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And then, there’s heaven. At least, my kind of heaven: Savers.
A second-hand superstore.
I enter through the big sliding doors and inhale the ever-present scent of mothballs. Savers is always busy but since it’s a Monday afternoon, the crowd is slightly thinner. I make my way over to the men’s section, purposefully ignoring a fur-lined camel jacket on a mannequin. I am here for one reason and one reason only: to look hot as fuck on this date.
Browsing through the racks of clothes, I find a few gems, including another oversized retro eighties geometric shirt, a pair of barely worn faux leather loafers and a cool Nike hoodie that’ll be perfect for cool summer days.
‘We meet in the sunlight at last,’ says a familiar voice. A blond man approaches me; he’s tall and well built, with large lips and a smear of mascara on his lashes. As he reaches me, he glances at my basket and pulls out the geometric top. ‘Another one to send them wild, hey?’
I stammer, caught in that awful moment of feeling like I know someone but struggling to place them. ‘I’m sorry, I—’
‘Babes, it’s me.’ The man laughs and I immediately twig.
‘Peaches!’ I reach forward and give Peaches an awkward hug. ‘Didn’t recognise you without your layers of makeup.’
‘After everything I’ve done for you, you’re still so cruel to me,’ she says, nudging me out of the way and grabbing a black silk shirt before I can.
‘I can’t believe I’ve never seen you outside of work,’ I say as she admires the top. ‘Do you come here often?’
Peaches shakes her head. ‘We’re rehearsing an act over at the Playroom, and I have drag karaoke at ten at the Flamingo Bar in Fitzroy. You should swing by.’
‘Maybe. I’ve got a date tonight.’
Peaches raises an eyebrow. ‘Oh! Is it who I think it is?’
Shit, I definitely should not have said anything. ‘I—’
Peaches must clock my worry because she nudges me good-naturedly. ‘I get it. But if you feel like coming by afterwards, I’ll put your name on the door.’ She hands me the black silk shirt. ‘You should wear this. Leave a few buttons undone and put a bit of oil on your chest, he won’t be able to look away.’
I feel my cheeks go red, but I place the shirt in my basket anyway.
Peaches was right—I am loath to eventhinkthose three words—because the silk shirt looks divine, clinging to my collarbone and shoulders but billowing out around my waist. Leaving the two top buttons undone, I loop an old gold chain around my throat and admire it as it hangs delicately on my clavicle. Finally, I spritz on a splutter of cologne, slide on my new pair of disinfected loafers and manage to run a dollop of wax through my hair just as my doorbell rings.
I’m a jumble of nerves as I go to open the door. God, what if I’mtoodressed up? What if the amount of effort I’ve put into this night just makes everything feel awkward?
As I open the door, all my anxiety melts away. Gabriel stands on my doorstep in his white linen shirt, dark jeans with rolled cuffs, a pair of well-worn brown leather loafers and a flashy gold watch. His glossy hair bounces around his shoulders, washed and styled to let his natural curls shine. Not for the first time, I’m in awe of just how beautiful he is—and how, just for this moment, he’s all mine.
Before I can say hello, Gabriel captures my mouth with his.
It’s not a polite kiss or a greeting. It’s hard and wanting and consuming. In a matter of seconds, I’m pressed against the doorframe, his hands in my hair and his mouth hungry on mine.
‘Babe, we’ll be late for our booking,’ I gasp as he kisses down my throat. Somehow, I manage to get my foot around the door to push it closed—quite the feat if I do say so myself.
‘I can’t go to dinner,’ he mumbles against my throat. For a moment, I panic over the non-refundable booking fee at the stupidly fancy Italian place. Why hadn’t he called ahead? ‘Not when you look like this. I won’t be able to focus.’
I feel his fingers begin at my shirt buttons and it takes everything in me to stop him. ‘It’s all a part of the Noah experience. Trust me.’
I can’t say it’s not thrilling to know he wants me just as much as I want him, especially after the afternoon we spent in the locker room and given the dwindling time we have together before the tournament ends.
‘I promise, I’ve heard theirspaghetti nerois better than sex.’
Gabriel scoffs even as he steps away from me. ‘I doubt it.’
La Cucina—‘the kitchen’—is one of those beyond-small, busy Italian places along Lygon Street. I’ve requested a private table and it’s certainly that, wedged between the bar and a wall. The restaurant is dim, but a tea light flickers in a small dish between us.
Gabriel and I take a seat across from one another. His dark eyes shimmer in the candlelight as he glances around the restaurant.
‘Thanks for bringing me here,’ he murmurs, reaching out to take my hand. His calloused thumb brushes over my knuckles. I flex my fingers, and he laces his with mine.
