Page 21 of Best Man
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.
