No Ordinary Gentleman

“I don’t have a wife. Why would you ask?” His eyes narrow slightly.

“I just don’t want you to get the wrong idea. I’m not making plans for your body.” Even if it is a really nice body.

A glint suddenly replaces his narrow look, though not like the one he’d shot over the top of his newspaper earlier. That look hadn’t made my insides feel like a ribbon curled on the edge of a pair of sharp scissors. Kind of fizzy but a little afraid. Not the boogie man kind of afraid. More like the kind you get when you reach the top of a roller coaster and anticipate what’s to follow.

Feels a little like an omen. An omen for a thrilling ride?

I give myself an internal shake. This might be a lot of man, but I’m not looking for the kind of entertainment that comes without clothes yet.

“I-I’m just being courteous,” I stammer as he does that wicked eyebrow thing again. “I just mean that if I were your wife or girlfriend, I wouldn’t like to loan you out.”

“Just to be sure I have this right,” he begins, “you think it’s my civic duty to take responsibility for you as a visitor to the country? But only if I don’t have a wife or a girlfriend.”

“I mean, isn’t that what you just did in there?” I gesture back towards the hotel.

“I gather you thought you were in danger?”

“In danger of combusting into flames of embarrassment, yes. And now, according to the rules of my people, I should thank you. With a hardy handshake.” The heat in my cheeks feels like a contributor to global warming as I take his large hand and pump it ridiculously. “And a cup of coffee.” I pause. “Lyle, you’re looking at me like you know what crazy is and that I’m it.”

“I wouldn’t say crazy exactly.” He frowns in an effort not to give in to a smile.

“Sure. I mean, it’s not like every man on earth claims to have dated that one girl who turned out to be certifiable.” Just most of them would be my guess. “Relax. That’s not what this is. I promise I’m not going to get you drunk on pink cocktails before chaining you to my bed. I just have twenty-four hours to kill.”

“Twenty-four hours?” If I’d tried to anticipate a reaction to go with his slightly wary tone, I probably would’ve chosen dread, not the almost speculative look that he slides over my body.

“I’m not even going to ask what that was all about,” I mutter, ignoring how my skin reacts as though his gaze were a physical thing. The tingling flare between my legs is a little harder to disregard.

He doesn’t offer a reply, though the look he gives me is all innocence, which should look ridiculous on a man of his age, but he somehow works it. I’d say it’s been a while since that blazing blue gaze was anything but innocent, something that’s confirmed as his expression turns almost calculating. I just want to see what I can get away with suddenly feels like having a tiger by its tail.

Time to redress that balance.

“I have twenty-four hours until I leave,” I reiterate, bringing my hands to my chest. “You . . .” I reiterate, touching his very nice chest again—is it any wonder that my hands are there again when his jacket hugs him so beautifully? Tight, but not the kind of tight that speaks of ill-fitting, but enough to reveal the very obvious ripple of muscles beneath the fine fabric. Obviously custom-made. And so soft under my fingertips. Soft fabric. Hard male. All male. Where was I again? Oh. “You could keep me company for an hour or two.”

“A lot can happen in a couple of hours,” his low tone rumbles.

For the second time in our short acquaintance, he removes my hands from his chest, only this time, he reaches his long arm around me, pulling me to his side.

3

Alexander

Where the fuck are you?

What kind of man doesn’t turn up to his own birthday bash? Bad form, Alexander. Bad fucking form.

My jacket already discarded to the back of the bench, I place my phone back against the table, screen down, ignoring the last in this series of Matteo’s texts.

I’ve never been one for spontaneity. Never been the kind of man who takes off on a whim. Plans are to be adhered to. Responsibilities are to be acknowledged and met. And when your friends have plans for a birthday dinner, you’re obliged to attend. I know all that. And believe in it, even. But here I sit, ignoring both my phone and my responsibilities in favour of . . . well, I don’t know what this is. I only know I’m enjoying it more than anything in recent memory.