by Lily Morton
He stops me talking with the simple move of putting his hand over my mouth. “No one can say that at the beginning of a story,” he says quietly. “It’s always saved to the end of the book.” He smiles calmly at me, and I feel moisture in the back of my eyes at his trusting expression. “I want to try that too, Zeb. I really want to.”
I draw him into a hug, squeezing him until he wheezes and starts to laugh. When I let him go, his merry face is front and centre again, and I smile helplessly back. “Then let’s try,” I say.
And that’s how simply we start our story.
Chapter Ten
Jesse
The knock at the door of the flat interrupts my nervous pacing. I race over to the door and then stop, reminding myself that I don’t want to look too keen. I shake my head. I’m sure I’ll give that away at some point. I take a deep breath and rub my damp palms down my jeans before flinging open the door. Zeb is leaning against the wall outside the flat with a very quizzical expression on his face.
“I was wondering whether you’d changed your mind,” he says. There’s a wry note to his voice, but for some reason I’m sure there’s a bit of truth in that statement.
“Not likely,” I say briskly. I wink at him. “I just had a bit of a job navigating my way around the huge parcel that arrived today.”
For a second he looks mystified and then I watch in fascination as a tide of red floods over his face. “Oh erm,” he stammers, and I take pity on him.
“Do come in. Watch out for the gigantic expensive picture though.”
He edges his way into the flat, and I shut the door behind him, suppressing a smile as he tries to look anywhere other than at the six-foot picture of pink peonies that’s propped against my lounge wall. Ivo Ashworth-Robinson’s work looks rather incongruous in my drab lounge with the peeling paper and beanbags. Like a very expensive racehorse sitting in a cow shed.
I fold my arms and look at Zeb. He’s wearing white jeans with a faded denim shirt and leather deck shoes, but I’m particularly loving the way he’s accessorised with a severe case of the fidgets.
“It looks very nice,” he finally says in a slightly high voice.
“It certainly does,” I say blandly. “Not quite the setting it’s used to though.”
For a second we stare at each other and then he breaks. “I’m sorry,” he mutters, running his hand through his hair. “It’s just that you loved it so much in the gallery, and I wanted you to have it.”
“I love Ryan Reynolds too. When is he arriving?”
“Not for a while. We ran into problems with Customs.” I laugh, and he shakes his head. “He couldn’t cope with you anyway,” he says dryly. “He’d be checking in for mental health care within twenty-four hours.”
I laugh again and tug on his shirt to pull him closer. I can see the flare of nerves in his eyes, and I welcome it because they’re a twin to the flutters in my belly.
“Thank you. I love it so much. It’s the nicest present I’ve ever had,” I breathe and bridge the gap between us to kiss him. For a second he’s still and our mouths rest against each other almost in astonishment that we’re here. Then he’s in movement, pulling me close, his hands on my lower back as he licks into my mouth. I open my mouth, moaning under my breath as his hands slide lower, grabbing my arse and tugging me sharply into him so I can feel the weight of his big cock against mine.
He moans, and I push my hands under his shirt, feeling the satiny hot skin underneath the sun-warmed denim. I rub my hands there, and I’m just pushing his shirt up further when I hear a key in the door. We break apart almost guiltily as the front door opens and Charlie appears.
“Afternoon,” he says. He looks between us. “Oh sorry, have I interrupted a work meeting? Are you having an appraisal?”
Zeb looks at me in a panicked way, and I try to stop myself but burst out laughing anyway.
“He’s joking.” I snort. “Your face.”
Zeb sags. “You know?” he says to Charlie, and Charlie shrugs.
“The expensive artwork kind of gave the game away,” he says, smiling. “The last gift he got off a bloke was a voucher for a McDonalds breakfast.”
“Nice to know the bar is set low.”
“It’s buried so far beneath us the kangaroos will find it soon,” I say slightly mournfully.
Zeb looks at Charlie. “Well, I’m pleased to meet you properly,” he says, holding his hand out to shake, and we both stare as Charlie immediately backs up.
