A Proper Cuppa Tea by K.G. MacGregor

Author:K.G. MacGregor [MacGregor, K.G.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bella Books
Published: 2018-06-26T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twelve

Channing had taken her hand the moment they stepped off the light rail near city center, ostensibly to keep them from getting separated in a Pride crowd that was shoulder to shoulder in anticipation of the festivities. But then she never let go, not even after they’d shaken free.

Lark found the simple gesture exhilarating, its unspoken declaration clear to everyone whose path they crossed: We’re together.

She had a vague idea where they were, having toured Amsterdam on a weekend holiday during a drug trial review in Munich three years ago. The Prinsengracht was one of the city’s major canals, along which one could view the Anne Frank House and Westerkerk, a seventeenth-century Protestant church that held the remains of Rembrandt.

She and Channing had walked past the throngs at those landmarks to claim precious seats on the canal wall near the bridge at Berenstraat, a prime perch from which to watch the floating parade. A sparse elm tree provided only modest relief from a blistering sun. Hundreds of celebrants gradually filled in behind them, lots of them proudly wearing pink to mark their solidarity. In the distance, the flamboyant floats of the Canal Parade were approaching.

“I wonder where Kenny is right now,” Channing said. They’d had a good laugh over his punishing hangover and his frivolous vow to remain sober for the remainder of his miserable life. “I’ve never heard him so contrite as he was at breakfast. Oliver said he was truly horrified to hear what he’d said last night.”

“I forgave him after his gift of bacon.”

“Technically it was I who snatched it off his plate and put it onto yours.”

“But he didn’t snatch it back so it still counts as a gift.” His expression had been that of a scolded puppy. “I shouldn’t have been so sensitive about it. You guys have the driest sense of humor. I can’t always tell when you’re joking about things.”

“You are not to blame for our boorish behavior.”

True to her word, Channing clearly was making a concerted effort to learn more about her today, asking her opinions, peppering her with questions about her family and upbringing. While Lark appreciated the gesture, it bugged her to think some of it might be contrived. She’d feel better if they could shed the specter of Channing paying penance for the night before.

After a couple of minutes sitting on the wall, Channing said, “This concrete’s cold on my bum. Would you like to sit on my sweater?”

“You don’t have to keep doing this. I’m fine about last night, really.”

“A promise is a promise. I’ve been a self-centered shithead. You can’t possibly say you haven’t noticed. Besides, I was offering only to share my sweater, not to give you the whole thing. I’m not that charitable. You can have the sleeves, or perhaps the side with the buttons, which will make little round indentations in your bum.”

“All right then, but I draw the line at having you fetch me a cup of tea, extra hot. That would be taking advantage.

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