Killian looked down at the old coat dangling from his hook. “What, this?”
“Yeah.” Emma looked amused as she sat cross-legged in the middle of their bed, his chest of possessions next to her, still closed and waiting to be emptied.
He hadn’t really meant to make an ordeal out of unpacking his things, but it had turned into that, regardless. When Emma had opened the door at the insistent banging, she’d laughed at her son before scolding him for using the bottom corner of the chest to knock.
“Well, my hands are full, and Hook’s hand is busy holding his wardrobe,” Henry had huffed, looking over his shoulder and giving Killian a broad grin. The boy was full of cheek, just like his maternal grandfather, who was back at his truck still grumbling over the sheer number of waistcoats and shirts he had to carry.
“How many different flowery patterns can possibly exist, anyway?” the prince had grunted, shoving an armful of clothing in Killian’s arms before placing his hands on his hips.
“I don’t know, mate,” Killian had said with a grin. “How many tartan flannels are there in this realm?”
“I dress for comfort,” Dave had scoffed.
“And I for sartorial splendor. Not my fault I can wear anything and look far more dashing.”
CS + “Only you could pull that off”
Published
It All Starts With a Dance 