“Better not, mate,” he says. “I’ve got cat piss all over my hands.”
“Ugh,” I say, and Zeb blinks.
“How lovely,” he says faintly.
Charlie shakes his head crossly. “A customer brought her library books back today covered in it. Then she had the nerve to say she shouldn’t have to pay for them because they were still readable.”
“What did you say?” Zeb asks, staring fascinated at Charlie.
He shrugs. “I told her just because you can, doesn’t mean you should. I mean, I’m dateable, but it doesn’t automatically follow that Henry Cavill is going to take advantage of that.”
“Henry,” I say slightly longingly, and we both sigh before recalling ourselves. Zeb is watching us with a wry look on his face.
“So what happened?” he asks.
“She paid. But one of the volunteers then spent the whole afternoon trying to sponge the books clean so we could use them again.” He pauses and shrugs. “Council cuts,” he says to Zeb, who nods. “Anyway, to cut a long cat-pee-scented story short, she failed, but not until everyone smelt like an old lady’s front room.”
“Is that a euphemism?” I enquire, and Charlie winces.
“Fuck off. Don’t be disgusting.”
“The last librarian I saw was in The Mummy,” Zeb says. “That sliding ladder always fascinated me.”
“Trust me, I’d rather tackle Imhotep than old Mrs Saunders who keeps Tipp-Exing the swear words out in the large-print books.”
Zeb laughs and Charlie looks at both of us, his eyes bright with curiosity and a hefty dose of amusement. “So, you’re going out, then?”
“We are,” I say grandly. “I am planning our afternoon and evening entertainment.”
“Shit,” Charlie mutters. He smirks at Zeb. “It’s not too late to run. The last time he organised anything we ended up in Dover.”
“Was that bad?”
“It was, considering we were supposed to be in Edinburgh.”
Zeb laughs and smiles at me. It’s more, somehow. Still tinged with amusement but there’s something extra in that smile that makes my heart beat faster. “I’ll take the gamble,” he says softly.
Charlie grins. “Well, I’m off to remove the stunning fragrance of Moggy Number Five. Have a good time.”
He disappears, and Zeb looks at me steadily. “You ready?” he asks, and something in his eyes tells me that he half expects me to run away.
I nod and step closer to him. “For anything,” I say deliberately, and he swallows and nods.
“Let’s go, then. Show me this date, Casanova.”
An hour later he looks up at our destination and blinks. “So, our date is Stanfords, the bookshop?”
I nod happily. “The travel bookshop,” I emphasise. “Have you ever been in here?”
He shakes his head. “No, I haven’t travelled much.” He looks almost shamefaced. “I always wanted to, but there was never enough time. My dad was too busy to travel when I was a kid,” he finishes almost inaudibly, and my heart twists. His dad was probably too busy getting married. He seems to have been the Zsa Zsa Gabor of London.
“Well, can I just say that I’m profoundly grateful to have discovered somewhere that you haven’t been with Patrick yet,” I say tartly to cover up his embarrassment.
His face clears. “There are a lot of places I didn’t go with Patrick, and a bookshop would be number one on the list.”
“Did he read much?”
“Only his horoscope.”
“Did he believe in all that?”
He shrugs. “Only in so far that it suited him. If he didn’t like his own forecast, he’d take one from another star sign.”
“He cheated at astrology?” I say and my voice is far too delighted.
He shakes his head. “I’m getting the impression you don’t like Patrick.”
“I can’t imagine where that comes from,” I say innocently, and when he shoots me a glance, I smile brightly. “Luckily, I have been here before, which is why I am such an astounding guide for you.”
“So, our date is in a bookshop?” he says again.
I nod happily. “Not just any bookshop, though. This one was frequented by people like Florence Nightingale, Captain Scott, and Ernest Shackleton. Oh, and Jesse, Eli, Misha, and Charlie for the Amsterdam trip that shall forever be remembered for Charlie falling in the canal and being rescued by a man wearing leather chaps.” He laughs, and I grin back at him. “We do have a mission though,” I say solemnly as he goes to open the door. He pauses and steps back to allow a couple behind us to go through, and we move to the side, out of the way.
