He stretches awkwardly. ‘We’ve been a thorn in their side for years – we’re not exactly great for the brand. I wouldn’t be surprised if this is the final straw. They’re probably dying to restructure us, or even sell us to a rich investor. Even if they did want to help, I don’t know if they can. We’re talking at least thirty million, and even the top teams run on tight budgets.’
I don’t know if this is a sore subject or I’m stating the obvious but… ‘Doesn’t your dad own half of Colombia? Surely he’d be interested in investing?’
Tiago snorts and glances down. ‘I always said I’d do this on my own or not at all. I can’t stand the idea of being a nepo baby. My dad’s buddies wanted to invest in the early days but I wouldn’t let them. I can’t… change that…’ He wavers.
I get it. It’s easy to have strict principles when you have nothing to lose, but when the people he works hard with everyday are facing redundancy and the team he’s grown to care about so fiercely faces dissolution, things aren’t so clear-cut.
He abruptly looks at me. ‘What would you do, Jules?’
I sit beside him, careful not to jolt the cushion he’s sitting on. ‘It’s admirable to want to make it on your own – I really do admire you for that – but this isn’t just about you anymore.It’s your team, your brother, your sister, your cousin. I wouldn’t make any decisions based on blanket rules you set for yourself years ago. Think on it.’
He accepts it with a half-smile.
‘What do your family say?’ I ask.
He chucks a laugh. ‘They think I’m an idiot for not accepting help.’
‘Wanting independence when you’ve never had any doesn’t make you an idiot.’
His smile’s tired. It hurts to see him so sore, so agonised, so uncertain. He’s not the Tiago I know. I’d give anything to cheer him up.
In fact, I know exactly how to do it.
‘Can you, like, press play?’ He raises his eyebrows, pointing to my laptop on the coffee table.
I bite my lip. ‘I have another idea.’
I slide my hand slowly across the sofa. With a feather-light touch, it slinks up the outside of his thigh. Comprehension dawns in seconds.
I hold his gaze. ‘Is this?—?’
‘Yup. Consenting.’
I snort. ‘You could play it alittlecooler.’
‘Fuck cool. I almost died today.’
Fair enough. My fingers travel down the inside and his legs part so quickly I swallow a chuckle. There’s only so much I can do with him in this state so I need to maximise my variables. I get up to dim the lights when I hear a plaintive, ‘Where are you going?’
‘Be patient.’
‘This isn’t funny, Jules, I’m an invalid.’
This time I do laugh as I sync my Spotify to the speakers and play a little mood music.
‘Since when do you listen to J Balvin?’ he asks.
‘Just stop talking.’
‘But—’
I stand in front of him and bring my finger to my lips. It works, and I have a feeling someone could knock on the door right now and he wouldn’t notice. I wish I wasn’t in a sweatshirt and yoga pants but we take what we’re given.
Painfully slowly, and with unbroken eye contact, my fingers find the cuffs of my jumper and lightly pull. I mirror it on the other side, moving gently to the music. I ease it over my head and let it drop to the floor. From the mesmerised look on his face, you wouldn’t know I’m in gym leggings and a one hundred-year-old white t-shirt. The swell’s already visible between his legs.
I turn away from him to start on my trousers, throwing my hair over one shoulder and watching him over the other. My hips sway as I roll my leggings down my thighs, and I bend to give him an uninterrupted view of my arse.
His hand slips under his waistband.
