Shaw’s gaze dropped. He played with the sheet, straightening the lines, drawing one corner out so that it hung off him like a pennant.

Leaning forward, North lowered his voice. “Is this like a client service we’re offering now? Because here’s the thing: if this is a client service, then either I’m a whore too or I’m a madame, and honestly, I don’t think I’d make a very good madame.”

A blush infused the sharp angles of Shaw’s face, and he spoke into the sheet. “Obviously Pari would be the madame.”

North burst out laughing. He laughed hard. He threw his head back. He just about fucking drummed his heels on the bed. “Oh my God, please tell me he read you some poetry first. You’re just such a fucking slut for poetry.”

The blush deepened, bright red points in the sharp triangle of Shaw’s face. “He’s right there. He can hear you.”

“Seriously, though, is this like a thing for you now? Do we need to start having them sign sexual harassment waivers?”

“North.”

“We could change our sign. And our ads. We could call ourselves a full-service, gay detective agency.”

“You’re really funny. We’re not a gay detective agency, we’re a detective agency for—”

“You owe me lunch.”

“What?”

“I told you that kid wanted to bone you. Or did you bone him? I told you. I fucking told you.” North’s grin felt like a Mr. Potato Head smile, felt like a big piece of plastic he’d pegged to the middle of his face. His cheeks hurt, fucking hurt from that grin. “A bet’s a bet.”

“But I didn’t bet anything, and it’s not like—”

“You owe me lunch, ok?” North got to his feet and tapped the center of Shaw’s chest, and he had this odd bubble of a thought burst inside his head, this odd pop of clarity that if things went well, if things went really well between Shaw and Matty, maybe this would be the last time North could ever touch Shaw, and suddenly it was all North could do not to cry, not to break down right there. Somehow he kept it together. Somehow he kept that plastic smile on his face. “I want to hear you say you’re buying me lunch because I was right.”

“You are really . . . up today.”

“I’m excited for you, man. Buy me lunch.”

“That is not your normal—” Shaw stopped. “You’re smiling a lot.”

“I told you I’m excited.”

“But, like, a lot.”

“Buy me lunch. Say it, or I’ll go in there and ask your boyfriend if he’ll buy me lunch instead.”

“Oh my God,” Shaw whispered, burying his head in the pillow. “Oh my God. He’s not—just get out. I’ll buy you lunch. I’ll buy you a restaurant if you’ll get out.”

“I might hold you to that.”

“Fine.”

“I’m going to need a business to provide for me if you two run off and get married and have a million babies.”