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“I thought people liked hearing when they rank over a seven? I mean, a seven is pretty great.”
“I think you should get home. You’ll have a nasty hangover tomorrow.”
Music stopped and the couples swaying nearby took it as a sign to leave. Not so much Philip, who was attempting to wink but only managed to blink, and who hiccupped before huskily saying, “Will you come with me?”
Really?
“Have this glass of water,” Elliot said, picking up the glass he’d brought for him earlier. “You’ll thank me tomorrow.”
“But the only thing I want to drink is—”
Elliot stopped his mouth with a hand and sighed. “I don’t fool around with guys.”
A scoff. “You want to though.”
“Excuse me?”
“I saw the way you eyed Wentworth McAllister. I know when a guy is interested in another guy.”
“Somehow I find that difficult to believe.”
“You’re into him. But he’s never going to fall for you. He’s into Louisa.”
Elliot tried passing him the glass again.
Philip didn’t take it. He held up his hands and backed away. “Look, it’s cool. You’re confused. Figuring it out. We don’t have to do anything tonight. But when you’re ready . . .”
Philip winked and stumbled back and Elliot dropped the glass—wonderful, the second of the night—grabbing hold of his shirt before he went overboard.
His grin was cute at least. “See? We have potential.”
From behind, Wentworth cleared his throat. Elliot had no idea how long he’d been looming in the shadows. Hopefully not long. “I think it’s time Philip went home.”
“An excellent idea. Two taxis are at the docks for a group leaving, there should be space for one more.”
Wentworth grabbed hold of Philip and steered him away.
Elliot, realising he was the last soul remaining on deck, picked up the dropped glass and trucked it to the table. He was about to leave when Wentworth returned. “Not a big fan of my glasses, are you?”
Elliot laughed. “Sorry about that.”
Wentworth’s smile lit up his eyes and it washed through Elliot, a gentle wave. “That Philip. He was taken with you.”
“I’m not sure he spoke with me long enough to be taken.”
“He’d only need a minute.” All that strong-boned beauty, rust hair and short beard darkened by the night. His eyes roamed Elliot, softly. Appreciatively. He sighed.
Wentworth didn’t seem to be aware of the impact those words—and that sigh—had on him. This wave was strong, magnificent, hopeful . . . Terrifying.
“I’m glad no one ended up in the water tonight,” Wentworth said. “It’s frightfully chill, and I don’t particularly want a cold.”
“Who says you’d be the one ending up with a cold?”
Wentworth stared intently at him. “Oh, I’ll be the one with the cold.”
There was so much he wanted to read into that. Elliot could taste the possibility of forgiveness in the air. If he pressed, he might even hear something like that.
But it was late. They were both tired. And Wentworth had been drinking.
Elliot wouldn’t cheat his way to forgiveness. Wouldn’t let Wentworth say or do anything he wasn’t ready for in the sober light of day. Wouldn’t let Wentworth forgive him when Elliot couldn’t first apologise.
No matter how much he wanted.
“I should be getting home.”
Wentworth stepped closer, and the overwhelming delight of it made moving difficult. Made convincing himself to do the right thing near impossible.
But he had to go. He pulled out his car keys, the jingle a signal to the both of them the night was over.
“Elliot . . .”
God, he might have to push him away and start running if he came an inch closer. He’d never been particularly strong-willed when it came to ignoring a smouldering Wentworth. He’d only stepped back a little and now waited, as if daring Wentworth to persuade him to stay.
“Elliot . . .”
Elliot gripped his keys and slipped past. “Night, Wentworth.”
He didn’t dare look back.
Elliot dropped onto his bed fully clothed and debated his decision.
He’d done the right thing, but . . .
He blew out a deep breath. Never mind. Sleep time. He was hosting brunch tomorrow, and he wanted to be at least semi-coherent. He should set an alarm—
Wait.
His phone.
Elliot sat up, double checked his pockets, moved to the door and peeked into his jacket ones. He didn’t remember having it in the car. He was always doing this, setting his phone down and forgetting it. If he were a little more addicted to it, this would never happen.
The last place he’d had it . . .
Elliot stilled.
The piano in Wentworth’s room. He closed his eyes. So much for not being caught in his cabin.
He flopped back onto his bed, grabbed a pillow and pressed it over his head, muffling a whimper.
Well. Nothing to do about it now. He’d drive by after brunch tomorrow.
Maybe they’d have a moment to . . . chat.
“I’m not feeling very fond of you,” Elliot said to his showerhead as he stood under it, naked, hoping for more than a drizzle of warm water. Maybe if he . . .
