Harry Pritchard had smiled, and taken the cup, and said he knew. He remembered that.
Richard, astonished by this presence of himself in someone else’s head, had sat down and forgotten to speak again. Harry, after a while, had pulled out some accounting ledgers, said, “You don’t mind, do you? It’s just I need to get this totaled up,” and settled in at Richard’s uneven kitchen table as if he planned to stay.
Richard had meant to dislike this, had wanted to, and hadn’t. Harry was restful. Compassionate about silence. Not needing to talk just to fill up space.
None of this had anything to do with the line of Harry’s throat against his open collar, and neither did it explain why Richard’s gaze had snagged there, over exposed bare skin.
He had tried to fix the table that morning. In case Harry appeared again. And wanted to use it. To stay for an hour or more.