasp that unlike many guys, George meant it.

“She reamed out the waiter for serving her sparkling instead of still water and threw a fit about how her scrambled eggs were soggy. Could have just asked to do them a bit more, but nope.” George made the ‘p’ pop.

Sounded like his worst nightmare of a potential partner.

“What did you do?” I asked.

“Told her to enjoy the rest of her breakfast, apologised to the waiter, paid, and left a generous tip to make up for the experience. Then I walked out.”

“Good for you.”

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