LOL: Laugh Out Loud (After Oscar, #2)(10)

Shit. Oscar. He was going to be furious when he heard about this. I was supposed to be leaving town today—supposed to be going to his cottage in Vermont to lie low while the Polly Pregnancy Scandal raged.

But Scotty had been right. It would have been career suicide to allow him to let loose in front of all the reporters camped out in front of my house. If I hadn’t let him and his horse in, he’d have thrown his fit in front of dozens of video cameras and cell phones, and it would be trending online within minutes. And I was already in enough trouble for my jaunt through Central Park without even more press coverage of the eventual fallout.

Scotty forked another mouthful of pancakes into his mouth with another appreciative groan. I tried not to let the sound make me think of other things that might make him groan.

“Didn’t know you had it in you,” he said, adding another glug of syrup to his plate.

I glanced over at him and frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Scotty studied me while he chewed. “Figured you for someone who had his meals brought in.”

I thought about how I normally had my meals brought in.

“I can cook,” I protested. I’m not defensive; who’s defensive?

“Mm-hm,” he said, waving a bite through the air. “These aren’t half-bad.”

“High praise indeed,” I scoffed. “I’ll have you know I won a prize for my apple pie in the county fair in fifth grade.”

Scotty stopped chewing and stared at me. “No.”

“I sure did.” I unpuffed my chest from where it had accidentally gotten braggy. “Just ask the Hamilton County judges from the year Juanita took the Prettiest Sow Award in the Nebraska—”

Scotty began choking on his pancakes. I scrambled over and whacked him on the back. When he finally regained his composure, he smirked at me. “I stand corrected. I’m eating the work of a master chef.”

“Shut up,” I grumbled before turning back to my own batch of pancakes. “My point is, I can cook a damned pancake.”

“You used pancake mix.”

I fisted a hand on my hip. “I added my own special flair.”

He didn’t seem as impressed as he should have been. “Was the flair vanilla extract?” he asked. “Because that suggestion is right there on the box.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “Would you like your pancakes to go? Because that can be arranged. And I’m sure your horse won’t mind the citations she gets on the city streets this time of day. Not to mention the attention from the press when you’re spotted leaving my house.”

I’d meant it as a joke, but Scotty didn’t take it that way. His face fell, his eyes cutting away and then down to his lap. “Fuck you.”

My heart climbed into my throat. I’d struck a nerve, and a raw one at that. He looked so suddenly sad and dejected, the complete opposite of how he normally was. It was wrong and weird, and all I knew was that I needed to fix it.

I reached across the island and placed my hand over his. His skin was softer than I’d expected for a man who handled leather reins all day. “Hey,” I said. He didn’t look up. I squeezed his fingers. “Hey,” I said again.

Finally Scotty’s eyes met mine. There was a slight sheen to them, and I noticed a muscle ticking along his jaw, as though he were clenching his teeth to keep from crying. Something inside me threatened to break at the thought of this man spilling any tears. Especially if I was the one to cause them.

“I’m sorry,” I said softly.

He held my eyes a moment longer, and I found myself unable to breathe. Then Scotty looked away again and I could finally draw air.

“S’okay,” he said.

“It’s not,” I said.

He pulled his hand out from under mine and placed it in his lap, shrugging. I pressed my palm against the cold marble of the counter, missing the soft warmth of him.

Scotty the carriage driver might be all smiles and jokes, but I wondered if maybe part of that was a defense mechanism, a way to protect himself against the world. Perhaps I’d let his good humor distract me from the severity of the problems he was facing.

I pulled the remaining pancakes off the stove, piling several more onto Scotty’s plate before fixing my own. I took the stool kitty-corner from him at the island so I could at least see his profile while we ate.

“Did they really fire you?” I asked.

He nodded. “That same day.”

“But it wasn’t your fault!”

“Tell that to them.”

“I will.” And I meant it too.

He rolled his eyes at me.

“No, really,” I insisted. I noticed that Scotty hadn’t touched the new stack of pancakes. I pushed the butter and syrup closer to him. “I’ll tell them they have to hire you back.”

“No offense, Roman, but not everyone listens to you. Especially my homophobic boss who was already looking for an excuse to can my gay ass.”

The mention of his gay ass got the attention of my own bi ass, as well as other parts of my anatomy that were perfectly happy to hear the news of his sexuality. But my blood was too busy boiling with injustice to spend much time on that new piece of information. I’d have to come back to it later.

“That’s illegal,” I bit out.