Page 72 of The Suit

“You okay, Holmes?” He kept hold of my hand, tracing his fingertips round my palm. “Kit said you guys had fun, she said she liked you a lot,”

I searched his face for any trace of untruth; that he actually knew exactly what Kit and I had done, but there was nothing. “Yes, I liked her too.”

“I’m sorry about Rory.” He looked away before continuing, “and I’m sorry about the dartboard. It was…”

I took my hand back and held it up to stop him. “Latham, you don’t need to explain or apologize. We both know how it was. And on Tuesday, we’ll be back on opposite sides again, fighting for our clients.”

This time when he stared at me I had to look away. It was too intense, and I couldn’t take the risk that he’d read my mind.

“Will we?” he asked softly.

We will once I tell you what I’ve done.

“Come on,” I took his hand back, avoiding his question that I didn’t have a definitive answer for, and offered a poor attempt to lighten the moment, “I’m hungry.”

He followed me silently to the table, laden with piles of food, and where the rest of the gang had noisily started eating. He pulled out a chair for me before sitting down next to me. Halfway through brunch, his hand found his way into my lap, and stayed there until we were all so full that it was unanimously decided everyone would nap before starting again later in the afternoon with a game of baseball – Penn’s idea.

I let him lead me to his room, and headed into the bathroom to swallow down the next lot of tears that had been stuck in my throat since we came up from the pool. By the time I emerged, he’d fallen asleep and as quietly as I could I crept in next to him, fitting so perfectly into his side that it made no sense, while concurrently making perfect sense. I barely felt the tear slide down my cheek and onto the pillow as he stirred and rolled to his side.

This weekend was on the opposite end of the spectrum from the one I’d had planned, from any weekend I planned. This one was full. Full of love and friendship and happiness.

A lifetime of weekends like this was something I wanted to fight for, fair and square.

The fight of my life, for a life.

A fight I’d never been so desperate to win.

Now I needed to figure out how to do it.

14

Rafe

“Is he always like this?”

I followed Beulah’s line of sight to where Penn was standing at the end of our row of seats, hopping up and down, and totally nailing the impression of Rory from the time someone on the football team put itching powder in his jock strap, and he had to be hosed down before a rash broke out on his dick. Except Penn was not the victim of a Varsity prank, he was just watching baseball, and sadly, yes, he was always like this.

I nodded, solemnly, watching him as he rubbed his hands together, waiting impatiently for the next pitch. “Come on, you must’ve figured by now there’s nothing Penn takes more seriously than baseball.”

Even though she’d known him a day, the simple fact that she was currently dressed head to toe in Yankee’s merch should have given her some indication, not to mention that for the entire ‘copter ride back into the city he sat next to her, quizzing her on the baseball facts he’d been throwing her way all yesterday afternoon.

I had to hand it to her, she’d held out way longer than Murray and I had; either that or she was a better actress than I’d ever given her credit for, because she spent the rest of the day allowing him to talk at her and explain in great detail why the 1927 Yankees was the best team of all time.

In fact, the entire day since the boys arrived, I’d barely spoken to her. She hadn’t even been next to me - to continue what we’d started that morning - when I’d woken from my nap. Instead, when her time hadn’t been monopolized by Penn and his opinions on this year’s top ten pitchers, she’d played with Bell, walked along the beach with Kit, and thrown a thousand balls for Barclay. The only member of the group she’d spent less time with than me had been Murray, and that was because he’d been called by one of his Middle Eastern clients, for whom Sunday was a working day, and spent three hours restructuring his portfolio.

It wasn’t until we’d eventually retired to bed, much later than I’d wanted, that I finally got her alone, and then it was only for a repeat performance of the night before.

What the fuck was wrong with me for complaining about that?

It was anyone’s guess.

But for whatever reason, it bothered me. Now I’d decided I didn’t hate her, I wanted something more than the raging hate sex we’d survived on for the past week, even if it was mind-blowingly incredible and unlike anything I’d ever experienced. I’d wanted the novelty of spending time with her without hate clouding my vision. I wanted to know what else was beneath the surface she’d shown me over pizza.

And without the hate clouding my vision I could also see more clearly - see the big, golden eyes eagerly looking up at me.

She was unbelievably beautiful.

I ignored the overwhelming and sudden urge to kiss her. Instead, flicked the peak of her Yankees ball cap, if only to diffuse the moment I was having with myself.

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