Work Text:
“You are aware of the extraordinary work of the New York-based photographer Sebastien Raine?”
Stunned silence. “You mean my ex?”
He slams the box of body milk down on the table hard enough to worry that he might have broken a bottle or two.
“When did you date Sebastien Raine?”
“They dated for like a month and a half and David got very upset about it.”
No broken bottles, but it’s not enough to stop him from slamming a box of eye cream down right next to it.
“Okay. It was almost three months - four if you include the month he was seeing other people - and you met him through me.”
“That’s nonsense. I met Sebastien Raine at an art opening years ago.”
“At my gallery! And can you please stop saying his full name? He’s a monster who uses people and leaves them for dead.”
Truer words were never fucking spoken.
He should be worried about the state of his hands. He’s scrubbing the shelves so hard, he’s probably removing the varnish.
“I hate to play the contrarian, David, but the Times and I both consider Sebastien Raine a dear friend.”
“Remember when he dumped you and you ate all those mall pretzels and watched Bridget Jones’s Diary every day for a year?”
“It wasn’t a whole year and I will not feel shame about the mall pretzels.”
He lines the bottles up with militaristic precision, labels facing out (Maybe? Most likely? He’s honestly not paying attention).
“Okay, that’s enough news for today.”
“Um, no. What about him?”
“He’s coming here.”
He barely registers the sting of Alexis’s slap. “What?! - ”
There’s a knock at the door and it’s enough to startle him into dropping a bottle of body milk. It seems to happen in slow motion, the steady, inevitable fall from hand to floor, and he closes his eyes in time for the sound of shattering glass to echo around the store.
He stares at the bottle for a second, creamy liquid seeping out between the shards, before looking up to find Patrick looking sheepish but concerned as he places a placating palm on the glass.
David will have to polish that later.
Shaking his head slightly, he steps over the mess and wipes his clammy palms on his thighs as he unlocks the door. “Wh-what are you doing here?”
Patrick’s eyebrows fly up. “I could ask you the same question. I was driving by and saw the lights on. David, it’s nearly midnight.”
He blinks and pulls out his phone. He had no idea he’d been here that long.
Clearing his throat, he tries to look casual about it, like he meant to get lost in a downward spiral of anxiety, self-pity, and regret while trying not to ruin the one good thing to come into his life.
“Well what were you doing out so late? Hot date or...?” he asks with a grimace he can’t quite hide.
“Oh. No, I went to the movies.”
David hums. “Sounds like a date.”
“With myself,” Patrick clarifies.
“Ah.”
“Yeah. Ray has started binging the Real Housewives of New Jersey. There are only so many catfights I can take on any given day.”
David snorts. “Try having brunch with them.” It’s then that he realizes he’s essentially been blocking the door, and he steps away and gestures for Patrick to come in. He really should get him a key since they’re… business partners, or whatever.
“You okay?” Patrick asks as he passes, concerned crease right in the middle of his adorable forehead between his nonexistent eyebrows.
“What? Yup. Uh huh.” David’s nerves are about as fried as his hair every Christmas after The Number.
Patrick eyes the mess on the floor and David’s fidgeting hands. “Okay, David.” Then, without another word, he heads into the back room and returns with a roll of paper towels, a trashbag, and a bottle of water.
“What are you doing?” he asks as Patrick hands him the bottle before getting down on his knees and gingerly picking up the glass.
“Drink that.”
“Oh,” David murmurs, kind of like he did when Patrick looked at him and said, Oh I’m gonna get the money. He clears his throat, but opens the bottle of water as instructed. “I really can clean that up.”
“Well, I’m the one who made you drop it so it seems only fair that I take care of it. Also, your hands are shaking. I’m not sure I’d trust you around sharp glass at the moment.”
David looks down and holds one palm out. Sure enough, it trembles. He’d probably slice a tendon and then Patrick would have to drive him to the hospital and he’d bleed all over his car and David doesn’t really do well with blood so he’d probably vomit or pass out on top of that and that’s really not the impression you want to make on your business partner/possible friend.
“You want to tell me what’s going on?” Patrick asks, breaking David’s mental ramblings.
He sighs and closes his eyes, twisting the bottle in his hands. “My mother invited my ex to town.”
Patrick pauses in his cleaning. “Why would she do that?”
“Because she’s desperate. But he is - ”
A monster, he had said. He wasn’t wrong.
