Best Man (Close Proximity Book 1)

by Lily Morton

  I look hard at him and he shakes his head. “No, of course I haven’t.”

  “Why do you say of course not? He’s gorgeous.”

  A shadow crosses his face almost too quickly for me to notice, but I do. “You think he’s good-looking?” he says in a voice wiped clean of expression.

  “Good-looking and like a very loose cannon,” I observe and he laughs, the shadow falling away.

  “You’d be right. And in answer to your question, I haven’t slept with him because he’s my stepbrother.”

  For some reason that takes me completely by surprise. “Your stepbrother?”

  He looks amused. “His mother was my father’s last wife.” He considers. “That sounds as if he’d found the one. Regretfully, it just meant he died before he could trade her in for a newer model.”

  “How many did he have?”

  “Seven,” he says almost reluctantly, looking out towards the wood.

  “Seven.” My voice is high and loud and a pigeon who’d alighted onto the balustrade gives a startled flutter and flies off.

  Zeb shakes his head. “Max’s mother was the seventh. He was fourteen when they got married, and I was twenty.”

  “And you’ve kept in contact? Were you close?”

  He shrugs. “Not at first because that’s a big gap at that age, but he’s one of my best friends now. Somehow he just held on.” He looks almost bemused at the concept and my heart twists. Then he shrugs. “I do keep in touch with all of my stepmothers though.” He looks suddenly awkward. “It wasn’t their fault the marriages failed, and they were very kind to me.”

  I study him, feeling a rush of something push through me. I don’t know what it is, but it’s strong, and accompanying this rogue feeling is an urge to comfort him. Why, I don’t know. He’s the most confident and sexy man I’ve ever met, but for just a second he looked so vulnerable. I think of all those stepmothers and my own family where my parents have been married for thirty years. I open my mouth, but the moment is lost as he stands up and reaches over to the small table at the door.

  “This came with the food,” he says, brandishing a leaflet. “It’s the itinerary for the week.”

  “Itinerary? That sounds ominous,” I say slowly, reeling a little at the abrupt change of subject.

  He shoots me a wry look. “Frances is a planner. She loves social occasions and is under the impression that her guests should be organised to within an inch of their lives. This is nothing. The last itinerary I had from her was two A4 pages long.”

  “Lovely,” I mutter. I wipe my fingers on my napkin and reach out to take it from him. “Let’s have a look.” I read quickly down the list and then more slowly, my heart sinking. “What the fuck?” I say, looking up at him where he’s leaning back against the balustrade, his eyes alight with mirth. “Watercolour painting, brass rubbing. I bet that’s not half as dirty as it sounds.” He laughs, and I carry on reading. “Cordon bleu cookery lessons and clay pigeon shooting. I wish I’d seen that earlier. If I’d known there was a gun on the premises, we could have shot our way out.”

  “Like Bonnie and Clyde,” he says lightly.

  “No, that ended badly,” I chide him. “And double-breasted suits don’t flatter me.”

  I look down at the list again and shake my head. “Fuck,” I grumble and he laughs.

  “That’s one way to put it.”

  “I’ll tell you another. This week is going to be torture.”

  An hour later and I know I spoke the truth. We’re lying in bed. It’s quiet with the only sound that of the breeze in the trees outside the open balcony door. The room is washed in moonlight, giving me just enough light to see that he’s sleeping peacefully with no sign of agitation. I shoot a glare at him which is obviously wasted but makes me feel a bit better. How can he sleep? I’m wide awake, mainly because the sheets smell of him, and I can feel the heat of his body even with the foot of space between us.

  He sleeps on his side facing me. In deference to the heat, he stripped off his top earlier, so I get a good view of that glorious hairy chest and wide shoulders. His hair is tousled and his arm is flung out with his hand palm up and looking somehow vulnerable. His lips are softly pursed, and he looks delicious.

  I roll onto my back and sigh before scrubbing my face with my hands. My cock is throbbing like a fucking toothache. I want to slide in next to him and fit my body against his. I want him to strip me naked, and I want him to fuck me. Unfortunately, none of that is going to happen because I’m apparently too young and chaotic. I huff. Maybe if I walked around with a bar chart and a protractor he’d want to sleep with me. Maybe if I was distinguished and kept my paperwork organised he’d stick his cock in me.

