Tell Me Our Story

And along a scuffed wall, two racks of costumes.

O’Hara stepped onto the mat and took it all in while Jonathan shut the door behind them and leaned against it. “We hold theatre productions here once a month.”

O’Hara crossed his arms lazily and cocked his head. “You want to play dress up?”

Jonathan grimaced. Not the way he would have phrased it. But the delight in those eyes was too much. O’Hara didn’t expect this kind of frivolity from him. He expected Jonathan to explain his Serious Idea now.

Jonathan met his gaze. “Yes.”

A glance around the room accompanied a growing grin. “I’m not sure Eros needs the actual dressing part? Just a pair of wings? Maybe some oil?”

Jonathan pushed off the door, at the same time pushing the image of O’Hara in nothing but a pair of wings to the recesses of his mind.

He pulled out a Robin Hood costume, found the bow and the quiver of arrows. Possibly a touch tight on O’Hara, but should fit well enough.

A chuckle. O’Hara slipped his arms around the quiver and costume and for a moment they were both hugging it. A smile peeked between the fletching.

“Your blue eyes get surprisingly dark, Jonathan.”

“You’re angling to get a rise out of me.”

“Is it working?”

Jonathan let go and unhooked a pair of sparkly mesh angel wings. “The Roman interpretation of Eros is Cupid.”

Green eyes glittered.

“Stop smirking.”

O’Hara pulled off his sweater, and the hem buffed against Jonathan’s cheek. “What about you?”

Jonathan shook his head. “I’ll quote something.”

O’Hara laughed, tugging off his t-shirt to reveal the firm, tight lines of his smooth chest and narrow waist. The air in the storage room was cold; his nipples were stiff, goosebumps firing down his flank. He kicked off his boots and unzipped his pants, making quick, carefree work of shoving them down corded thighs. With a flutter of his eyelashes, he said, “I’m the only one stripping?”

Jonathan pivoted. “Put your clothes on the chair.”

“Could you do it while I squeeze into this thing? Or are you too busy with that wall?”

Jonathan turned slowly. He plucked up O’Hara’s clothes, turned them right way out, and laid them over the chair.

“Jonathan?”

“Hm.”

O’Hara’s figure flashed in the mirror. The one-piece costume stretched up his legs and he was pushing one arm into a sleeve and then the other. O’Hara peeked over.

Jonathan shot his gaze to the side.

“Zip me up?”

He paused.

“No more teasing, promise.” O’Hara presented him his back. Forest green sleeves and a large V-shaped wedge of smooth skin, the contours of gently muscled shoulder blades.

Jonathan halved the two-step gap between them, reached for the zipper and pulled. The costume was tight. He halved the distance again, shaking a little. His breath hit the back of O’Hara’s neck, pebbling more goosebumps.

He drew the two sides of the costume close, knuckles skimming warm skin, and slowly glided the zipper an inch, two. His hand skated up O’Hara’s back, trembling as he collected more material. Another ripple of teeth slotting together, covering him up.

One more time.

O’Hara dropped his head forward, exposing his nape, and Jonathan pulled the zipper swiftly and let go. Stepped back.

O’Hara stood on the mat, gaze cast toward the riding boots Jonathan wore. “Thank you.”

Three long, steadying breaths.

“There’s a hooded jacket. You can wear that when we’re outside. Off we go.”

Before Savvy and Nate trotted off on their steeds, Jonathan charged Savvy with filming.

O’Hara, seated astride a gleaming black gelding, grinned toward the phone Savvy held. The horse looked like it’d been selected to match him—wild, graceful. The horse version of me, he’d said. Isn’t he quite something?

Jonathan looked over at his own ride, a silver bay, saddled and waiting. First . . . the bow and quiver.

They sat behind a weed-choked oak barrel close to the stables. It’d been easy to slip them there out of view while the others helped to ready their horses. Hidden because . . . he’d made an impromptu stop on the way over and had discreetly altered the quiver under cover of the car boot. He stared at it, hesitating.

It’s just a prop.

He swallowed. If he’d flashed to his story of the botanist and the kitten, that had been the leap of a tired mind. It’d been his turn not to sleep last night.

O’Hara laughed at something an eye-rolling Nate said and took the quiver automatically. Laughter broke abruptly and his head snapped to Jonathan. He clutched the leather quiver against his chest and his exclamation was soft, surprised.

He bowed his face into the dozen long-stemmed roses and breathed in their scent. His eyes closed briefly, then peeked at Jonathan over crimson petals.

The bow warmed in Jonathan’s grip. He loosened his hold and held it out for O’Hara. “You make a . . .” He cleared his throat. “Cupid works.”

He held the reins under the neck of O’Hara’s horse tightly.