by Lily Morton
“Of course,” Zeb says abruptly. “You invited me, didn’t you, and I replied yes. That is the normal way things happen.”
I bite my lip to prevent a smile as Patrick looks slightly askance. “Well, I’m glad you’re here,” he says quickly. He looks Zeb up and down and something kindles in his eyes. “Very glad.”
I shift my position, and both men start as if woken from a deep sleep and turn to face me. “Oh, Jesse,” Zeb says, sounding surprised and making me want to punch him. “Pat, this is Jesse.”
“Jesse? Do I know that name?” he says thoughtfully. Zeb stiffens, but Patrick shakes his head. “Sounds a bit like someone from a Bon Jovi song.”
“Rather than someone from an Irish folk song,” I say very sweetly, holding my hand out and forcing him to shake it. His grip is loose and disinterested, and he drops my hand quickly and turns back to Zeb.
“I didn’t realise you were bringing anyone.”
“The invitation said guest,” Zeb says coolly. “And Jesse is my guest.”
Patrick eyes me coldly before turning back to Zeb. “I’ll have to ask at the desk for them to prepare another room. We only asked for the one. You’ve got a lovely suite. I picked it out specially. It looks out over the lake with a balcony.” He winks. “Remember it?”
Zeb stiffens, and I instantly know they’ve stayed in it before.
“Sounds lovely,” I say happily and slide my arm around Zeb’s waist. His muscles are rigid under my fingers, and I pinch him lightly. He starts imperceptibly and, obeying his cue, he slides his arm over my shoulders. “I’m sure we’ll be very happy there. A balcony, eh?” I say, nudging him. “Oh, the things we can do on a balcony, lover.” His eye twitches slightly, and he shoots me a quick warning glance that makes me laugh.
Patrick’s eyes turn cold as he looks at us, seeming to linger where Zeb’s arm touches me. I reach up one hand and tangle my fingers in Zeb’s, and luckily he doesn’t jump like a startled goldfish or stand like a fucking statue. Instead he seems to get with the programme and draws me closer. However, that’s my undoing because now I can feel all his long warm body against mine. I can smell the faint scent of oranges. He’s taller and bigger than me, heavily muscled, and somehow I feel safe under his arm.
“So you two are together?” Patrick says, gesturing at us and bringing me back to the conversation.
“Deeply in love,” I say cheerfully. “You bet we are.” Zeb tightens his grip on me, and I bite my lips to contain my smile.
“We are,” he says in a very stern way. “So in love sometimes that all I want to do is spank him.”
I flutter my eyelashes. “Sometimes all I want you to do is spank me too. Oh, to be in love in England in the summertime, as Robert Browning said. Or was it Art of Noise?”
Zeb shakes his head, and a laugh slips out. Patrick’s gaze gets even colder and more calculating. “Really? I don’t remember Zeb ever being into that. I suppose tastes change. Some for the good. Some for the bad.” He eyes me up and down like I’m a piece of shit.
“They certainly do,” I say sweetly, looking him up and down in return. “Still, out with the old and in with the new.”
He laughs with no sign of amusement about him. “Make sure you don’t toss Zeb out too, then.”
Zeb stiffens, and I smile coldly at Patrick. “No chance of that. I know what I’ve got and I’ve never been one to just throw things away. I keep a firm hold of my possessions.”
There’s a long silence. Zeb stares at his ex, but I can’t decipher his expression. He stirs. “Shall we go in?” he says abruptly.
Patrick steps back and gestures to the hotel with a flourish. “Be my guest,” he says. “I’ll let you go. After all, you know the way, don’t you, Zeb?”
Zeb marches forward, and I skip to catch up with him. I look back, and Patrick is watching us go, standing in a pool of sunshine. He smiles at me, and there’s more than a touch of shark about it. I turn to make my way up the steps, and when I look back, he’s gone and the drive is empty.