  I lower my hand and push it against my dick. It’s rigid in my shorts, and there’s a damp spot. The pressure feels good, and I arch my groin into my hand for a brief moment before I realise that rubbing one out next to my boss is not a good idea. He wouldn’t approve. Well, not unless I cleaned myself up with the correct day-of-the-week hanky.

  I snort and force my hand away from my cock before rolling onto my side and facing him. I can’t stop looking at him. He looks so different from the awake Zeb full of purpose and drive. Now he looks like he’s having sweet dreams, and it makes me happy. I don’t want to know why that is, so instead of thinking about it, I watch his peaceful face until sleep steals over me.

  Zeb

  I come awake slowly the next morning in a puddle of sheets warmed by the sun. The window is open, letting in the sound of birdsong. I stretch, enjoying the moments before I have to get on with the day. Then I register that the bed is missing a person, and I’m abruptly awake. Where the fuck is he? The suite is quiet. Has he gone downstairs for breakfast?

  I groan and sit up, scrubbing my hands down my face. What is he saying to everyone? What ridiculous thing is going to come out of his mouth next that will make me want to gag him and kiss him at the same time? I think of Nina’s face last night at the dinner table, and unbidden, a snort of laughter escapes me. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her speechless. It was a rare and beautiful thing. She’s always been so poisonous and controlling. It’s one of the reasons I cut Patrick so much slack. Who could turn out as a well-rounded individual with that as their role model?

  I slide to the end of the bed and zip into the bathroom for a piss. Wandering out a few minutes later, I look around for my phone. I contemplate how he’s going to react to me summoning him back to the suite. I shake my head. Not well.

  Seeing no sign of my phone, I hurry out into the lounge and stop dead. He isn’t downstairs regaling the table with more quirky conversation. Instead, bare chested and dressed only in his shorts, he’s sitting at the table on the balcony in front of his laptop. He’s tapping away furiously with a frown of concentration on his face, occasionally pausing to look at a huge textbook sitting to one side of him. A cafetière sits on a tray at the table filled with cups and saucers and plates and a big basket with a napkin over it.

  I blink at the sight of the tortoiseshell glasses he has on and his air of quiet determination. It’s such a radical sea change from the way he normally appears in my office, dripping laughter like water after a refreshing shower.

  He curses slightly and taps crossly on the keyboard. Something makes his head shoot up, and he stares at me for a long second, his face cloudy with concentration. Then it clears, and he smiles delightedly. I shift awkwardly. He always looks at me like that, as if he’s discovered something wonderful that pleases him tremendously.

  “Zeb,” he says happily. “Did you sleep well?”

  “I did.” It’s more of a question than I’d like because at three in the morning I was awakened by the fact that I was tucked up tight behind him, my cock snuggled happily in the crease of his arse and my arm slung over his narrow waist. I’d shot straight over the other side of the bed so fast I’m sure I left scorch marks on the cotton. It had taken me ages to get to sleep again. Luckily, he hadn’t woken.

&nbs
p; “Come and sit down,” he urges, kicking out a chair for me. “I ordered some breakfast. There are croissants and pastries in the basket and a pot of tea here for you. It should still be warm.”

  “I usually just have muesli,” I say doubtfully, and he groans.

  “That does not surprise me.”

  “I thought you might have gone downstairs,” I murmur, taking a plate and the croissant he hands me.

  He grimaces. “No, I thought it would be much more pleasant sitting up here away from everyone.”

  The croissant is soft and warm in my hand, and I’m suddenly starving. I don’t normally eat much in the morning as my stomach twists and hurts until I’ve got some work done and off my mind. But it seems different today, sitting on the sunlit balcony with him smiling at me. I spread damson jam over the pastry and look at him as he pours me a cup of tea. I’d love to know how he knows how I take it.