“Not a good person,” he goes with instead, but Patrick seems to see all he’s not saying. His expression darkens and he scrubs at the floor a little harder.
“So why did she invite him?”
“He’s a photographer. He’s going to take pictures of her.”
“Nice ones?”
“Probably not. Like I said, she’s desperate.”
“What’s this tool’s name?”
And David can’t help it, he smiles. “Sebastien Raine.”
“Ugh, he sounds like a tool.”
“Right?” he laughs and if it comes out choked and a little wet, well, so be it. Patrick just keeps cleaning so David just keeps drinking and, before he knows it, the bottle of water is gone as is the splatter of body milk on the floor.
“Come on,” Patrick murmurs, standing and tying the trash bag. “I’ll give you a ride home. I have some leftover Junior Mints in my car. Eat them, please. Your blood sugar levels seem alarmingly low.”
And now that David thinks about it, he hasn’t eaten since his mother dropped that particular bomb on him hours ago. The shaking has ebbed but not totally gone away.
“Okay.”
They turn out the lights and David follows Patrick into the night, watching as he dumps the bag with the paper towels and shattered glass into the garbage can on the corner and unlocks his car parked just out front. David slides into the passenger seat and buckles up, smiling as Patrick gets behind the steering wheel and immediately hands him the Junior Mints from the cupholder.
David pops one in his mouth and allows the minty, sugary goodness to explode on his tongue. “Thanks for… checking in.”
“Of course,” Patrick replies as he pulls away from the curb, but his expression softens. “What are business partners for?”
David scrunches his nose and pops another candy in his mouth. “I don’t think it’s cleaning up after non-work-related, near-emotional breakdowns.”
“Well, we’ve been approved, but the grant money hasn’t come through yet, so… we’re technically not business partners,” he murmurs with a crooked smile. “Let’s just say it’s one friend looking out for another.”
David sucks in a breath and holds it, hoping his heart doesn’t sound as absolutely thunderous as it feels.
“Well, thanks, friend.”
Patrick laughs. “You’re welcome. What time do you want me in tomorrow?”
“Oh, um.” He’d been so keyed up about Sebastien’s imminent arrival, he hadn’t even thought about what that might mean for the workday.
“If you want to take off, just text me a list and I’ll come over after I’m finished at Ray’s in the morning.” He pulls into the motel parking lot and puts the car in park.
“You don’t have to do that.”
“Look,” Patrick begins, turning in his seat as much as he can to face him, “from what it sounds like, tomorrow has the potential to be really unpleasant. If you want to, I dunno, take the day, just tell me what needs to get done. I’ll take care of it.”
“That’s very generous of you. But, um, the distraction might be nice.”
“Okay, David,” he murmurs, and David can feel his eyes on him as he unbuckles his seat belt and opens the car door, digging his keys out of his pocket. He closes the door and unhooks the brass one to the store, handing it through the open window.
“In case you beat me.”
Patrick takes the key almost reverently and closes his fist around it.
“Thanks for the ride. And, you know, the mints.”
Patrick chuckles as David starts to walk away. “Hey,” he calls through the open window. David turns. “Good luck.”
He smiles and nods, feeling both ill and oddly buoyant. “Thank you, Patrick.”
He doesn’t hear the car pull away until the motel room door is safely shut behind him.
xxxxxx
“It’s so good to see you. Look at you. You look really… healthy.”
“Thanks.” Fucking Junior Mints.
“I can’t believe this is where you live. I think you’re brave.”
Fuck. That. Noise.
He all but stomps up to the store, grateful to see Patrick’s car parked on the side of the building, which means he can blow through the doors as dramatically as he wants.
Which he does. With loud aplomb.
Patrick whirls around, eyes wide, brandishing one of their sweaters like a shield. If he’s not careful, he’s going to stretch out the neck.
“I saw him,” David blurts.
“I see that. And?”
“He said I looked, ‘healthy.”
Patrick pauses, frowning. “Is that… bad?”
“Coming from Sebastien fucking Raine, it’s not a compliment,” he spits, tugging at his own sweater and trying to remember if it felt this snug the last time he wore it.
“Ah.” Patrick folds the knitwear and carefully places it on the shelf he was setting up. “And how long does Mr. Raine plan on gracing Schitt’s Creek with his presence?”
