Page 30 of Best Man
I pause as he makes a faint sound.Oh shit, is he crying? Have I broken him?Surely not. If anything was going to break him it would have been the time I crashed my old Fiat into his new Mercedes. Nevertheless, I move closer.
“Erm, Zeb,” I say consolingly, moving to him and patting one very wide shoulder. “Please don’t be upset. I’m sure it’s not you and I’m really positive it’s her and–”
I break off as he raises his face. His eyes are wet, but he’s laughing, almost silently heaving with the chuckles, and when he sees my face, he bursts into peals of laughter. “Oh shit,” he gasps. “I couldn’t have held that in a moment longer.”
I fall back against the wall. “Oh, thank God. I fucking thought you were upset.” I smack his arm. “Give me some sort of sign next time.” I watch him laughing, my own mouth tipping into a smile. It’s so rare to see him uncontrolled. He looks young and untroubled.
The lift dings and the door opens, and he tries to sober up, but chuckles burst out as we walk towards the door of our room. I take the card he offers me and insert it into the slot. “You okay now?” I ask. “I can’t believe you’re not mad at me.”
“How could I have been mad at you? I haven’t seen a takedown like that since Marquez and Pacquiao.”
“I’m Marquez though, aren’t I?” I say, shrugging off my jacket and slinging it over a chair before hastening over to the balcony doors toopen them. Fresh air scented with the fragrance of freshly mown grass hits my face, and I sigh happily and stretch. “That’s better.” I turn only to stand still, caught in his fixed stare. “You okay?” I ask.
He jerks and looks slightly awkward. “Yes, I’m fine,” he says hurriedly.
“Okay.” I wander over to the table where the room service info is. “I’m going to order some food.”
“You’ve just had a meal.”
I fix him with a hard stare. “Zeb, that wasn’t a meal, it was an amuse-bouche in four fucking courses. That wouldn’t have filled me when I was ten, let alone now.” I look down at the menu and smile contentedly. “I’m having a burger and chips. What do you want?”
He stares at me for a second. “Eating a huge meal after what we’ve just eaten is guaranteed to give you heartburn.” I gaze at him and deploy the big eyes, and he sighs. “Okay, I’ll have a salad.”
I make a moue of disgust, and he shakes his head. “I’m going to get changed,” he says, moving towards the wardrobe. I place the order on the phone while watching him open the doors and look at the neat row of his clothes hanging inside. I look guiltily at my suitcase which hasn’t been unpacked yet. Instead I’d dug through it earlier and now it looks like a very small bomb went off in it, strewing clothes around the vicinity with abandon.
Zeb takes his jacket off and hangs it neatly in the wardrobe, and I watch idly as he takes off his tie and coils it into a drawer before unbuttoning his shirt. Then I watch not so idly as the hairy planes of his chest appear. He’s muscled and the skin glows golden in the low lamplight. I think what I like best is that he’s not perfect. He doesn’t have a perfect six pack. He’s muscled but it lacks the definition of the gym junkies I’ve slept with lately. He looks more real somehow and all the more desirable for that. I study the way his trousers hang loosely from his narrow hips and the way the skin shines soft and warm there.
Realising that I’m watching him and getting the beginnings of a stiffy while he’s not paying any attention to me makes me feel a bit pervy, so I adjust myself quickly and turn my back on him, putting my phone down and making my way over to the fridge set under the polished table. I openit and wave some small bottles at him. “Which goes best with burgers? Jack Daniel’s or gin?” I shake my head. “We’ll have all of them. I can never understand hotel fridges. They’re either intended for alcoholic pixies or the manager is a half-hearted member of the temperance society.”
I hear a laugh and look up as he comes towards me. He’s wearing blue checked pyjama shorts and a white T-shirt that makes his face glow with his tan and his eyes seem very blue. I swallow hard and pass him the bottles. “There’s some ice in there too,” I instruct him. “You do the drinks while I get out of this suit.” I pause as he obeys me. “I must say I’m enjoying this new dynamic where I tell you what to do.”
“Don’t get used to it,” he advises me, and I sigh and slink over to my case. I rifle through it, pulling out my pyjama shorts and a T-shirt, and then seeing his jaundiced gaze fixed on the clothing spilling everywhere, I huff and start to hang everything up. The food arrives as I’m putting the last bits away, so I cram the rest of my clothes in higgledy-piggledy, and after a short battle with the wardrobe door I manage to force it closed.
I eye it dubiously and then shake my head.Food.
When I walk out onto the balcony, I find Zeb laying the food out neatly. Glasses full of ice and alcohol are set meticulously in the correct position and the cutlery is set neatly on the other side. I shake my head fondly. It’s burger and chips, but it looks like we’re expecting the queen.
He looks up and I don’t miss the way his eyes flit down my body. It’s a quick but comprehensive glance, and by the time his eyes raise up to my face again I’m half hard. Our eyes seem to meet and catch for a lovely, sleepy moment full of promise, but then he clears his throat and shutters his expression.
“Come and eat,” he says, his deep voice slightly roughened. “Before you faint away.”
“You joke,” I say judiciously. “But it’s a real threat.”
“Okay, Camille.”
I eye him as I lift my burger up and take a huge bite. “You think I don’t know who that is but you’re wrong,” I say indistinctly.
He shakes his head. “Isn’t it rude to talk with your mouth full?” he observes, shaking out his napkin daintily and forking some lettuce up.
I swallow the food. “Depends what you’ve got in your mouth,” I say cheerfully, watching happily as he checks slightly before giving me a glare and starting to eat his own food stoically and with little obvious pleasure. I wait a second and then sigh and cut my burger in half and slide it onto his plate.
“Oh no, I can’t take that,” he immediately and predictably protests.
I wave my knife at him. “I can’t tolerate watching you force that down. It’s like I’ve taken you to Rosies for the twink parade and you’ve settled for cleaning the tables.”
“There’s a twink parade at Rosies?” he says faintly. “Do they wear costumes?” I open my mouth but he shakes his head forcibly. “No, don’t bother explaining. I think it’s probably better that way.”
Despite his protestations, he eats heartily and with every sign of enjoyment, and I watch him contentedly. He had hardly anything to eat tonight, even with those meagre portions, and I know it was because he was tense in that social situation. It’s one of the reasons why I was so mad at the old cow. Zeb needs to eat properly. He quite often looks tired and worn.
