Page 69 of Better When Shared
Tristan, if possible, looked even more flustered. “No, I mean I made them. But it’s an… er. Personal project."
I couldn't help it—a bark of laughter escaped me before I could clamp it down. "You made them? Since when do you crochet?"
"It's therapeutic," Tristan snapped, glaring at me with the full force of his CEO death stare. "And technically that piece is macrame. My therapist suggested it for stress management. I didn’t expect these two idiots to think my collection was a boutique."
Marco looked confused. “If you hadn’t laid it out so—”
“Enough!” Tristan barked. “Those aren’t even men’s shorts.”
Marco looked down at his shorts with newfound appreciation. "What do you mean? The fit is amazing. The tension is perfect, and I love these macrame tassels." He wiggled his ass and the little ropes shook.
"They're women's shorts," Tristan repeated through gritted teeth. "Designed for a petite female form. Not meant to be stretched over a man's... endowments."
"Oh shit," Juniper gasped, covering her face. "Why didn’t Gemma say anything when we paid her, then?"
Marco tilted his head. “She did look a little confused, now that I’m thinking about it. But she told us to browse the shop, and that there were special items in the back.”
My lips twitched as I tried to hold back a laugh. “Special items?”
"Why didn’t she say anything?” Juniper protested. “She just let us pay for it.”
“We'll give them back," Marco offered, his hands moving to the waistband of the shorts.
"No!" Four voices shouted in unison as Tristan recoiled in horror.
"Keep them," my brother insisted, looking as though he might be physically ill. "I have absolutely no desire to reclaim a pair of shorts that have been that intimate with your balls."
Marco and Juniper exchanged glances, then dissolved into giggles. "Thank you, sweetheart. Your craftsmanship is beautiful. And we'll... uh... let you all catch up," Juniper said, backing away. "Take some time to settle in, Caleb. We don’t have to view the property right away.”
"Meet for dinner?" Marco suggested. "Eight o'clock in the restaurant?"
I nodded, watching as they retreated toward the elevators, still snickering.
Tristan thrust a key card into my hand with enough force to make me wince. "Executive suite," he growled. "Top floor, east wing. The view's best this time of year. I have to go deal with Gemma." Without another word, he turned on his heel and stalked off.
I stared after him, then down at the key card in my hand. Written across the top in Tristan's severe angular handwriting was a single word: "Congratulations."
"Did he just..." Julian began, leaning over my shoulder to read the card. “Is he happy for us?”
“I think he might be,” Nisha said.
A smile tugged at my lips despite myself. Perhaps my brother wasn't entirely the heartless bastard he pretended to be. Perhaps there was hope yet for the Bancroft family's capacity to evolve.
"That’s as close to approval as Tristan gets. We’ll consider that a win. Come on," I said, tucking the key into my pocket and offering an arm to each of them. "Let me show you the best suite in Bath."
I pushed open the heavy wooden door to our suite, my heart swelling as Julian and Nisha stepped across the threshold into what was, without question, the finest accommodation in all of Bath. Their eyes widened, taking in the soaring ceilings, the antique furniture, and the view of the abbey through leaded glass windows. But I knew the real treasure waited behind another door, one I'd specifically requested when booking this homecoming. Three months since that day on the Oregon beach when we'd finally stopped pretending, finally admitted what we were to each other. Three months of logistics, planning, and visa applications. And now they were here, in my homeland, about to experience the ancient luxury that had made this city famous for two thousand years.
"This is gorgeous," Nisha breathed, trailing her fingers along a mahogany sideboard. "I can't believe this was your childhood home."
I laughed, setting down our bags. "Not quite this posh, love. The family estate is comfortable enough, but this—" I gestured around us, "—is what the Bancroft hotels do best. Theatrical grandeur with just the right touches of history."
Julian adjusted his glasses, studying the ornate plasterwork ceiling. "Putting us up in this suite? Perhaps your brother is trying to rebuild your relationship."
"Who knows, maybe he just didn’t have any other spare rooms," I said, unable to suppress my grin. It wouldn’t be bad, having Tristan back in my life a bit more.
I took their hands, leading them through the sitting room with its velvet furnishings and crackling fireplace, past the bedroom with its imposing four-poster draped in damask. When we reached the final door, I paused, savoring the moment.
"Close your eyes," I instructed, unable to keep the boyish excitement from my voice.
