Page 26 of Best Man
There are a group of people milling around in front of the stone fireplace, glasses in hand, and the low hum of slightly forced chatter reaches me. Zeb points out the prospective bride, Frances, who appears to be having a hissed conversation with an older lady who must be her mother. Frances is beautiful, with jet-black hair and a heart-shaped face. I can’t see the blushing groom yet, but a man walks towards us who is the spitting image of Frances, so I presume this is her dad. He’s wearing a very expensive-looking suit and his cheeks are florid. He looks like he enjoys a drink, or twenty.
“Zeb,” he says expansively, offering his hand to shake as soon as he gets near. “Good to see you.”
I hope his career as a financial tycoon is secure because it’s a safe bet that the stage will never be an option for him.
My boss smiles calmly. “Lovely to see you too, Charles. How is Oona?”
“Oh, fine, fine. Sequestered in a corner gabbing away with Frances about wedding stuff. You know how women are.”
“Not really,” my boss says serenely. “Not my area of expertise, I’m afraid.”
I repress a snort of laughter at Charles’s nonplussed face, but Zeb must feel my vibration because he turns to me. “Charles, this is Jesse. He’s my …” He pauses. It’s hardly noticeable, but to punish him I step into his body and wind one arm around his waist. His body is hot beneath my hand and for a second I almost forget why I’m doing this. Then I smile happily at the red-faced banker who is stoically trying to ignore all the gayness flying around the room. Hope it doesn’t hit him.
“I’m Jesse, his boyfriend,” I say, pinching Zeb, who’s gone immobile and stiff beneath my hand. He instantly relaxes and slides his arm round my waist. And now I start to lose sight of the game because his arm feels so warm and just somehow right. I mentally shake my head at myself.Get a grip, you twat.
Charles’s eyes narrow. “Is this a recent thing?”
Zeb pastes on a slightly confused expression. “Jesse?” he asks.When Charles nods his head, Zeb smiles and looks at me. “Not really. We’ve been going out for about …”
“Seven months,” I say, smiling limpidly at him. “The best seven months of my life,” I continue in a dreamy voice and jerk slightly when Zeb pinches me.
Charles looks slightly revolted. I can’t blame him this time. I’m not a fan of soppiness myself. “Well, how … er, lovely,” he says heartily. “Came as a surprise,” he adds in a confiding tone. “Patrick said you were coming alone. Oona was a bit …” He hesitates and waves his hand about. “Well, you know.”
“Drunk?” I say helpfully and Zeb clears his throat loudly over me.
“I think they’re about to serve dinner,” he says slightly desperately.
Even Charles looks relieved, and with a final, almost desperate smile, he beetles off towards Frances and the stick-thin older lady whose pinched expression seems to indicate that she might be married to him.
Zeb clears his throat, and I turn with slight trepidation. He looks at me and sighs wearily. “Do you think you could possibly behave?” he finally says.
I bite my lip. “I don’t think it would be entirely honest of me to promise that,” I say slowly. “Especially if people keep treating you like you’re some sort of desperate stalker. It’s not fair.” I frown. “You’re doing bloody Patrick a favour. They should be thanking you, not treating you like an unexploded bomb from the war that might go off in suburbia and wreck someone’s lavender bush.”
He blinks. “Where the hell did that come from?” He pauses. “And why am I the unexploded relic from the war?”
I smile at him sympathetically. “You have a lot of pent-up aggression,” I inform him.
He glares at me, and for a second he looks like he’s contemplating chucking me on the fire, but then, to my amazement, he starts to laugh. I smile at the contagious, merry sound and when I look over, a few people are staring and their mouths are turned up. It’s impossible not to smile at Zeb when he’s like this. I catch sight of an older woman with grey hair cut into a severe bob who is glaring at my boss.Okay, not impossible, then.
At that point there’s a disturbance at the door, and I look up to see a tall, wide-shouldered man with wavy black hair come in. He’s followed by a very beautiful young man with waist-length blond hair and a very sulky expression who has his hand firmly cemented to the dark-haired man’s bum.
The dark-haired man looks up and, seeing Zeb, his face lights up. “Zeb,” he exclaims, coming forward and drawing my boss into a fierce embrace. I eye him dubiously, feeling something turn in my stomach. Must be hunger pains.
The two men draw away from each other. “What are you doing here, Max?” my boss says. He lowers his voice. “You hate Patrick.”
Max shrugs. “Free food,” he says succinctly.
Zeb shakes his head, a wry look on his face. “You came to see how I was, didn’t you?”
Max appears to attempt to look guileless. “Of course not. I’m just here out of a desire to see Patrick safely within the bounds of matrimony where he can’t inflict himself on any more unsuspecting men.” I laugh, and he turns to me, his expression kindling into interest. “Well, hello,” he says in a slightly rough but very warm voice.
I blink. He’s quite potent close up. His wavy black hair showcases a beautiful face with very high cheekbones, lazy-looking dark eyes, and a full mouth which is emphasised by his grey-flecked beard. He’s tall and slim with broad shoulders and very long legs.
“I’m Max,” he says throatily. The blond man rouses, and, with a glare for me, he plasters himself against Max’s side.
Zeb stirs. “No,” he says succinctly to Max.
Max blinks. “I’m not doing anything,” he says innocently. He winks at me. “Yet.”