Even the reception area of the hotel looks expensive, and I look uneasily down at my old jeans and battered Vans. I stand back as Zeb deals with the receptionist. He exchanges a few words with her, and I can tell from their tone that they’re kind. I like that about Zeb. He’s always kind and courteous. She smiles widely at him, and he turns to me with a small smile on his lips. It vanishes as he looks at me. “We’re on the third floor,” he says abruptly, jerking his head at the lift. Oops!
I follow him into the lift, which arrives with the obliging haste that life seems to arrange for Zeb. He settles his back against the mirrored wall, and I move to stand next to him, staring ahead and starting a tuneless humming which is sure to annoy him.
Sure enough, it does. “Do you have to make that noise?” he asks crossly. “Either sing or be silent.”
“Are those my only choices?” I say innocently. “I’m not sure about that, Zeb. Surely life has more options for me.”
“Not about humming.”
I smile at him, watching the tic in his jaw get more prominent. Then I bend forward and hum straight into his ear. He jumps about a foot in the air and whirls on me. “What the fuck?” he says.
“Just making sure you’re awake,” I say happily as the lift dings and the door opens onto a long carpeted corridor that smells of furniture polish and money. Big oak doors are set along the wall, set far enough away from each other to denote large rooms.
He glares at me, and I follow him as he removes the key from his pocket and inserts it into room eighteen.
He swings the door open and waves me in rather like someone gesturing someone to their execution. “After you,” he says tersely.
“What a gentleman,” I say meekly.
I look around. I’m standing in the lounge area of the suite. There are a pair of French doors leading out onto a balcony. Two pale green sofas are sitting on either side of a long coffee table and facing a large-screen TV. One wall is entirely brick, and the other walls are painted white.
Spying a door, I beetle over and find the bathroom. It has another exposed brick wall on which the sink is set, and it’s light and airy mainly because of another set of doors. Gauzy curtains blow in the slight breeze, and I eye the copper freestanding bath sitting in the middle of the room. I love a bath and constantly bemoan the fact that we picked a flat that only has a shower.
I turn round and nearly bang into Zeb, who’s leaning against the wall, his arms folded and a forbidding expression on his face. I search for a diversion.
“Ooh, look,” I cry out. “There’s a hotel umbrella here.”
“Is that so astonishing?”
“It is if you’ve stayed in the same hotels that I have. The closest they came to an umbrella was not getting arsy if you ripped the carpet up and held it over your head.”
“Jesse,” he begins, and I instantly recognise his tone of voice. It usually precedes a thoroughly good bollocking.
“Bedroom,” I shout and he jumps, giving me the opportunity to get past him and into the bedroom. This turns out to be another beautiful room. The bed is huge and made up with pale blue linens and lots of cushions. A piece of artwork hangs over the bed, and it looks original. I peer at the portrait of a rather grim-looking man. “Blimey,” I mutter. “That would give anyone performance anxiety. What a thing to hang over a bed.”
I pace over to the French doors that lead onto the secluded balcony overlooking a wood and the lake glistening blue in the afternoon sunshine. “Room eighteen, eh?” I say, turning to find him watching me still with his arms folded. Hope they don’t get stuck that way. “So, this is where the magic happened.”
“Don’t take the piss,” he says sharply. “You’re so bloody flippant all the time.” I bristle at that because I know it’s what he really thinks of me. It’s why he hesitated over asking me to do this. “Try and take this seriously for once in your life,” he snaps. “And stop taking the piss out of Patrick and trying to wind him up.”
>
“Oh really,” I say sweetly, folding my own arms, because it’s obviously catching, and glaring at him. All of our happy camaraderie is gone, and I fucking hate that Patrick took it away. I try not to analyse why that is. “I’m flippant, am I?”
He stares at me, and for a second, there’s a slight trace of worry on his forehead. Good. There should be.
“Yes, you are,” he says. “I knew I shouldn’t have done this.” He rubs his hand over his hair. “You’re so young, and I know that this seems like a game to you. You even told me that.”
“I told you that to lighten you up.” I watch as he flings himself onto a sofa and stares moodily at me. “So you didn’t look constipated every time I spoke. And I’ll thank you to remember that I’m twenty-four, not six. And I’m actually here doing you a fucking favour.”
