“Jesus Christ,” Lex said, rolling his wrists. “What’ve you got in there? A body? Because I’m not helping you bury it when we’ve only just met. You’ve got to buy me at least a couple of drinks first.”
The blonde’s lip curled, his grey eyes narrowing to slits.
He was the kind of stunning that made Lex’s brain go momentarily quiet, which usually only happened when someonehit him very hard in the temple. The pretty little thing was all sharp cheekbones and pale grey eyes. A Nordic blonde, with the slightly nervy, rangy look of a greyhound.
“You alright?” Lex asked.
The blonde straightened his cuffs and said, “Perfectly. Thank you,” in a clipped tone.
“No worries,” Lex said, and then, because he was incapable of leaving a silence unfilled, added: “That thing needs wheels, mate. Or possibly a team of sherpas.”
The blonde’s chin lifted. “It has wheels. They’re retractable.”
He bent down, tugged a lever on the side of the trunk, and one wheel dropped. The other didn’t. He tugged again, harder. Lex watched him wrestle with it for about five seconds before the second-hand embarrassment became physically unbearable.
“Move,” Lex said, crouching beside him and smacking the heel of his hand against the stuck mechanism until the second wheel popped out. “There you go. Good as new. Lovely system.”
The volunteer in the blue polo was waving at them again, more frantically now, pointing toward the exit. Lex considered being deliberately obtuse about it, but the Japanese took their punctuality seriously, and he was a guest in their country. So Lex grabbed his trolley, jerked his chin at the blonde, and set off before she could come over and start having extremely polite words with them.
“Didn’t see you on the plane,” Lex said. “And I was up and down the aisle half the flight. Can’t sit still for fourteen hours. My knees were up round my ears, even in business class.”
“That must have been annoying,” the blonde said, not looking at him.
“Yeah, it was. Tiny seats. Criminal, really. You’d think they’d sort out the legroom for—”
“I meant for the people around you.”
Lex barked out a surprised laugh. “Alright. You’re mouthy. I like that.”
The blonde said nothing, but the tips of his ears went faintly pink, which pleased Lex.
They walked. Lex watched him from the corner of his eye, trying to match his body to his sport. He was too narrow in the thighs to be a sprinter. He couldn’t be a swimmer with those shoulders. He moved like all his power ran through his core rather than his limbs, all light on his feet. Then of course, there was that tiny bubble of an arse on him that Lex wanted to knead under both hands, and then smack pink as he absolutely ruined him.
“You a runner?” he asked.
“No.”
“Fencer, maybe?” Lex squinted at him appraisingly. “Some poncey sport, definitely. You’ve got that look.”
The blonde’s jaw tightened. It was subtle, a flicker of tension along the hinge, there and gone, but Lex caught it because catching micro-movements was how he’d stayed upright for twelve professional fights.
“Eventing,” the blonde said.
Lex waited for the rest of the sentence. It didn’t come. “What the fuck is eventing?”
The blonde turned his head and gave Lex a slow, withering once-over that started at his trainers and ended right on his crooked nose. “It’s a three-day equestrian competition. I do dressage, cross-country, and show jumping.”
“So the horse does all the work.”
The blonde’s eyes went flat and pale, his posture locked, and for a single, glorious second, Lex thought the man might actually hit him, which would have been the most exciting thing to happen in this airport since the trunk incident.
He didn’t, of course. He was far too well-bred for that. Instead, he looked away and said nothing.
Lex grinned. “Alright, alright, I’m sure the horse is very talented but is still glad you’re along for the ride. Don’t get huffy.” He glanced down at the trunk, which was now rolling obediently on its retractable wheels, and read the stamped leather tag on the handle. The lettering was old, faded gold on dark leather.
“Barnaby,” Lex said aloud, sounding it out. “Fitznorman—” He squinted. “Bitchster?”
“Bicester.” The correction was immediate, automatic, as though it were delivered often throughout his life. “BISS-TER. Like the town.”
