“Hamster.” Wyatt barged into his office and sank onto one of the chairs across from his desk. “Why the hell are you doing paperwork? You hate it. Have you called him yet? Aled’s dying to know.”
“Aled’s dying to know?” Hamish didn’t buy that excuse for a moment. “You’re a gossiping twat.”
“That’s a no, then. What’s the matter with you? He’s hot—he can fucking cook. Have you tried those pie things he bakes? You’re not going all weirdly stuffy and British again, are you?” Wyatt, in his typical sharp-eyed manner, found the tender spots in Hamish’s armour and needled him ruthlessly. “Dude. Text him. Send a fucking pigeon. Scottie has zero chance with him, but he’s not the only man in Cardiff.”
Hamish involuntarily crushed the invoice in his hand, the one he’d been pretending to peruse when the American twat interrupted him. “Bloody Yank.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Did I hit the mark?” Wyatt chuckled. “It’s almost lunch. Go pick something up at his bakery. I know that you know where it’s at.”
“Earp.” Hamish tried to silence his old friend with a glare, but Wyatt only hummed under his breath and ignored him. “Don’t you have a desk of your own? Aren’t you supposed to be working on the report for that new client?”
Wyatt’s grin only widened until he resembled a shark scenting blood in the water. “Text him, Hamster. Don’t fuck up because of the massive stick up your ass.”
“Go. Away.”
Once Wyatt retreated to his own office, still chuckling loudly, Hamish tapped his fingers restlessly against the desk. The obnoxious twit had a point. Several, actually. I won’t tell him though, his ego’s massive enough. He shoved the papers away from him; invoices could wait.
Thank you!
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