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Andy walked over to the fireplace, dropped his bag, pulled off his gloves, and set about lighting the kindling in the grate.

The flames had just caught, wood crackling cheerily, shadows flickering merrily against the walls, when Quinn returned. Andy heard him stamping the snow from his boots in the hall.

He called, “I hope it’s okay I started a fire.”

“Good thought.” Quinn came in and walked down the long line of windows, twitching shut the navy-colored draperies, cutting off the view from the street. When all the windows were shrouded, he moved to the end of the couch, studying Andy.

“Did you want something to drink?”

“Something hot maybe.” There was no reason to feel so hyperaware of Quinn. They’d spent the last couple of hours together having dinner. And yet…

Quinn said ruefully, “I know. The place is like a meat locker.”

They smiled at each other.

Andy asked at random, “What happened to all the furniture and paintings and gimcracks?”

“Anything salvageable is out in the cottage and the garage. I kept meaning to drop by and tell Cutty he could have whatever he thought was worth anything. I just…never got around to it.”

“Don’t feel bad,” Andy said bitterly. “I’m his nephew, and I couldn’t make time in four years.”

“You know Cutty would understand.” Quinn came to join Andy on the sofa, and Andy’s entire body went rigid with, well…what?

What the hell was going on with him? Why this acute consciousness of Quinn? Of every single little thing about Quinn? The lean, muscular strength—and warmth—of his body. His aftershave: what was that? Artemisia? Amber? The absurd length of his gold-tipped eyelashes. That quirky little smile that wasn’t humor so much as amused understanding. If Andy looked closely, he could see the ghost of the boy Quinn had been, but he didn’t kid himself that he knew this Quinn. This Quinn was a stranger.

But yes, an attractive stranger, if Andy still cared about that kind of thing.

He did not.

He couldn’t imagine he ever would again. To be that invested in another person? To be that vulnerable, both physically and emotionally? No. No thanks.

“He shouldn’t understand,” Andy said harshly. “Because there wasn’t a good reason for it. I prioritized the wrong things.”

“Andy.” Quinn shifted—maybe to pat Andy’s back or maybe to put an arm around him—and Andy rose from the sofa in a movement too quick and nervous to be anything but what it was. Retreat. Rejection.

Quinn rested his hands on his knees. He smiled. His expression and body language clearly communicated acceptance of whatever was happening on Andy’s end. He continued, as if Andy had never jumped up, “What was it Cutty used to say?Life is a learning process.”

Andy nodded. “Yeah. I believe that too.”

“So do I. You live and, best-case scenario, you learn.”

Andy nodded again, because who could argue with that?

“And one thing I’ve learned is that a hot drink in this house on a winter’s night is a damn good idea.” Quinn winked, but when he pushed up from the sofa, he seemed a little weary. It occurred to Andy that Quinn was also short of sleep and probably just as tired and confused as him—only none of this was actually Quinn’s problem.

“Quinn—”

“Sit down and relax,” Quinn tossed over his shoulder, heading for the doorway. “I won’t be long.”

Andy returned to the sofa. After a minute or two, the soft light and warmth of the fire relaxed him, and he let his head fall on the sofa back. He closed his eyes.

“Here we go.”

Andy’s eyes flew open, and he sat up. Given the echo still ringing in his ears, he suspected he had been snoring.

“I must have fallen asleep. Sorry about that.” He reached for the large blue mug Quinn handed him.

Quinn took the chair closest to the fireplace. He had taken off his jacket and boots, and there was something peculiarly disarming about the sight of his feet in thick blue wool socks.