“Too fucking long,” David mutters. “He’s meeting my mother at the cafe soon.” He immediately hides behind the shelving unit set up for the succulents, as if Sebastien will wander by at any given moment. He does have a habit of turning up out of the blue. Particularly when he’s unwanted.
David smells some combination of cedar, pine, and mint and looks over his shoulder to find Patrick standing there, also glancing up and down the street.
“What does he look like?”
“Pretension.”
Patrick snorts. “Helpful.”
“Oh fuck,” David mutters as he catches sight of Sebastien walking up to the cafe. He dives behind the closest solid thing, which unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on which inner voice he’s listening to) happens to be Patrick. He grabs his forearms and presses his head against Patrick’s back, peeking up over his shoulder.
“Huh. ‘Pretension’ actually works,” Patrick says, nodding slightly and totally ignoring the fact that David is all but plastered to his back. “He looks like the guy who used to live outside my building.”
David hides his smile in Patrick’s blue button-down. “Thank you for that.”
Patrick must misunderstand him, though, because he immediately backpedals. “I mean - I’m sure your taste in men is excellent.”
David rolls his eyes. “My track record is not, shall we say, stellar.”
“Oh I can definitely picture him in an art gallery surrounded by people telling him how amazing he is. He looks like he lives for that sort of thing.”
David winces, knowing that you could swap him in for Sebastien in this scenario and the same would still hold true.
“Don’t be taken in. He even flustered Stevie and I thought Stevie was unflappable.”
Patrick tries to glance over his shoulder. “Sorry - who’s Stevie?”
“Oh, my friend. Owns the motel. Is the coast clear?”
“What? Oh.” Patrick clears his throat. “Yeah, clear. He went inside.”
David reluctantly lets go of Patrick’s (impressive) arms and steps back, smoothing his hands down his sweater just to give them something to do.
“I thought Stevie was stronger than that. I do not need Sebastien commandeering another one of my exes.”
Patrick freezes. “Oh so you and he - ”
“She.”
“Oh.”
Ohhh. That’s right. They haven’t had this conversation yet.
David glances up to find Patrick looking at him thoughtfully. He’s too lazy and stressed to come up with another metaphor for his preferences, so he just lays it out there.
“I’m pansexual. Stevie is a girl.”
Patrick continues looking thoughtful (and adorable), but if he doesn’t say something soon, David is going to start rambling.
“Um, it means - ”
“All,” Patrick interrupts. “I know.”
David stares at him, lips parted and eyebrows raised.
“I took Greek and Latin in high school,” he says with a smile. “I know what ‘pan’ means.”
“Oh.”
And then he goes back to folding sweaters like nothing happened.
“I’m just… used to having to explain more.”
Patrick pauses folding and looks at him with a soft expression on his face. “You never have to explain anything to me you don’t want to, David.” Then that soft expression falters and his fingers toy with the tag listing quite the markup on price. “So you and Stevie… Are you...?”
“Oh God no. We’re better off as friends.”
“Right.” Patrick smiles and goes back to arranging the shelf, no longer fidgeting. David isn’t sure if that’s relief he sees on his face or if he’s just reading too much into things. History says it’s the latter, but who the hell knows when it comes to Patrick Brewer.
David looks out the window again in time to see Sebastien and his mom exit the cafe and continue down the street. “Where are they going?” He presses his nose against the glass and smells that mix of cedar, pine, and mint over his shoulder again. “Fuck.”
“Go,” Patrick murmurs. “I’ve got this.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes. Go.”
He makes it two steps towards the door before he stops. “No, nope. I’m not going to stalk them like - like some - ”
“Stalker?”
David glares and Patrick smiles.
“It’s just - she’s my mom and I - He’s...” but the words stall.
“David, like I said,” he starts softly. “You don’t have to explain anything to me you don’t want to.”
“I want to.” The words are out before he can bite them back, but perhaps the most earth-shattering realization he has is that he doesn’t really want to. He wants to tell Patrick about this.
And so he does. He tells him about the partying and the drugs and the drinks. About the photos that he was aware of being taken and those, he found out later, he wasn’t. He skirts around the emotional abuse and mental manipulation, trying to cut it with a joke, but Patrick doesn’t laugh. He sits quietly on the counter next to the cash, across from David who sits on the table in the center of the room, listening stoically to every word that leaves David’s mouth.
He hasn’t unloaded like this since his last therapy session almost five years ago. Granted, his business partner was probably not the next best option, but they’re not just that anymore, are they?
