Then Arion's phone buzzed on the table.
Dean did not move at first, because he had reached a rare state of partial peace involving a pastry, Boreas's enormous head on his lap, and Arion's hand warm at the back of his neck. That peace lasted exactly three seconds before he looked at the phone, saw the caller ID, and narrowed his eyes.
"That is yours," he said.
Arion glanced at the screen.
His expression changed so little that most people would have missed it. Dean did not. The slight softening vanished from his mouth, the amused warmth in his eyes folded away, and the Crown Prince surfaced in the quiet space between one breath and the next.
"Public Relations," Arion said.
Dean went still.
Boreas, sensing a shift in the atmosphere and possessing the survival instincts of a seasoned court animal despite his history of door-related treason, lifted his head from Dean's lap and looked between them.