“A mission? What sort of date is this?” he asks.
“The best. Our mission is to each choose a travel guide to a country that we’d like to visit.”
“Why?”
I nudge him. “Were you an unusually curious child, Zebadiah? Because all the signs are pointing that way.” He opens his mouth to answer, and I hold up my hand. “We are doing this so we can get to know something about each other. This is how people date.”
He shakes his head. “It’s how you date. I’m not sure about anyone else. What happened to dinner and drinks?”
“Zeb, Zeb, that’s other people, baby.”
“Please don’t call me baby,” he says in a slightly anguished voice.
“What shall I call you, then? Bunny? Pet? Lovie? Princess?”
“No,” he says in a revolted tone of voice.
“Anyway, Mr Evans,” I say loudly. “That sort of boring date is not for us.”
“It isn’t?”
“Nuh-uh. No. We are going to do dating a different way.”
He folds his arms and grins at me. His smile is wide, his eyes very blue, and for a second I lose my train of thought.
I shake my head to clear it. “I was thinking about this last night, and I came to an executive decision.” I wink at him. “I put the word executive in there. You should be thrilled.”
“Ecstatic,” he drawls, and I snort.
“Okay, you dated Patrick for five years during which you no doubt alternated periods of being extremely bored with the odd bit of wanting to murder him.” His mouth twitches. “You probably did lots of really boring stuff. While you were doing that, I didn’t so much date as just try to keep up with whatever criminal impulses my dates had towards my money.” He straightens, looking cross, and I wave my hand. “Never mind,” I say airily. “The point is that you and I are different.”
I sober quickly. Are we, though? Are we different or am I just an amusement and he’ll go back to what he knows?
“We are different,” he says quietly, his eyes steady on mine. “Don’t ask me how, but we are.”
I smile gratefully at him. “So, we’re each going to come up with dates that are different. Something a bit quirky. Something that shows the other person something about us.” I wave my hand at the bookshop, its windows shining in the sun. “This is mine. I love travelling. I’ve been all over the world, usually on a very small budget. This is always my first port of call.” I pause before looking hard at him. “But absolutely no sex tonight.”
He blinks and an old man huffs disapprovingly as he walks past us.
“Thank you for broadcasting that to the entire street,” Zeb says dryly. “You know I live to share my personal life with complete strangers.”
I smile somewhat nervously. “I don’t think we should have sex while doing these dates,” I say softly.
“Why?”
The bald question surprises me, and for a second I fumble with an answer. “Because we know we’re good in bed together.” I pause. “We’re actually epic in bed.” He smiles slowly with heat in his eyes, and I shake my head. “But if we’re trying this, I don’t want to get waylaid by that. Because otherwise that’s all we’ll ever be.” I look at him nervously. “What do you think?”
He’s silent for a long second, his eyes examining my face as if he’s thinking of picking me out in a line-up. Then he smiles. “I agree.”
I sag. “You do?”
He nods. “I want to get to know you, not just your arsehole.”
There’s a horrified gasp behind him and he sighs and closes his eyes.
I laugh and grab his arm. “We’d better go inside, Zeb,” I say in a loud voice. “You really need to learn some discretion.”
I usher him into the bookshop, inhaling the scent of the books greedily and looking for the wall of globes which has always fascinated me. When I look at him, he’s doing the same thing. When he meets my eyes, we smile at each other in perfect accord.
“Okay,” I say. “We’re going to split up to make our choices. We’ll meet when we’ve chosen and discuss our books.”
“You’re so bossy,” he murmurs.
I wink at him. “And you like it.”
“Only in the way I like it when the tap stops dripping.”
I shake my head but can’t stop my laugh. It’s far too loud and a few people turn to look at us “Go on,” I say, pushing him gently. “You’re a bad influence on me.”