“Let’s just say it’s one friend looking out for another.”
“It’s just - I know how this ends,” he says, twisting his fingers in his lap. “It’s like watching Titanic and getting swept up in the romance. History literally says there’s an iceberg coming, yet you allow yourself to fall in love anyway, knowing it can only end in tears on a floating wooden door that apparently only fits one person.”
Patrick is trying very hard not to smile and failing, which only makes David smile too. To be honest, it’s kind of cathartic.
“So that’s me. Kind of a hot mess. You still want a part of this?” He gestures to the store, but to himself as well. Forever linked (and inked) now, for better or worse.
Patrick glances around at the maze of boxes. “Little late to turn back now.”
“Not really.” David needs to give him this out. One last chance to run away as far as humanly possible as so many have done before.
Patrick slides off the counter and holds out his hand. After a second, David takes it.
“Business partners,” Patrick murmurs.
“Friends,” David replies, and no matter what happens with Sebastien, he knows he’ll think about the smile that lights up Patrick’s face well into the night.
Patrick tugs on his hand, pulling him from the counter. “Go home and wait for your mom. Make sure she’s all right.”
“Okay. You’ve got this?” Of course he does. He’s Patrick.
“I do,” he replies. “Your bullet-pointed directions on how to properly stock labeled bottles was very helpful.”
David narrows his eyes, knowing he’s being teased, but the text took him a long time to type and he will not feel shame for it. “Mkay.” He heads for the door, stomach churning at the thought of what lies ahead -
“Also, David?”
He stops. “Yeah?”
Patrick stands there, hands shoved into his pockets, watching his feet shuffle back and forth on the hardwood floor. “As your business partner and friend, may I make our first Rose Apothecary rule?”
“You mean other than no synthetic fabrics sold in house? Um, sure.”
Patrick looks up and David is surprised by the flint in his usually warm eyes. “Sebastien Raine is not welcome in this store.”
Oh, he thinks.
“Okay,” he breathes. “Good rule.”
“We’ll make a sign.”
Patrick smiles. And then David smiles. And then David’s stomach swoops.
Oh he’s in so much fucking trouble.
xxxxxx
“So he photographed you today, then.”
“Just a few dozen snaps about town. Picturettes, really.”
“Why would you have allowed this to happen?”
“I don’t know, he just started shooting and shouting, and I did what he told me to do and I leaned in to the moment.”
“And how did that work out for you?”
“I leaned in! I don’t know, David! Why don’t you try it sometime?”
The problem was, he had. Too many times. Not that he remembered them all. Sebastien made sure of that.
It’s been a while since he’s seen his mother this distraught. At least about something that matters and not, like, which wigs aren’t getting along.
Sebastien is going to release the photos, he knows it. Because he’s a son of a bitch.
“David, I’m thinking maybe I’ll stay the night, so I hope we can, you know, catch up.”
There is a way to get the photos. And his own, a little.
Not that he’s looking forward to it.
“I just feel like we have unfinished business, you and I.”
No fucking shit.
Before he knows it, he’s pulling out his phone and bringing up his text thread with Patrick, fingers typing out a message before he can second-guess himself.
I think I’m about to do something stupid.
The response is immediate:
[Patrick]
Are you safe?
Three little words should not make his pulse do crap like that.
Yes.
[Patrick]
Okay. Is this Tool-related?
He snorts.
What gave it away? The stupidity of the plan?
[Patrick]
Possibly.
It’ll get me the memory card.
[Patrick]
Can I help?
Now there’s a fantasy. But no. He doesn’t want Patrick anywhere within at least a ten block radius of Sebastien Raine, which is a terrifying realization he can further examine at a much later date.
Sweet, but no.
Is it sweet? Duh, but should he have said that? Probably not.
[Patrick]
Let me know you’re okay?
There his pulse goes again, racing the Kentucky fucking Derby. Speaking of, he’ll need a mint julep (or ten) if he’s going to get through this without the need for therapy.
But Patrick doesn’t need to know that.
I will.
xxxxxx
David wasn’t wrong. He does remember Patrick’s smile well into the night. Even after his leather jacket has been tossed on a lamp and his jeans shoved down around his thighs.
Now, he sits in the chair by the desk, stretching his neck and staring at Sebastien’s naked body under the sheets. David threw him a bit of a change-up there. Patrick would at least be proud of his sports metaphors if not the deed they described.
