Lies.
He wanted marriage. Her. A family. Despite all the reasons he knew he shouldn’t have marriage. Her. A family.
Damn.
Max chuckled. “Have a seat, man.” He flopped into a large, overstuffed armchair near the fire—bottle and his own whisky-filled tumbler in hand—and nodded at the chair’s match nearby.
Grant lowered into the seat halfway then popped back up, snatched the half-full glass, then eased the rest of the way down. He’d need this. No reason to let it go to waste.
Max wiggled the bottle at Grant. “C’mon. Have another.” He sipped at his own glass. “I’m on my third of the evening.”
Grant swiped the bottle. “And why are you so determined to get foxed?” With his loving wife and his large circle of family and friends. With his home that rang with cheer and a life that would be lived long and full. Unlike Grant’s. He poured another glass, thunked the bottle on the floor between them.
“Was only going to have the one, but then there you were, looking like a lost puppy and clearly needing a good diversion.” He shrugged, sipped again. “Why not get foxed, old friend?” He leaned into the space between them, ate it up with his size. “Like to talk about it? Whatever’s biting at you?”
“No.”
Max slunk back into his chair, slunk lower into it. “Very we—”
“I’m in love.” Damn. The whisky had loosed his lips, taken control. He’d wrestle it back. Tell Max only the bare minimum, and who knew … perhaps he’d gain a bit of insight along the way.
“Love, is it?” Max said. “Should have known. Only love can fell men like us. And the occasional cold.” He cleared his throat, took another swig.
Grant took a swig, too, but his lips felt a bit fuzzy. “How come drink never affects you?
“I’m big.”
Grant snorted. “I’m hardly small.”
“No. But you’re not as big as me. You’re also in love. I feel you could say more about that. If you so desired.”
Yes, suddenly … yes, he did wish to say more. But he wouldn’t. “Let’s talk about something else.”
“Such as?”
Such as … such as … ah. “How’s marriage, old man?” A diversion from one man’s life to another. Not a very distanced detour. A hop and a step away from Grant’s own problems, in fact. But good enough. Now his cheeks tingled.
“Marriage is like ambrosia on Mount Olympus.” A cocky grin.
“Damn, but you look smug.”
“And why shouldn’t I?” Max held his glass up to the firelight. “Nora is the best; the only woman in the world.”
“For you,” Grant mumbled into the cold rim of his tumbler.
“And who, then, is the best and only woman for you?” Max stretched out his legs, crossed them at the ankles and swished one booted foot slowly back and forth.
Grant took another sip, let the whisky burn and brighten him. And he kept his secrets. Even though the bright burn tugged at him to say more, made his tongue thick with words he trapped quick behind stout teeth.
Max tapped his fingernail against the glass. “Hmm. Is she someone I know? Meg?”
“No. Damn. Not Meg.” Garrison’s contortionist was like a little sister to Grant.
“‘Damn’ it’s not Meg? Or ‘damn’ something else?”
“Damn Freddy.” Grant clapped a hand over his mouth. Damn the whisky. Perhaps Max had not heard him say the name. He coughed, smoothed a hand through his hair, tried to melt into the chair. Was it too late to fling himself into the fire? Or perhaps he should fling the rest of the whisky into the flames, make them roar and grow so he could run in the opposite direction.
“Freddy?” Max’s thick brows tilted downward toward a perilous V shape. “My Freddy? The viscountess Freddy?”
