Lucas tried. He really did.
He turned the chair slightly, elbow braced on the armrest, and angled a stack of letters toward himself again. Most were pointless. A few had to be read. One had the royal seal, and another bore the looping handwriting of some overly poetic ambassador who couldn't decide if they were courting him or declaring war.
He managed to open exactly one.
Trevor didn't move from the desk.
Or the edge of the desk. Or behind his chair. Or, now, at his side, where one hand rested low on Lucas's shoulder with all the weight and patience of a man who had absolutely no intention of being ignored.
Lucas glanced at him. "I'm trying to read."
Trevor nodded solemnly. "And I'm trying to admire you. Both difficult tasks, apparently."
"You are impossible."
"I'm married." He leaned closer, his voice lowering into something just above a murmur. "Which, I was told, comes with certain privileges. Including unlimited access to my mate's time. And lap."