Scrubbing a hand over his face, he watches the memory card sink to the bottom of his vodka soda, flipping his phone over and over in his hand.
He did promise. Even if texting Patrick from this room makes him feel grosser than he already does. It’s late but, again -
He did promise.
It’s done.
An ellipsis appears immediately, and he tries not to wonder if Patrick is usually a night owl or if he was waiting up specifically to hear from him.
[Patrick]
You got the memory card?
Yes.
[Patrick]
Are you okay?
After about ten showers I will be.
Patrick doesn’t respond and David groans (quietly). Too much information. Typical David Rose overshare.
Sebastien rolls over in bed, hissing subconsciously when he gets on his back, and David can’t help but smirk.
His phone vibrates and he fumbles to unlock it.
[Patrick]
I’m proud of you.
Ugh no.
Please don’t say that.
[Patrick]
Rule #2: No putting yourself down.
Technically it’s Rule #3. Don't forget the synthetic fabrics.
[Patrick]
Never.
Also we’re not in the store.
[Patrick]
Still doesn’t mean you didn’t just do something very nice for your mom.
Ew. The thought of doing… that… for his mom is grotesque.
Let’s just say I did it for me.
[Patrick]
Okay, David. Still proud of you.
Maybe more so, now.
Ugh.
[Patrick]
Goodnight, David. 😊
No. We’re not doing emojis.
[Patrick]
Rule #4?
Yes.
[Patrick]
Fair enough. 😴
Patrick. No.
xxxxxx
“Give me the memory card, Sebastien.”
“Moira, I’m scared for us - ”
“Oh, you mean this memory card? Yeah, I’d give it back, but I don’t think it’d be of much use to you. It accidentally fell out of your camera into my hand last night. And then fell out of my hand into my drink. And then I stepped on it a lot. So… It’s really good to see you, Sebastien. Good luck with the rest of the project.”
He tries to look disappointed when Patrick comes hurrying up the front steps almost a full hour after he said he would, but he’s pretty sure he lands closer in the vicinity of devoted.
“Sorry, sorry,” Patrick offers as soon as he’s through the door. “Ray was particularly chatty this morning. Apparently a Real Housewife is going to jail?”
“Oh yeah, that was a low point,” David murmurs, fighting a smile. “Hi.”
“Hi.” Patrick holds up a cup. “One caramel macchiato, skim.” He holds up another handful of sugar packets. “I brought a bunch of sweeteners because I don’t know how many you take.”
“Um, two. With a sprinkle of cocoa powder.”
“I’ll remember for next time.”
David is pretty sure his ears are pink as he takes the coffee and two of the packets from Patrick’s palm, tearing them open and watching as Patrick safely stores the extras in a drawer beneath the cash. He looks up to find David watching him and shrugs.
“Just in case.”
They don’t talk about last night or their conversation yesterday. David is grateful because he might just be all talked out, at least when it comes to the more emotional topics. And Sebastien Raine is a veritable fucking minefield of emotion, so frankly, silence is golden.
He plugs his phone into the bluetooth speaker Patrick brought until they can get something more substantial for the store and watches out of the corner of his eye as his new business partner (and friend) arrange bottles perfectly to his liking. The text was clearly worth the effort.
He wants to play Mariah but it may be too soon in their budding relationship to go showing him that side yet. He settles for Nina Simone and starts arranging a display of toner, letting her voice ease the tension in his shoulders.
The bell over the door rings and he turns, ready to tell Alexis not to touch the new lip balms thank you very much -
But Sebastien is standing where he expects his sister to be.
“What are you doing here?” he blurts.
Sebastien looks around, nodding in that perfectly condescending way he has. “Well I had to come see your opus before I left. A step down from the gallery, sure, but that’s to be expected in a place like this.” He spots Patrick and steps forward, holding out his hand.
“You must be David’s boyfriend.”
Just like he did with Stevie: “You must be David’s girlfriend.”
Patrick smiles at him, but it can’t really be called a smile. Not when it’s tight and cold with just a hint of I know where to hide a body. God, it’s hot.
“Patrick,” he says, not offering his hand or, more notably, a correction.
What the fuck?
“Huh,” Sebastien says, eyeing Patrick up and down in a way that David decidedly doesn’t like. “It’s nice that you let David be so liberal with his affections.” He turns to David. “I didn’t think you did open relationships. We could have had so much more fun if you did.”
