Chapter 1
"Sam."
"Mmm?" Sam paused in his shaving ritual.
It never did to have sharp objects close to his own throat when Winston was hovering in the doorway to the bath like that.
"What?"
"You've written love letters," Winston asserted.
"Not since secondary school," said Sam.
"But yes." Winston did not seem about to gesticulate wildly or announce that armed assassins were, at this moment, about to climb in through the bathroom window, so Sam drew another stripe through the foam.
Winston, in the mirror, stood in the doorway with a thoughtful and expectant air, tapping his lip with his forefinger.
Finally, Winston came up with, "I require your assistance."
Sam ran his fingertips over his jaw.
"On what?"
"A love letter, of course."
Sam tapped his razor against the edge of the sink and rinsed it.
"This for a case?"
"No."
Sam met Winston's eyes in the mirror.
Winston looked bemused.
"It's not for a case?" Winston gave Sam the look that meant
You heard me perfectly well the first time; don't be dim
.
Sam deposited his razor in its cup.
"So this is for you, then.
You.
.
. want me to help you write a love letter."
Winston rolled his eyes.
"Very good, Sam."
"If you want my help, it'd do you good to be nice," Sam warned.
He splashed some water on his face.
"Why me?"
"You've done this before," Winston pointed out.
"And it's not as if there's anyone else I can ask."
Sam wiped his face with a towel and tried to picture Winston asking Marshall or, God help them all, Lachlan to help him compose a love letter.
"All right," he allowed.
"Bit.
.
. well, bit secondary school, though, isn't it?
A love letter."
Winston stood up straight, shoulders back.
"If you don't want to help--"
"No," Sam said, hastily.
He hung the towel back up.
"I'll help.
Just--give me a moment, will you?
I'd like to be dressed first."
*
Sam was aware that Winston was, in fact, a very attractive man.
Not in looks, perhaps--oh, yes, there were the cheekbones, the eyes, the raven-dark hair, blah blah blah--but Winston wasn't physically attractive in a conventional way, was he?
His eyes were too small for such a long face, his chin too pointy, and he looked about twelve years old.
What made him so magnetic was the masterful way in which he held himself and the way he looked at you, like he stripped you bare to read all the secrets between your pores.
Maybe the eyes or the cheekbones compelled the first glance, but his voice, his charismatic disdain, was what compelled the second one.
But Sam had had enough of lost causes in Dellion.
Winston had told him no, that very first dinner together, and Sam hadn't even been properly chatting him up at the time.
So Sam kept it to himself, didn't look at Winston too hard or too long, flirted with baristas and grocery cashiers, and took comfort in the knowledge that, well, at least it wasn't because he was too old, too poor, too ugly, or had a poor personality.
Winston simply wasn't interested in
anyone
.
And if Sam couldn't have him, at least Winston wasn't going anywhere with anyone else.
It looked like he'd been wrong about that, but there was nothing for it now.
*
"All right." Sam sat himself at the kitchen table with toast and a mug of coffee.
Across from him, Winston tapped his pen against a pad of paper.
"What do you want to know?"
"Everything." Tap tap tap.
"I have no experience in this area.
I've looked at online guides, but they are all much the same.
I much prefer hands-on data, as you know."
"Right, then." Sam sipped his coffee.
It'd been a long time since he'd written a love letter.
He was pretty sure the ones he'd written in the past were all stupid and long since relegated to rubbish piles.
He wondered if he'd do any better now.
"Well, I don't really know what to tell you.
They're actually pretty straightforward things, love letters.
You just tell them why you love them."
Winston made a frustrated noise.
"But how?
Surely I can't just make a bulleted list, although that would be the most efficient and legible method," he finished in a sulky mutter.
Sam hid his smile in his mug of coffee; Winston could be surprisingly sensitive to any perceived mockery.
"Well, you
can
, if you think the other person will like it."
Winston brightened.
"So I should present the letter in a manner that I think is pleasing to the other person."
"Well.
.
. yes," Sam said.
Good grief.
Whoever this person was, he hoped they were patient.
"If you think they'd like a poem, then write a poem.
If you think they'd like a numbered list, then write a numbered list."
"I see." Winston scribbled this down on his pad.
Sam took a bite of his toast and reflected that if he were going to write a love letter to Winston, he'd probably write it in binary.
Or no, some kind of code.
Winston would get a kick out of that.
Of course, he'd never write a love letter to Winston.
"What else?" Winston demanded.
Sam made sure his bite of toast was well-chewed before swallowing it.
"Erm.
Well.
Be loving.
Sentimental." Obviously, he didn't add, because some things were not very obvious to Winston.
"Tell them why you love them, how much you think about them.
The moment you fell in love with them, if you remember it.
It helps if you're a bit down on yourself, talk about how you're not worthy, that sort of thing.
Flatter the other person." He caught a glimpse of Winston's curled lip and smiled into his cup again.
"Use nice paper.
And your best handwriting, of course."