My heart does a celebratory jig. A cuddle that won’t lead to sex, and isn’t something I’ll have to claw away from afterwards.
“Sure.” I pull the covers up to my waist and breathe in the scent of Harry’s laundry detergent and my gifted fragrance.
“Can I tell you something?” he says. “A confession.”
My heart is suddenly in my throat. But why? “Of course.”
Harry sighs, shakes his head, and looks off into the distance. “I love tits.”
“Oh.” Not quite the confessional I was expecting, though admittedly I’m not sure what I was expecting. “Thank you for sharing.”
“Do you think if I ever got into a relationship with Lionel, I’d miss boobs too much?”
Good lord. “I can’t really answer that question.” I suspect his underlying doubts have less to do with giving up breasts and more to do with the man in question. Maybe this guy isn’t right for Harry after all. Maybe Harry’s realising that. “Do you want to talk about Lionel?”
He’s silent for a minute. Two minutes. Possibly three. “No.” Then he holds out his arms as though inviting me closer. “I’ll be the big spoon.”
I back up all the way into him, instantly absorbing the warmth of his naked body into my PJ clad one.
“I don’t want to talk about him, but let me tell you about all the ways I hate Mathias Jones, yeah?”
I cover my smile with my palm. “Sure.”
17
Saturday 21st June 2025
Lando
Based on the guys Harry said he liked at Penrose, I should have known better. Should have put two and two together. I’d been expecting a big surly security guard with muscles and a moustache and maybe a bald head. What I did not expect was for Lionel to look . . . well, kinda like me.
He’s tall and skinny with oodles of floppy black curls. His skin tone is darker than mine and he’s older than me by about a decade, and let’s be fair, I wouldn’t be caught dead in his defender-man costume with the multi-pocketed high-vis vest, but he does have a moustache, so at least I got one thing right.
Beside me, Harry is tugging on his earlobe and pacing.
“You’ve got good taste. I’ll give you that,” I say, as Harry and I watch Lionel—and Harry’s mum, Donna—setting up the security for Owen and Mathias’s big community rugby match.
Right now the sky is overcast, and I’m hoping it stays that way for the game. I don’t fare well with sudden changes in my immediate climate.
Team Boss—Owen’s team, and the team Harry and I are playing for—are facing off against Mathias’s team, Team Wild Card, in order to raise money to fix the roof of the pub. They’ve already smashed their fundraising targets, and all extra cash will go to local and national charities.
Over five hundred tickets have been sold, and the stands are filling up, and people from all over the world will watch as the match is pay-per-view live-streamed online.
Everyone is nervous. I’ve spent most of the morning on the toilet, but Harry seems anxious for a completely different reason.
“Should I go over and speak to him?” he asks. His ear is bright red from how viciously he’s been manhandling it.
“If you think you’re ready,” I say, trying to keep all judgement from my voice. He’s not ready. Not by a long shot. Unless of course guys in their thirties enjoy looking after drunken idiots who are obsessed with asparagus.
“Fuck, no,” he says. “Not sure I’ll ever be ready.”
“Do you want to practise your ‘come hither’ look?”
Harry takes a step back and looks me up and down. He gives me what I assume is supposed to be a seductive squint of his eyes and lip bite.
“Babes, watch out. You’ll get me trampled to death by everyone in the stands,” I mock.
“Urgh! I suck at this!” he whines, raking his hands through his hair and then hiding behind them.