He stares at me and sighs. “I’m sorry,” he says suddenly, his eyes looking contrite. I stand rigid, not prepared to just accept that, and he smiles. “You look like you’re thinking of ways to kill me.”
“I’ve already done that,” I say tartly. “Now, I’m working on methods of body disposal.”
That startles a laugh out of him, and I relent suddenly. It’s hard to hold out against the power of that slightly rusty laugh. I lower myself onto the other sofa in front of him. “I’m sorry too,” I say softly. “Just do me a favour and stop saying how young I fucking am. It properly winds me up. Like you think I’m a fucking child. Either that or you’re using it to make sure I know my place.”
“I don’t think you’re a child,” he says slowly, and for a second our eyes meet and seem to tangle and get caught as we stare at each other. I hold my breath, but he shakes his head and looks down at the table between us. “You’re right,” he says reluctantly.
“I am?” I sound very startled.
“Yes, I’ll note it in my diary.” He smiles at me, all traces of reserve suddenly gone, melted away under the sweetness of that curve of his mouth. “I really am sorry,” he offers, looking suddenly a lot younger. “I’m on edge, and I didn’t need that little scene outside.”
“Why are you on edge? Do you want him back?” I ask abruptly.
He looks startled and then thoughtful, and my stomach drops. “At one point I did,” he says slowly. “If you’d asked me a year ago, I’d have said yes. But now?” He shrugs.
“Now what?” I ask, and he must sense the sudden passion in my voice, because he looks slightly worried. Like I’m going to leap on him with a ring, demanding to be married instantly. It itches and stings under my skin like I’ve grabbed a nettle with my bare hands.
I sit back deliberately and coolly. “I need to know, Zeb, because if you’re making a play for the groom at his wedding, then we’re edging out of romantic comedy and into something a bit darker.”
He looks offended. “I’d never do that.”
“I don’t think it’s entirely up to you,” I say, thoughtfully watching him. “I think Patrick still has feelings.”
He shrugs dismissively. “I suppose some feelings don’t just go away. Me turning up with you must have thrown him. It’s not easy to see your ex with someone else, no matter how much you’ve moved on.”
“Hmm. Well, I’d watch your step with him this week because there’s something a bit off about all of this.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean having it here where you used to come together, inviting you to be best man. He’s either very determined to rub your nose in it, or he’s got another agenda.”
“What?” He sounds startled. “What do you mean?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. Don’t listen to me.” I bite my lip. “After all, if I’m not staking ownership of the Wendy house or throwing sand at the other children, I’m having my afternoon nap.”
He laughs loudly, his eyes creased. “You’re not a kid,” he finally says, and I smile at him.
“I promise that I won’t behave like one,” I say impulsively. “I don’t want to embarrass you. I’ll behave like an adult. I’ll be reasonable and assured and a cool head in any crisis.” He looks like he wants to dispute this, and I eye him for a moment. “Unless he’s horrible to you,” I say firmly. “Then all bets are off.”
Chapter Four
Zeb
I stand outside on the balcony, the late afternoon sun laying stripes across the floor. Listening out, I can still hear the hiss of the shower where Jesse has ensconced himself. I think of that lithe form with soap bubbles trailing down it and shake my head firmly. Nope. I turn my attention back to the phone in my hand.
“This is a disaster,” I hiss.
“I’m sorry. Is this a conversation or Chinese whispers?” my twat of an assistant whispers back. “Hang on, though. I was good at this in Cubs. I think you said that you liked James Acaster. That’s fine with me. He’s a very funny comedian.”
“Do I pay you too much?” I wonder.
“Put it out of your head,” he says comfortingly. “Now, why is this a disaster? You’re away for a few days with an extremely gorgeous younger man. Were you a pessimistic child, Zeb? Because all the signs are pointing that way.”
“I’m also away with my ex-lover, his future bride, and two sets of families who hate me,” I mutter. “Oh, and Jesse and Patrick clashed heads earlier.”
“Did Jesse actually headbutt Patrick? Because this day is getting better and better. I might buy a lottery ticket later on.”
