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“I thought I had. Turns out I don’t fit my suit anymore.”
I scroll my eyes down his elegant frame.
He scowls. “My shoulders are wider. Must be the swimming.”
The assistant trots over and coos at me. I glance at the mirror and spy Lyle eyeing the dark navy suit with a grimace. He moves to his pre-selected rack, pulls off another suit and disappears into the cubicle.
I do the same, and this time we re-emerge simultaneously. Lyle is in bold red, accented with a paisley pocket square. He looks incredible.
I slide on a black dinner jacket and smooth the lapels. His nostrils flare and he grabs another suit.
The racks are our battlefield as we fight to outdo one another. Lyle is all classic sophistication, while I try for charisma.
Finally, Lyle rubs his face and peeks over the tops of his fingers. “This is childish.”
True. However . . .
I dangle a suit jacket over my shoulder and smirk. “Who says grown-ups can’t give in to their feelings from time to time?”
Lyle gives this earnest consideration. He eyes me slowly up and down and his sparkling gaze pierces mine.
I choke back a laugh, and scowl. “Bring it.”
He eyes my curling finger; his expression contorts, but he schools it and dashes back behind his curtain.
We leave no suit untried.
Late that Friday—the Friday of the nineteenth fir, 138cm—Lyle wriggles cheeky fingers from the front passenger seat of Robin’s car and I submit to taking a backseat for the three-hour drive north.
We’re all staying together, in a bach belonging to someone vaguely related to someone, right on the beach. In fact, there’s so much sand on the patio out front you could almost say under the beach. Luggage hanging from our shoulders and suits on hangers hooked around our fingers, we squeeze into the living room and drop and drape our things, flicking switches as we pass. The place is packed with relics left behind after summers past, every surface covered in treasures and books and puzzles; the lightshades cast soft glows through old glass, each a different colour.
It’s been a long day; Robin has been a series of yawns for the last hour. “Let’s get some shut-eye and start early tomorrow.”
We peek into the two bedrooms. One is box-room size with a child-size bed and a little dresser squeezed in beside. The other is bigger but only holds a double, flanked by old wooden chairs. Robin grimaces. “I did say three adults. Guess they assumed there was a pair between us.”
Lyle just smiles. “Don’t worry about it. This place is great.”
“It’s no problem,” I agree, stretching. “I reckon Lyle fits the small bed best.”
A scowl is fired my way.
I look back innocently. “Robin’s taller, he needs the extra length.”
“You’re right. Someone smaller sharing with him will give him more space.” Lyle comes up to me and squeezes my biceps. “A hardened man like you won’t mind roughing it in a single bed for a night.”
I raise a challenging eyebrow. “And a generous man like you won’t mind giving up the bigger bed to a guy who strained his back in your garden yesterday.”
Lyle chuckles, unfazed. “I’ll pay for you to get a massage.”
“What about tonight?”
“Guys?” Robin interrupts, gaze shooting between us in confusion. “I’ll take the single.”
We spin to face him; he’s already picking up his bag and closing the door behind himself.
Lyle swats my arm.
We share defeated glances as we slip into the crisp sheets of the double bed. Double, but still a tight fit. Lyle stuffs a pillow between us, and I shove another next to it. Simultaneously, we turn off the little bedside lights and flop onto our spots.
“Did you really hurt your back?” Lyle says in the dark.
“It’s nothing.”
“I meant it about the massage. As many as you need.”
I pull the pillow from under my head and crush it against my face with a groan.
He laughs.
I wake up in a tangle of warm limbs, soft hair tickling my nose. Lyle squirms in my arms and shifts the thigh he has over my hip down my leg. Cold toes bite at my calves and I jolt.
Lyle stiffens, and then we’re yanking ourselves to the far edges of the bed, staring at one another in horror.
“What happened to the pillow barricade?”
I glance down at the floor on my side, where I spy the two offending pillows.
I leap out of the sheets and slyly kick the pillows under, hopefully all the way to Lyle’s side. “Maybe you should ask yourself.”
Lyle twists and looks at his side of the mattress. His face flushes. He fluffs the sheets, and I feel something soft hit my ankles as he says, “I didn’t . . .”
He shuffles around, spies the pillows, and sighs. “I won’t blame you. I’m too tempting.”
Cheeky.
I suppose that makes us both cheeky.
“If it was me,” I murmur, “I assure you I wasn’t thinking straight.”
