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“. . .”
“You look afraid.”
“Stop spreading crumbs through my bed.”
The half-eaten nata paused at his lips. O’Hara drew it away, pushed himself into a sitting position, and joined Jonathan against the padded headboard. He fondled the folds in the blankets and pulled up his phone. “The next challenge is in.”
He started recording. Jonathan had pillow creases imprinted on his cheek; it would be very clear they were in the same bed. O’Hara giggled. “Love is sharing your . . . last pasteis de nata—”
Custard and pastry hit Jonathan’s lips, and he parted on instinct so it didn’t fall and splatter over his duvet. There was no need to worry, though. O’Hara was steadying the nata, pushing it into his mouth. The pad of a finger drew over his teeth and swiped a crumb from his bottom lip.
Jonathan stared at him, and O’Hara laughed into the camera.
Chapter Eleven
Social Challenge 6: Eros!
Jonathan forced himself not to look at O’Hara, all molded limbs under a thin sheet, back gently rising and falling. He’d followed Jonathan around for his entire workday, quietly smirking, and they’d come home to bedding that hadn’t been washed and a mattress that was still damp. O’Hara simply crawled into Jonathan’s bed, made him tell a story—from a book this time—and curled up to sleep. Definitely exhausted. He’d barely caught a wink at the library and insisted on watching Jonathan’s dance lesson in its entirety.
The whole time, his eyes barely left him.
Today’s challenge . . .
Jonathan rubbed the end of his phone against his forehead.
Eros.
Son of Aphrodite. Love, sex. Desire.
Below the surface of his skin something was simmering, prickling. Veiled, like the realities of O’Hara’s body beneath that thin, pale sheet . . .
His phone vibrated and he ripped his gaze to the screen.
Savvy: Eros!
He slammed his eyes shut. Reluctantly reopened.
Savvy: Oh my God! Guess you guys get to act all sexy? Your fans will go berserk!
His skin tingled. O’Hara stirred in the corner of his eye; he juiced his phone and forced the growing simmer to settle.
Savvy: Nate invited me to go horse riding this morning at the pony club. Jacquie is happy to drop us off if it’s cool with you.
* * *
Jonathan: No.
* * *
Savvy: Come on, please? He’s a good rider. Probably as good as you.
He’d made sure Savvy knew the basics—riding was a popular weekend activity in their corner of paradise—but they’d never been out without him before. And alone with Nate?
What to say? What—
Savvy: o_O Or I could invite him over instead. We can hang in my room.
* * *
Jonathan: We’ll come horse-riding too, I’ll call the club.
He stared at the message after he sent it. Stared at the whole exchange. Savvy would have as much to analyse here on the subject of trust as they’d found in Eros and Psyche’s tale of love and loss and love again.
He knocked his head back against the headboard and stared toward the ceiling, the small chip marring the paint where O’Hara’s poster had been tacked.
Did he have a problem?
A soft shift of blankets washed morning freshness over his legs. O’Hara was just beginning to stir, groaning, from his slumber. The edge of the pillow lay atop his head, pushing his hair over one eye, casting his face in shadow.
Instinctively, Jonathan tugged the pillow off him. A narrow shaft of golden light spilling from the slit in the curtains haloed O’Hara’s head. There were other shades in his dark hair, golds and coppers that glowed. Those bangs—
“Hmmm,” O’Hara murmured, trying to burrow more deeply into the sheets, and Jonathan’s fingers retreated. “You’re holding your breath.”
“. . .”
A yawn. “It was steady and soft before and now it’s all uneven. Ohhh, are you reading today’s challenge?”
Half-naked limbs shifted under the sheet, slips of skin peeking out.
Jonathan gripped and regripped his phone.
O’Hara would have fun with Eros. He’d tease, laugh, suggest something profound and deeply sexy. Too . . . personal.
Too much.
“I’m in charge of the post today. Get up.”
“Already?” O’Hara laughed, and groaned, and arched his body in a catlike stretch.
Jonathan shoved his wedge of sheet over him and climbed out of bed.
“Why are we in the library?”
Jonathan led them through the forest of books towards the far corner of the stacks. Laughter sent a shiver through him. O’Hara’s bouncing step stirred the still, book-scented air, his green gaze roaming the tall shelves. They were here before opening and it was very quiet, but the space came alive around them. Like a million endings leapt to life singing pick me, pick me, pick me.
“Seriously, though.” O’Hara’s brows lifted.
Jonathan opened a door behind the children’s section, hit the light, and ushered him inside. “I decide today.”
The room was full of shelves holding colourful masks and colourful wings, crates of plastic food and props. A large papier-mâché caterpillar. A round teal rug lay on the threadbare grey carpet and a long gilded mirror sat on a wooden chair in the corner.
