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The passenger door opened and fresh, rain-scented air flooded the car. Elliot jerked his head up at the same time Wentworth sat and jumped, seeing Elliot behind the wheel. His surprise robbed him of composure and he swore. “Sorry! I didn’t know it was your car. Louisa said to jump into the green Mercedes.”
Wentworth peered into the backseat, as if hoping someone else was hiding back there.
“It’s okay,” Elliot said. “I usually take Louisa. She likes to drink and I don’t, so. It’s the only reason I drove today.”
Wentworth looked at him. “To play chauffeur?”
“Right.”
“You don’t drink?”
“Not in a very long time.” Since they’d finished high school.
“I like the occasional beer.”
“This place does a good lager—so everyone says. Buckle up and we’ll get you one.”
Wentworth drew the seatbelt over his army-green shirt, the collar of his white tee shifting underneath, revealing a flash of chest hair. He looked a little cramped in the passenger seat, but the car served them both well enough.
“I see you replaced the pile of rust you had before.”
Elliot scoffed. “It didn’t last another six months.”
As if realising he’d broken the rules, Wentworth cleared his throat. “So, a good lager, eh?”
Oh, Wentworth.
Elliot picked up his coffee and sipped to mask a sudden and vigorous fluster—
The lid popped off and coffee burst over his shirt and his lap. He hissed. Fuck, fuck it was hot.
Wentworth lunged over the console and yanked at his buttons, pulling the heat off his skin. “Get your pants off, quick.”
Elliot dropped the cup to the floor and yanked at his pants, shoving them down to his calves. Wentworth slid his cold hands over Elliot’s thighs and Elliot sighed at the relief.
“A bit pink, but no major burns.”
Wentworth’s worried focus remained on his thighs, inspecting them closely to make sure he hadn’t missed anything. He turned his now-warm hands over so his cool knuckles soothed Elliot’s skin.
Elliot shut his eyes and hoped his shiver wasn’t obvious. Those hands on him . . . He’d always touched him eagerly, purposefully, delightedly. He’d always made sure every nerve ending was acknowledged.
God, the memory of it had always been intense, but it was nothing to the real life glorious rolling pressure.
When he opened his eyes, Wentworth was frowning at his hands, and he drew them off Elliot in a ticklish rush. “What were you doing with coffee this late, anyway?”
He’d not been able to stop himself. Not the need for caffeine, but the need to picture Wentworth there. The label on the smoothie had led him to their local café and he’d just ducked in . . .
He ought to have said he was just checking something, ought to have been clearheaded and controlled, but he’d been caught up imagining Wentworth lining up every day during the lunch crunch to buy him all his favourites. There were lunch specials on offer, but Wentworth had ignored them to tailor-design what he thought Elliot would most like.
“Just a whim.”
Wentworth picked up the takeaway cup and stared at the café logo stamped on the side. “You like this place then?”
Elliot looked at him. “It might be my favourite.”
A nod and then, with a quick inhale, he set the empty cup in the cup holder. “How far do you live? You’ll probably want to change.”
Elliot awkwardly stripped his pants off his ankles and handed them to Wentworth, who folded them automatically. In his dress shoes, ruined shirt, and boxer briefs, Elliot curled an arm around the back of Wentworth’s seat and backed out of the lot.
Less than a minute later, he parked in front of his home.
Wentworth charged up the path ahead of him like he used to, a spring in his step. “You’re still living with your mum? Or do you keep clothes here?”
Elliot slipped the key into the lock and held the door open as Wentworth stepped inside. His back heaved as he breathed in the scent of Elliot’s home. Was it familiar? “This is mine now.”
“Yours?” A question hovered in there, and Elliot answered it.
“Mum willed it to me.”
Wentworth turned so abruptly Elliot banged into his chest. The contact was startling, a sudden bolt of lightning. He pulled back. Navy eyes looked at him, distraught. “God, Elliot. I’m so sorry. I know how much you loved her.”
Wentworth’s sympathy unspooled something in him that he feared might turn into a sob. He’d thought he’d shed all the tears that were possible for his mum. But Wentworth’s sympathy—his much longed-for sympathy—cracked a whole new part of him open.
“She was so funny,” Wentworth continued. “She could be so dry.”
Elliot swallowed hard.
Wentworth swept into the living room and breathed in so deeply, Elliot couldn’t . . . he couldn’t. “Excuse me.”
He legged it to his room and quickly shut the door. Thirty seconds. That’s what you’ve got to pull it together.
He sank to the base of the door and rubbed his palms over the carpet.