“No, of course he didn’t. But he was very challenging towards him. Like two dogs fighting over a piece of bacon,” I say glumly.
“Zeb, it’s like the fairies sprinkled magic dust over you when you were a baby and then promptly dropped you on your head.”
“I can’t talk to you,” I say solemnly.
“No, don’t. Go and shag that beautiful man and fuck the others off. Just spend the time in bed with him.”
“Goodbye,” I say sadly.
I click End, aware of him laughing in the background, but all my attention is on the bathroom door which has just opened to reveal Jesse. If this were a film, triumphant music would definitely play because he’s a glorious sight.
He’s naked apart from a white towel wrapped around his narrow hips that accentuates the swarthy tone of his skin. I always wondered whether he used a sunbed but now I’m unfortunately aware that every inch of him is covered in olive-coloured skin. I’m also faintly surprised that he has hair on his chest. I don’t know why. I suppose because he’s so smooth, I expected him to be more boyish, I guess. Not very obviously a man. I swallow hard, and to my horror, I feel my cock stiffen, so I spring into action.
“Good shower?” I ask briskly.
He looks at me curiously and then gives me his wide, wonderful smile. It always strikes somewhere inside me like there’s a bell that only he rings. It’s full of humour, the warm, plush lips curved into a quirky tilt, and he smiles with his eyes. Very few people do. It’s one of the reasons so many people warm to him. He’s very puckish. Funny and kind but with a strong undercurrent of wildness about him. Like he’s keeping the mischievous side of him only barely reined in.
He scrubs another towel over his hair, emerging from its folds with all that dark mink-brown hair falling over his face in silky strands.
“It’s lush,” he pronounces.
“Pardon?”
He smiles. “Lush. It’s brilliant.” He shrugs. “We lived in Wales when I was seven and my best friend is Welsh. Can’t help picking up a few things.”
“Oh.” I’m startled. Every time he talks to me now, I uncover another fact. He’s like one of those Chinese puzzle boxes that, if turned the right way, spills out its secrets.
“Did you live in many places?” I ask.
He nods. “We moved all over the country until my dad got the church in Devon. They’ve lived there for the last fifteen years.”
He raises a quizzical brow, and I flush, realising that I’m standing staring at him. “We need to talk,” I say abruptly.
“Okay
,” he says easily. He settles into a chair, his long legs dusted in black hair stretched comfortably out.
“Erm, don’t you want to get dressed?” I say. Then I realise that I’m standing here and his clothes are here. “Oh shit. I’ll go out on the balcony and–”
“Why?” He’s full-on staring at me now.
“Well, because you’ll want to get dressed.”
“Zeb, I’m presuming that we have the same body parts. I’ve got changed in front of loads of people. I’m fine with being naked in front of you.” He shrugs. “It’s just flesh, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I say slowly, my mouth watering at the scent of his damp skin. I shake my head firmly to clear it. “That brings me to another problem.”
“How happy you must be,” he says cheerfully, stretching his arms above his head with a satisfied grunt.
I narrow my eyes at him. I swear he’s doing this on purpose. “Why?”
“So many problems. You must admit you live to sort them out. This is like Christmas and birthdays to you with all these potential areas of trouble just tumbling out around you.”
I shake my head. “Jesse, you’re a pisstaking prat,” I say baldly, hearing the sound of his laughter with a surge of warm pleasure. Mostly everyone around me treats me warily, like I’m going to leap on them and organise their cupboards before sacking them and casting them onto the street. Jesse never has. He’s always treated me with this warm friendliness, and I savour it so much more than I should.
He stops laughing and rubs his eyes. “Okay, let’s have the problem.”
“The bed,” I say firmly.
He looks towards it and back at me. “Is it not comfortable? Are the sheets polyester?”
“No.” I gape at him. “Can you really not see the problem?” He shrugs. “There’s only one bed,” I say impatiently. He stares at me and I launch into problem-solving. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t think. But luckily there’s a sofa. I’ll sleep on that.”
He starts to laugh again. “Zeb, it’s like meeting a stranger. You didn’t think any of this through, did you? What is happening to you?”