Kit should have wanted to agree. Should have felt triumphant, virtuous, vindicated. He was right, and he knew he was. They might’ve managed a hurried f**k in a library or a bedroom or here under the open—and damned cold—sky, but it wouldn’t mean anything.
Kit Thompson, London constable, would just be a diversion and an excitement for someone like that, someone with money and class and a smile that would draw the world closer. And Harry wasn’t anything Kit needed, either. Not a part of his life.
Nevertheless, slogging through snow at Harry’s side, he felt an odd loss of balance, as if he’d taken a step onto what should’ve been solid ground and instead plummeted into a ravine. He, Kit, thought that way. Harry Arden didn’t, and the words—there’s no chance of anything real, so we should simp
