Eleven
Shower and a shave: Check.
Black button-down shirt pressed: Check.
Boots cleaned and polished: Check.
Mortification that his ward had made arrangements to take himself off for the night to give them some alone time for a date night—along with suggestions on what that date should entail: Check.
The lad was certain Malcolm had no game. And, okay, he’d been out of it long enough that whatever skills he possessed were rusty. But he still had a notion of how to woo a woman. More importantly, he had a clear understanding of his own limitations and knew when to call in reinforcements. That request had been its own form of awkward, but his coconspirators assured him everything would be sorted, despite the short notice.
The only thing remaining was to pick up his date.
A knock on his
