The spotlight swiveled and suddenly lit up their group and especially Rory, whose eyes went very wide behind his glasses.

“Cute fella,” said the flapper around her cigar, and snapped the camera.

There was a blinding flash in the dark club that left Arthur blinking. A moment later, the band struck up its first notes, and Stella grinned and began to sing. “Happy birthday...”

Rory went scarlet. Stella’s voice turned the simple song into a masterpiece as tipsy cheers and whistles came from the speakeasy crowd. Rory covered his face with his hands, watching Stella through his fingers, his face lit with a smile that went straight to Arthur’s heart.

Then Rory looked over at Arthur, and their eyes met. And despite his own hurt feelings, Arthur felt an overwhelming rush of affection. He raised his grape juice. “To you, sweetheart,” he said, too quietly to be heard in the crowd.

The spotlight swiveled to Stella again, leaving the rest of them in the softer dark. Jade tugged Rory toward Sasha, Pavel, and Ling. As he passed, Rory’s hand drifted out, and his fingers brushed Arthur’s, casual enough to be ignored by anyone watching, gentle as a breeze ruffling the leaves.

The secret touch still sent sparks like electricity through Arthur. He gritted his teeth, his emotions a tumultuous mess.

He watched Sasha and Ling enthusiastically hug Rory the way he couldn’t in public. What a good thing it was Arthur didn’t get jealous, because this certainly would be a moment he might feel jealousy. If he were that type of man. Which he wasn’t, so of course he wasn’t jealous as Ling pointed out Rory’s bow tie to Sasha, and really, had girls always been this fond of Rory?

There was a polite throat clearing at his side. “Your drink, sir.”

“Thank Christ.” Arthur turned to find the waiter, and plucked a cocktail glass off his tray, setting his untouched juice in its place. He brought the cocktail to his nose and smelled the bright scent of oranges. “What’s this?”

“The bartender’s calling it a Russian, sir.”

“And what’s in—never mind, I don’t actually care, I’m going to drink it regardless.” Arthur took a small sip, tasting orange juice and very little burn. “Not too strong, is it?”

“Well, actually—”

“Thank you.” Arthur tapped the glass. “Keep these coming, please.”

As the waiter disappeared, Arthur took another experimental sip. There was a faint licorice taste, perhaps from absinthe. There was a taste to remind him of Paris. Paris, where there would be a world’s fair with paranormals. Where he might have to go and couldn’t take Rory, even if Rory would apparently rather work himself to the bone than borrow Arthur’s bed.

On the other side of the table, Sasha tugged at one of Rory’s curls, making Rory smile.

Arthur took a bigger sip.