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CHAPTER7
As usual, Aaron was late.
Oliver unclamped his back teeth and did another lap outside Belinda’s Bridal wear.
Ten steps. Stop. Count to three. Turn to the right.
Ten steps. Stop. Count to three. Turn to the left.
On the fifth step of his third lap, he halted abruptly.
What the fuck was he doing? He hadn’t paced like this since university.
Hands fisted by his sides, he tethered his feet so hard to the ground he was sure his leather soles were melting into the pavers.
Okay. Breathe. Man.
This was crazy.
He knew the reason—of course he did.
Because he’d woken up this morning with an erection the size of a crowbar, feeling for all the world like a horny yak.
Oliver had never felt like a horny yak in his life.
Not quite believing it, he’d peered under the covers. Yep. No mistaking that thing. His hand had hovered. He wasn’t going to take care of it, heck, he barely knew how to anymore. So instead, it seemed, he was pacing up and down and mumbling under his breath.
It was bad enough that he still colour-coded his paperclips, but this ritual of walking and counting… he wasn’t going back to that torture.
After Mum had died he’d developed some odd habits. Nothing harmful, just repetitive and strangely compulsive. He’d known they were absurd, but he always felt relieved afterwards, like the world was somehow back under his control. Except when the compulsions came back after a few hours, stronger, more urgent. Finally, when it was taking up time he should have been doing other things, he’d researched OCD and knew he had to get help. He’d kicked the habit after a year of cognitive behavioural therapy at uni.
But since Leonie left, he’d noticed some of those old behaviours creeping back. The paperclip habit for one, the checking he’d locked doors several times, and now this…
It was the spider incident that had derailed him. Firstly, things going completely haywire below the waist, and secondly when Felicity told him about her cancer. It had gutted him—more than he would have expected. Here was this sunshiny girl with her sweet smile and her plummy English accent who’d clearly been to hell and back.
He’d misjudged her when he first met her. Considered her light and fluffy and a bit ditsy. Had tried to ignore the affinity he’d sensed, not justphysical—though that side of things was becomingpainfullyobvious—but another kind of connection, an emotional one, one he couldn’t really explain.
If he was honest, he’d felt it since the day he met her at the airport.
As for the horny yak problem, his dreams had been consumed by those perfect breasts and that soft kittenish mouth doing unmentionably wicked things to his body. Which meant he’d had to run the long way home from the beach this morning and take an icy cold shower. Entering the kitchen afterwards, Oliver couldn’t meet her eyes as she sat at the island bench while Andrea served up—yep, you guessed it—buttermilk pancakes.
“Won’t you join us just this once?” Andrea had wheedled.
And at that very same moment, Felicity’s mouth had released the spoon, and she’d licked her lips with the tip of her tongue. Her blue eyes had met his and he’d felt a stirring…
He’d made a coffee and fled.
It was only natural, Oliver reassured himself now. He’d not been with a woman in six months, no wonder when he’d held her naked body… felt those soft curves…
Turn. One… two… three…oh, fuck this.
“Sorry I’m late. Have you been here long?” Aaron skidded to a halt in front of him, slightly dishevelled, and flushed from running. Oliver forced a smile, shook his head.
“Let’s get this done,” Aaron said heading for the entrance. It took all Oliver’s self-restraint not to count to three before following him into Belinda’s Bridal.
Standing next to each other in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror some twenty minutes later, it was impossible not to remember the last time he’d donned a dress suit.
“What colour for the pocket square?” Aaron asked, passing him a choice of colours. “Alice wants me to wear the dusky pink, not my fave, but what you do for love, eh?”