He grins, and I watch as he moves away. I can’t take my eyes off him, normally, but there’s something extra about him today. I study him as he moves to a shelf, running one long finger along the spines of the books, and I suddenly realise what it is. He’s open and welcoming. Usually, he’s sardonic and closed off, but today all that has softened. His face is alive and engaged as he pulls a book down and leans against the shelf to flick though it.
Something in me twists because this man has the capacity to really hurt me. The pain I felt when he binned me was just an early warning sign. There have been other warnings too. The way he closes himself down like a hedgehog at the first sign of trouble, the fact that he seems to think he’s an OAP, and his conviction that I’m too young for him. However, I’ve casually blitzed through all of these warning markers.
I could be heading straight for a lot of heartache, but somehow, as I look at his absorbed face, the tangle of his hair, and his beautiful face, I can’t bring myself to step back.
I watch him for a few precious seconds more and then, smiling, I wander along to make my choice of travel guide and then over to my favourite set of shelves that contain the maps.
Half an hour later, I’m happily ensconced in one of the very comfortable leather chairs when I smell oranges and sandalwood. When I look up, he’s leaning against the shelf watching me with a smile tugging on his lips.
“Did you get something?” I ask, grinning up at him.
He holds up a guide to Rome. “I’ve always wanted to go there,” he says. I start to laugh and he stares at me. “What on earth is so funny?” he asks, looking slightly upset.
I fumble with my carrier bag and then pull out the book I bought. A travel guide of Rome. “Snap,” I say, and he looks astonished.
“Really? You’ve never been?”
I shake my head. “It’s the sort of place you want to go with a partner. Someone who you can really share things with. Not with a group of lads more interested in finding a bar.”
He stares at me for a long beat, and I wonder whether he too is hoping that we’ll go there together because I can imagine Zeb and myself in Rome, wandering the streets, holding hands and eating in little street cafes.
He straightens up and predictably changes the subject. “I was standing here for a few minutes. You were very absorbed,” he says and pauses. “In the ordnance survey map.” He shakes his head. “Jesse, you’re a never-ending source of
surprises to me.”
I grin at him. “Is it the map? Did you expect me to be dancing around a glitter ball in my go-go shorts?”
He snorts. “Not in the place where Florence bought her maps,” he says in an outraged tone which is spoilt by the laughter in his voice. He edges closer. “Why are you reading that?” he asks, lively interest in his eyes.
I stand up and move next to him, unfolding the map. “I love these things,” I say, feeling almost embarrassed. I’ve never shown this geeky side of myself to anyone before.
“Why?” he asks, his eyes intent on my face, which I’m sure is slightly flushed.
“It’s like finding treasure,” I say slowly. “Most people only look at a road atlas, if they look at all, because now the first instinct is to check your phone.” I shrug. “A road atlas is fine, but it doesn’t tell you anything interesting.”
“What do you mean?” he asks, genuine interest in his voice.
I give him the edge of the map to hold and move my finger along the lines. “Look. A road atlas would tell you that this road in Yorkshire leads to this town. But our map tells you so much more. It tells you that there’s also a footpath that leads you to a small war memorial and then, further along, the remnants of an ancient barrow. If we move west, we’ll also find some abbey ruins.” I shrug. “Treasure. There’s something wonderful about walking along one of the ancient roads in the sunshine, tracing the path of people who walked there thousands of years before.”
I look up and go still at the intent look on his face. “What?” I start to say, but he shuts me up with the simple act of leaning forward and kissing me. It’s an innocent kiss with no tongues and no touching anywhere apart from our lips. But his lips are soft and plush, and even though there’s an inch or two of space between our bodies it feels like he’s surrounding me. When he pulls back, I blink, and he smiles. It’s wide and so warm that it makes my heart beat faster.
He looks down and a smug expression crosses his face. He taps my hand. “I think you’ll need to buy that map now,” he says happily.
I look down and see that it’s now creased in my hands. “Gah,” I mutter, and he grins, looking impossibly young somehow.