  I pull myself back to the conversation. “It’s clay pigeon shooting today,” I say through a mouthful of food. “God, this is lovely.”

  He looks absurdly pleased and starts to spread jam on another croissant. “Here,” he says.

  “Oh, I shouldn’t.”

  He shrugs. “Not sure why not.”

  “Well, they’re a bit fattening.”

  He looks me up and down. “You’re in fantastic shape,” he says in a low voice. “I think you can spare the time to spoil yourself.”

  I’m absurdly pleased and immediately seek to divert the conversation. “What are you doing?” I ask, nodding at the computer.

  “Oh, it’s my last paper.” He stares at the laptop. “Once I’ve finished this, I’m done.”

  “Done with what?”

  “My degree.”

  “Your degree?” I hear the note of complete astonishment in my voice and try to dial it back. “I mean, sorry, I didn’t know you were at university.”

  His lip twitches. “It’s not a secret.”

  “Yes, but surely I should have known.” I’m as shocked as if he’d suddenly declared he was running off with Camilla Parker Bowles.

  He looks down at the computer as if avoiding my eyes. “I think it might have interfered with the box you put me in,” he says, looking up abruptly and spearing me with the sudden clear and direct challenge in his eyes.

  “I didn’t put you–” I start to say and slump. “Okay, I might have put you in a small one.”

  “More like a packing crate,” he says almost sympathetically.

  “I’m sorry.” I lean forwards. “I’ve known you for all these years and I never realised. I’m your boss.”

  He shrugs. “Would it have made a difference to your opinion of me?”

  “Of course,” I say and hesitate. I can’t for the life of me think of what to say next. It’s a novel situation.

  He takes pity on me. “Well, never mind. Now you know.”

  “So, what are you studying?”

  “Social care. I’m going to be a social worker.”

  I stare at him. “Well, of course you are.” I smile. “How absolutely perfect.”

  He looks startled. “Why?”

  “Because you’re kind and interested in people but don’t take any shit. You really care and you’re prepared to go to great lengths to help them.” I sit back and look at him. “You’ll be wonderful.”

  A faint flush hits his high cheekbones, and he fiddles with his pencil before shooting me a quick, almost furtive look. “Do you really think so?”

  I nod emphatically. “I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it. You know me.” I shrug. “Probably better than I know you.” I think back to Felix’s smug smile in the office before we left, and I know if he was here he’d be laughing at me. Of course he’d known about the degree and I would never have listened until now. This is somehow the perfect moment to peel another layer off Jesse.

  A slow, glorious smile fills his face. “Thank you,” he says. He sniffs. “Just so you know, you’re excused for the packing crate.”

  I smile. “Well, that’s a relief.” My smile drops away as the ramifications suddenly hit me. “You’re going to have to leave the agency, aren’t you?”

  He sighs, and there’s a wistful look on his face. “Yes. I have a job that starts next month.” I sit back in a stunned silence, and he smiles coaxingly. “Look at it this way, at least there’ll be no more fights at funerals and bad gardening decisions.”

  “No,” I say slowly. As it occurs to me what life will be like without him, suddenly the time ahead looks dull and dreary, as if the sun’s going in on a wonderful day. Without the merry smile, the sassiness, the kindness of him. It’s only as I face the prospect of him not being around anymore that I realise just how much I’ve treasured the time he has been. The emptiness inside me is sufficiently alarming to straighten my back.

  “Well, I’m sure we’ll all miss you,” I say briskly, and I’m saddened to see the smile fade slowly from those full lips.

  “I’ll miss you too,” he says, and it’s not until I’m in the shower that I realise he mentioned only me.

  Chapter Six

  Zeb

  An hour later finds me on the field next to the hotel. I look around to see Max sauntering towards me. “You shouldn’t have dressed up,” I say wryly, looking at his jeans and red T-shirt.

  “I didn’t.” He looks me up and down. “Although why would I when you look so spiffy?”

  I shake my head. “It’s navy chinos and a shirt. Frances wanted everyone to dress up for this in historic costume, but this is as far as I can go without getting heatstroke.”

  “My outfit is historical. These jeans are at least eight years old.”

