And I think my eyes get hard.
I can't stop the giggle that escapes me, nor the hand that rises to try and catch it, and this makes the young man chuckle too. I move my hand and pin my index finger to my chest.Me?
He stops laughing but keeps smiling.
I point at my brother.Or him?
He shakes his head then, looking down for a moment. His eyes all but squeeze shut as his smile broadens, opening up his whole face, a face that I am instantly persuaded was created to smile. Then he looks back up and very firmly points his finger at me.
“Oh,” I say again, but it's barely more than an exhale.
I’m looking long enough to make Jake turn.
“Wow.” He turns to look at him, and then whips around so swiftly that it snaps me into doing the same. “Thatis no twink.”
“He’s not?” I ask. Although I know it myself now, I play dumb. I need Jake to speak so I can figure out why I am currently rubbing my thighs together and doing Kegels at high speed. “But he's young and pretty and...”
“And masculine as hell,” Jake adds. “Mark my words. That man is a cocky top.”
“You always tell me that there are femme and soft tops,” I say, trying to get my brother to talk more so I can feel less. Less heat in my body. Less curiosity in my head. Less anticipation in every cell of my being.
“True, but there is very little that’s feminine or soft about that man,” Jake says with a dramatic backwards nod before he sucks on his straw again.
“Isn’t it strange how much information we can get from someone just from a few looks,” I say, genuinely fascinated by it. I make a mental note to research this later.
“Not to mention the bucketload of testosterone flooding out of his youthful pores,” Jake continues.
“How old do you suppose he is?” I ask, but I know the answer already. It’syoung.
But Jake’s not listening to me, he’s on a roll. “And that posture... far too confident and laid back. And did you see how big his hands are? You remember that article you sent me with comparative analysis of digit length and penis size? Did you see how long his thumbs were?”
“You noticedthat?”
“Yes, I’m surprised you didn’t,” Jake replies. “Honestly, look at his thumbs. They’re almost obscene.”
“I'm not looking again...”
“Hmm. That’s because he was looking at you, wasn't he?” Jake says in a slower, more deliberate voice. “That's the other reason he's no twink. Because he's not gay.”
I don't speak and it’s not only because I don’t really know what to say. It’s also because of the smile that refuses to disappear. My cheeks are pushed up so high I feel them brush against my eyelashes.
“I swear he was looking at your arse first,” I mumble in something of an apology. “Besides, he’s too young for either of us.”
“Oh, he’s young, for sure. But he's more than legal. And you...”
“Me?”
“You are not the manager of this luxury resort. You are on holiday. And you're single.”
“I'm divorced,” I correct him.
“Which is French for single,n'est-ce pas?”
“It's actually French for undesirable, Italian for soiled goods, and Spanish for don't-touch-me-with-a-bargepole.”
“I'm not sure they have barges in Spain,” my brother ponders, doing that ice-shucking thing again. “But you don’t really mean that, do you? I thought you were feeling positive about it all. I thought you were ready for yourEat, Pray, Lovemoment. This could be it!”
“Oh, I’m always ready for an Italian to lick gelato out of my navel.” I sigh.