His cheeks flush, and he watches Patrick’s jaw clench, muscle jumping.
“Maybe now we can make up for lost time,” Sebastien murmurs in a flirtatious tone that used to work on him.
“You’re not welcome here,” he says, voice cracked but chin lifted.
“Yeah, I’m getting that. Thing is,” the flirtation drops and Sebastien sighs, “you owe me $200 for the memory card.”
Patrick hums. “Was that before or after you took photos of his mother without her permission.”
“I’m sorry. Is this you deciding what someone else wants again?”
Sebastien has the audacity to smirk. “Oh I had her permission.”
Patrick’s eyes narrow. “And what about the photos you took of him?” He nods at David, knuckles white where they’re clutching the counter. “Did you have his?”
Sebastien visibly swallows but tries to pass it off as a scoff. “Please. He knew what he was doing.”
David sees red. “Yes, because my reaction at your opening was in line with someone who knew what he was doing.”
Sebastien steps forward and Patrick, somehow, seamlessly appears from behind the counter, stepping in between them.
“Like David said: you’re not welcome here.”
David would swoon if he didn’t have an armful of toner. “Sebastien. Get the fuck out of our store.”
Our. He’ll deny his heart flutters to say it, but what the hell. He’s leaning in.
“And don’t come back,” he adds. “Like, ever.”
Sebastien holds his hands up in surrender, all nonchalance, but his eyes never leave Patrick as he backs out of the store. Like Patrick is going to jump him the second he looks away. It must be nice to instill that kind of fear in someone, David thinks.
It’s… impressive.
“Sorry about that,” he mumbles when the door bangs shut behind him, but Patrick doesn’t turn. His hands are on his hips, fingers curled into fists, pressing into his sides. The line of his broad shoulders is practically vibrating with… something. Tension. Anger? David doesn’t know. He just knows that he wants Patrick to turn around and crack jokes about the rules, about David’s taste in music (though Nina Simone is perfect), as nice as it is for someone to defend his honor like that.
“Don’t ever apologize for him,” Patrick eventually growls, and David really does need to put the toner down before he drops it.
“I slept with him.” And there it is. Just out there in the world. Hanging in the silence like a verdict from a judge.
“Yeah,” Patrick says, rubbing the back of his flushed neck as he finally turns. “I figured.”
“Are you…?” but he trails off and Patrick raises his eyebrows, waiting patiently and looking like he honestly doesn’t know how David is going to end that sentence. Truth be told, David doesn’t know either. “Um, mad? Or - or judging?”
“Whoa, hey, David, no,” he immediately says, stepping forward. “First of all, you can - you can do what you like. Your life is your business.”
Though the sentiment is nice, it still doesn’t ease the ache in his chest at the thought of Patrick somehow thinking less of him.
“I’ll never judge you,” Patrick says more firmly, reading his mind. “Maybe when you use my leftover Junior Mints as breakfast, lunch, and dinner, but never - never for that.”
David swallows and nods. He didn’t realize how badly he needed to hear that until this moment.
“Is your mom okay?” Patrick asks, and David smiles softly.
“She is.”
“Are you?”
He inhales deeply, letting it out slowly and with it, all of the pain he once let Sebastien Raine cause him. “I am, actually.” And as he says it, he realizes it’s true.
“You deserve better, you know,” Patrick murmurs, ducking his head and moving towards the toner David nearly shattered. Again.
“What?”
“Than him. You deserve better.”
Patrick is arranging the bottles wrong, but David lets him. David thinks he’d let him do a great many things if only he asked. Because he would.
Patrick Brewer would always ask.
“I think I know that now,” he whispers.
Patrick stops messing with the bottles and meets his gaze. “Good,” he says sincerely, before his expression turns teasing once more. “I see Rule #3 is working out well.”
No putting yourself down.
David rolls his eyes but smiles, and Patrick crosses his arms, leaning against the table in the middle of their store.
“I should cross-stitch it for you. Hang it up next to the business license,” he says, nodding at the wall and the too-corporate frame David has yet to change.
“Do you cross-stitch?” he asks tartly but there’s warmth in his eyes that he knows Patrick sees.
Patrick grins. “I’ll learn.”
Yeah, much like the man that purchased it, that frame isn’t going anywhere.