Tell Me Our Story

He dropped a chunk of muffin into the ocean and peered into the depths, like he was waiting for something to happen. Like he was making some sort of offering.

A bird swooped down to snatch up the muffin in a flurry of splashes, startling O’Hara into surprised laughter that vibrated through the boat, making it thrum like . . . like . . .

“Oh my God, Jonathan. You’re smiling.”

Jonathan returned his focus to his half-eaten muffin.

“What were you thinking? Come on. Tell.”

A pause.

He sensed O’Hara angling to ask again and got ahead of him, murmuring, “You look ridiculous in that hat.”

O’Hara took it off and twirled it. “Obscuring the view?”

Jonathan crammed the last of the muffin into his mouth. Swallowing was a mission; O’Hara was laughing again. Then he stopped and cuffed Jonathan’s wrist with a firm, cold hand.

Jonathan’s instinct was to jerk back, but O’Hara looked at him, shaking his head softly, and Jonathan . . . waited.

O’Hara gently wiped water off his watch with the cuff of his sleeve. “Better.”

The world went dark and heavy. Fingers slid over his knuckles as O’Hara drew back.

Jonathan pressed his arm to his stomach, the tick of the second hand in sync with his heart—

He tipped the tricorn hat until the calm golden sea, and swooping birds, and O’Hara filled his vision.

“Oars.”

O’Hara handed them over reluctantly. “You’re such an interesting character.”

“Explain.”

“Your one word demands. The way you seek control when you feel off balance.”

“. . .”

O’Hara grinned. “You use your observations of others’ reactions to avoid confrontation.”

Jonathan raised a brow.

“Like with Mr Crank. Instead of saying what you feel about visiting Soulmate Island, you avoid it and play chase.”

“I do not play chase.”

Green eyes bored into his, long tight seconds, until Jonathan looked away.

O’Hara dipped his slender fingers into the water, stirring the dawn colours.

“You seemed to have forgiven me, when you were drunk.”

Jonathan looked at him sharply. “What did I do?”

O’Hara just smiled. “Will you pair with me for the Social Challenge?”

“You came in top five last year.” Jonathan pulled more water, moving them swiftly toward shore. “Why bring yourself down to my level? Don’t you want to win?”

O’Hara’s gaze hit his, flashing. “I will win. I have to.”

The intensity in his voice felt like a balled fist, trembling maybe. Jonathan could never be the right choice, if winning was this important to him.

Yet he searched for words to uncoil that tension. “O’Hara . . .”

O’Hara looked away, and laughter dissipated the moment. Or at the very least, masked it. He said, “I just want to win with you.”

Jonathan’s grip tightened on the oars.

“Why not George or—”

“George and Mira are paired together.” O’Hara dropped to his knees and hugged Jonathan’s legs.

The oars slipped from his grasp and he hurriedly re-gripped. The boat bobbed on small waves. All ten of O’Hara’s fingers burned through Jonathan’s jeans, branding his thighs. “Please.”

Jonathan croaked. “Do I have to remind you of the theme?”

“Mmm, should be fun.”

“We’re not friends or family or in any other way significant—”

“But we could use it to document our second chance bromance.”

“Our . . . what?”

O’Hara dropped his head to Jonathan’s knees. “I won’t let go until you agree.”

Jonathan’s breath thickened in his lungs. O’Hara clinging to him like a barnacle was . . . The space was too confined. O’Hara breathed heavily, the warm dampness invading denim. The sunrise too bloody hot.

He looked up at Jonathan and asked one more time.

O’Hara squeezed between a surprised Jonathan’s thighs on a dinghy at sunrise.

This is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

Chapter Six

Social Challenge 1: The Nature of Love

This was the beginning of a big mistake.

Jonathan paced the tiny arrivals lounge at Nelson airport, determined not to let his panic show. This was just a weekend. Friday and Saturday night and only half of Sunday. They’d do the challenge, and part. Jonathan would go back to studying romance, and O’Hara would take his ceaseless . . . whatever elsewhere.

O’Hara emerged from the gates, a small backpack slung casually over one shoulder. He spotted Jonathan with one sweep of the room and rushed forward, flinging open his arms, his grin unruly and bright.

Too bright. Blinding, really, shearing through his defences and threatening to let the panic free. The instinct to brace himself for impact was quickly overtaken by a stronger one: to shield himself from it. He side-stepped before they collided, and O’Hara ended up hugging a good-looking stranger behind them. Which, of course, turned into a laugh and jolly conversation.

When he was done chatting the man up, O’Hara whisked around, wagging a finger. “You were supposed to catch me.”

“And be deprived of that little show?”

“Ah, voyeurism your thing, is it?”

“. . .”

A smug grin lit up O’Hara’s face as Jonathan led the way to his car. “This weekend is fun already.”

“Cheeky.”

O’Hara toed off his shoes, propped his feet up on the dashboard, and spent the forty-minute drive back to Jonathan’s place rattling off a series of increasingly ludicrous guesses what their first challenge would be. His leg was jiggling so hard he might bounce right out of his seat and through the window.