  “Why am I explaining this to you? You read the itinerary, didn’t you?”

  “Read it and mourned the fact that I’ve probably misplaced a precious childhood memory to retain that information.” He looks around. “Is that man wearing plus fours? I didn’t think anyone made them anymore.”

  “Shh!” I hiss. “Someone will hear you.”

  “Then maybe they can explain people’s attire this morning. We are actually shooting bits of pottery, aren’t we, not stalking pheasants?”

  “You know Frances,” I say out of the corner of my mouth. “She watches a lot of Downton Abbey.”

  “I watch a lot of porn. Doesn’t mean I corral people into wearing bad underwear and having very stilted conversations.” He pauses as he sees Nina. “Brilliant. Now I need mental bleach.”

  “It’s your own fault,” I say serenely. “Where’s your boy toy this morning, anyway?”

  “Resting up,” he says with a wolfish grin. “When I left, he was sunbathing on the balcony wearing the smallest pair of briefs I’ve ever seen.”

  I shake my head. “And when do you move on to the next one?”

  He shrugs. “When I feel like it.” He nudges me. “Don’t give me that disapproving look. You’ve brought your own diversion this week.”

  “Distraction, more like it,” I say glumly and groan when I see his delighted expression. “Please don’t matchmake,” I say imploringly.

  “Why not?”

  “Because you’re not very good at it, which goes a long way to explaining your single status too.”

  “I’d be very good at matchmaking if I actually believed in love,” he says crossly.

  I lower my sunglasses and stare at him. “Putting you in charge of my love life would be like making Felix the boss of Manchester United.”

  Hesitation crosses his face which is so alien to his normal confidence. “How is he?” he asks in a low voice.

  “Fine,” I say tersely.

  He scuffs his foot across the grass. “Is he still dating that wanker?”

  “Do you mean Carl, who is lovely and polite and worships the ground he walks on? That wanker? Yes, he’s unfortunately still with him.” He opens his mouth and I hold my hand up. “I don’t want to know.” I turn to him. “Do you remember when all the shit kicked off and you told me to mind my own business?
” He nods, looking surly. “Well, this is me. Minding my own business. Behold. See how good I am at it.”

  “I just want to know if he’s okay,” he says, and his air of quiet desperation stops me in my tracks.

  “He’s fine,” I say quietly. “Max, I–”

  “Oh look,” he says with a determined cheerfulness. “We’re about to start.”

  I let him pull me along as we move further onto the field next to the car park. The sun is blazing hot now, burning down on our heads and dancing dazzlingly over the cars. I accept the cold lemonade that a waiter hands me and listen as the man in charge of the shoot gives his safety talk.

  After ten minutes he waves up the first person to shoot and I look idly round at the group. Most have obeyed Frances’s instructions to the letter, wearing various versions of shooting gear. They look quite hot and bothered and rather like extras from an historical drama. I brighten slightly. If Richard Armitage strides through the crowd, all bets are off.

  The bangs from the gun are loud and the cheering and banter get louder and louder. I turn to Max to say something just as he laughs and his whole face lights up.

  “Don’t talk about my trouble,” he mutters. “Yours is sauntering towards us now and he’s got it written all over him.”

  I turn and shake my head even though my heart is pounding. “That is not on the dress code,” I say disapprovingly.

  Jesse is wandering lazily towards us. His dark hair shines in the sun, the loose strands pushed back by a Union Jack bandanna. He’s wearing cut-offs that show off the tanned length of his hairy legs and old checked Vans, but my attention is on his T-shirt. It’s a bright green Sesame Street T-shirt with a picture of the Muppets on it along with the words in big type: Hi, my name is Jesse.

  As he nears the crowd, it parts and the man in charge calls to him and offers the gun.

  Jesse looks slightly surprised but takes it and goes to stand next to the man as he talks and nods. I look at the group who are, by and large, staring condescendingly at Jesse, apart from a group of women who are eyeing up his long legs and small arse. Frances’s father shakes his head as he looks at Jesse and says something to the group of men he’s standing with that makes them break into laughter.