Making quick work of the rest of the shower, he washes and rinses before turning off the water. When he steps out of the shower water drips onto the floor and he’s quick to grab one of the towels. It’s soft and fluffy, which for some reason annoys Nicholas. Scrubbing the towel over his hair, he barely spares a second to look at himself in the mirror. What the hell does it matter how his hair looks if Andrew doesn’t want to fuck him?
When he steps out of the bathroom, the bedroom is empty, and a clean outfit has been laid on the end of Andrew’s bed. It’s a sweatshirt in a light tan with a pair of matching sweatpants. There’s even a clean pair of boxers and socks so he doesn’t have to put on his dirty ones. Nicholas aggressively shoves his feet into the socks before pulling on the boxers, surprised at how weirdly nice it feels. They’re not his usual silk kind, but they’re soft and snug fitting, and the extra attentiveness to what Nicholas might need is annoying.
Stupid Andrew being thoughtful. Is this because he’s playing the part of Nicholas’s fake boyfriend, or would he do this for anyone? Somehow the question only makes him even crankier, as does the fact that the clothes are a perfect fit. They hug Nicholas’s ass and thighs, stretching across his broad chest in a way that makes them seem almost painted on. He doesn’t need to look in the mirror to know he looks good, but the thrill that normally gives him is nowhere to be found as he exits Andrew’s bedroom in search of his fake boyfriend, who won’t be at all impressed by how sexy he looks.
Ugh, this entire situation is a mess, and it’s all Nicholas’s fault. He’s never had a boyfriend or a girlfriend, and for agood fucking reason. The commitment and responsibility of a relationship is way too much. Nicholas doesn’t have the time nor the inclination to care about someone else, but apparently having even a fake one is fucking with him. That’s got to be why his head is a mess right now.
“Andrew,” Nicholas bellows. “Where the fuck are you?”
“In the kitchen,” Andrew answers, appearing a second later with two glasses of wine and an unexpected smile. “It’s not cognac, but it’s the best I’ve got.”
Nicholas accepts the wine grudgingly, refusing to drink it on principle alone. Well, that and he dislikes wine.
“You should getrealliquor.”
“I’ll add it to my grocery list,” Andrew replies in such a no nonsense tone that Nicholas can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic or serious.
“Good. Do that.”
Unexpectedly, Andrew plucks the wine glass from his hand, setting it on the table.
“The fuck you doing?”
“You don’t want it.”
“Don’t tell me what I do and don’t want,” Nicholas gripes.
“Did you want the wine?” Andrew asks with an arched eyebrow.
Part of Nicholas wants to say yes just to argue, but he hates wine, and Andrew is clearly aware. “No.”
“Stay here.”
“Fine, but only because I want to,” Nicholas yells, throwing himself onto Andrew’s couch.
There’s a rummaging sound from the kitchen followed up by the sound of Andrew approaching. Nicholas refuses to open his eyes and acknowledge Andrew, but something is set on his stomach. He listens to the sound of Andrew’s receding footsteps and the bedroom door shutting, waiting until he hears theshower turn on before exhaling a heavy breath and opening his eyes. There in his lap is an apple juice box and a granola bar. He’s pretty sure even as a child no one had given him snacks like this. When he was hungry, he’d been required to sit at the table and eat off a plate, staring down his father or one of the nannies. He’d never been allowed juice boxes and snack bars.
He’s not sure he’s ever even had a juice box.
“I’m not a fucking toddler,” Nicholas says, mostly for his own benefit since Andrew won’t be able to hear him in the shower. “God damn fucking juice box. Fuck you, Andrew.”
Fingering the juice box, he almost throws it, annoyed by the realization that he is, in fact, thirsty. Fumbling with the stupid tiny plastic wrapped straw, he shoves it into the hole, a little bit of juice dribbling down his hand as he brings it to his lips.
All it takes is two large gulps before the tiny box has collapsed in his massive grip, quenching some of his thirst but alerting him to his hunger. Since Andrew isn’t here to see him, he unwraps the granola bar and eats that too, more than a little annoyed when he does in fact feel slightly better after the snack.
If it were his own house, he’d leave the trash laying around for his house keeper to clean up, but there’s no one like that here. He strongly suspects Andrew would castrate him if he threw his trash on the floor, so he makes his way to the kitchen to find a trash can before returning to the living room and throwing himself on the couch. Only this time when he does, his head lands on the throw pillow, dislodging a Kindle which slides to the carpet.
Curiously, Nicholas retrieves it from the floor, pressing the button on the bottom and swiping the screen open to see what exactly a man like Andrew King reads in his spare time. He said it wasn’t memoirs, but Nicholas isn’t sure he believes him. It’s probably something like the history of bird watching or finance for fun or some shit.
The screen loads slowly, unfamiliar titles popping up. Not that any title would be familiar. Nicholas can’t remember the last book he read, probably some required reading in high school. He skipped college and went right into the draft, much to the chagrin of his father who saw his hockey career as a slap in the face. It never mattered how talented Nicholas was or whether his name was in the news for a fight or a goal. To his father it was all the same—beneath the Whitmore name.
When the images of the covers load, Nicholas is surprised to find that most of them are of shirtless men. Judging by the salacious titles, it’s not at all hard to guess what they’re about. He’s never used one of these before but it doesn’t take him long to figure out the percentage is for which books are partially read, and he clicks on one titled—Knot Drunk—unsure what the hell he’s reading.
Mind reeling as he skims over a page describing someone taking what sounds very much like an asteroid sized, not fully human dick. Clicking out of that one he goes back to the main menu, scrolling through until he finds another one with a half naked man on the cover. Picking up where Andrew must’ve left off he starts reading, taken by surprise when someone shrieks.
“Put that down,” Andrew yells.
Blending into the apartment, Andrew is dressed in a matching sweatshirt like Nicholas’s, but his is all white. It looks incredible against his dark hair and skin. Unlike Nicholas who squeezed into the outfit, it hangs loose and very oversized on Andrew’s lankier frame, which is just distracting enough that he almost loses the Kindle.Almost.
