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In my last snippet from Claiming Mister Kemp, Tom and Lucas kissed for the first time. In this snippet, they're dealing with the aftermath of that moment.

[The scene is in Lucas's point of view.]

A key scraped in the keyhole. The door opened. Tom stepped into the entrance hall.

Panic kicked in Lucas’s belly. He scrambled to his feet. “What are you doing here?”

Tom put the key back in his pocket. “Came to see you, muttonhead. Why else would I be here?”

“But it’s morning.” And then Lucas caught the significance of Tom’s clothes. “You’re not in uniform.”

“Wellesley gave me some leave. Says he doesn’t need me under his feet.” Tom halted in the middle of the sitting room. “We need to talk, Lu.” He caught sight of the trunk, already corded. His eyebrows rose. “Going somewhere?”

“Whiteoaks,” Lucas said. “Always do, this time of year.” And then he shut his mouth and listened to his heartbeat thud in his ears.

Tom looked at him for several seconds, his gaze cool and assessing. “Running away?”

Lucas flushed—but didn’t deny the charge. Yes, he was running away.

Tom pulled off his gloves and tossed them on the nearest table. “Look, Lu―”

“I don’t want to discuss it,” Lucas said firmly.

A faint glint of laughter lit Tom’s eyes. “Chickenhearted, Lu?” He took off his hat and shrugged out of his greatcoat.

Lucas’s panic scrambled up from his belly to his chest, where it squeezed his lungs. “I’m busy. I must ask you to leave.”

The glint of laughter faded. Tom’s expression became serious. “Is that what you truly want? For me to leave?”

Lucas looked away. “Yes.”

For a long moment, there was silence. Lucas stared at the nearest bookcase, and felt the panic tight in his chest, and waited desperately for the sound of Tom picking up his greatcoat. It didn’t come.

“Then you’ll have to throw me out, because I’m not leaving until we’ve talked about this.”

Anger sparked in Lucas’s breast. He swung his gaze back to Tom. “Damn it, these are my rooms!”

Tom shrugged. “So, throw me out.”

Lucas clenched his fists and glared at him, torn between panic and anger.

Tom stared back, a bulldog expression on his face.

They both knew that if he wanted to, Lucas could throw Tom out. Tom was taller, but Lucas was brawnier—and he had a right hook that could floor an ox.

Tom’s eyebrows lifted. “No? Let’s talk, then.”

He crossed to the fireplace—and Lucas suddenly knew how a hen felt when it was cornered by a fox. He felt a burst of panic and struck out wildly. Not a right hook, and not with his full body weight behind it, but enough of a punch that Tom reeled back a pace, tripped over the ottoman, and fell heavily.

Lucas took a horrified step forward—and forced himself to halt.

Tom pushed up on one elbow and gingerly touched his cheek. “What the devil was that for?”

“I asked you to leave,” Lucas said stiffly. He felt sick to the pit of his belly. I hit Tom.

Tom climbed to his feet. “If you want me to leave, you’re going to have to hit me harder than that.”

Shall we just say that the path from best friends to lovers can be rocky at times?



[Image courtesy of the Rijksmuseum's collection of public domain images.]