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I consider this, carefully mulling over my words before speaking. “I cleared some space, so if you wanted to leave clothes here you can.”
Reaching down, Nigel uses the arm he has wrapped around me to tug up the hem of my shirt and slide his hand inside. The calluses on his palm tickle my skin as he idly rubs my back.
“You cleared some space.” He repeats.
“Yeah. Two drawers and there is plenty of room in the closet for whatever you want to hang.”
Silence. Truthfully, I had made room for him in my bedroom weeks ago, but hadn’t broached the subject until now. He already spends so much time here it doesn’t feel like a big step to me, but maybe it is. I’ve no idea what the relationship timeline is supposed to be, and I can hardly use Troy and Sam as a reference seeing as they just moved in together right at the start. I’m preparing to backpedal when he speaks, voice rumbling against the ear I have pressed to his chest.
“Next time I go to the apartment, I’ll grab more stuff to bring here. Thank you.”
I smile against him. If I had my way, he’d have enough of his things here to never have to go back to the apartment, and then one day he’d realize that he’s been living here all along.And then what would you tell people? He can’t live here unless you’re going to be honest about who he is to you.Sighing, I tighten my grip on him. Nothing needed to change now, but a sinking feeling in my stomach warned that something would probably need to change in the future.
???
Nigel is getting ready down in the guest bathroom while I utilize my own simultaneously. Squinting at my reflection in the mirror, I brush a hand over my hair, making sure there is nothing out of place. My dad prefers criticizing my hockey skills while my mom usually goes for my appearance—there were no sweatpants worn around my house growing up. Sighing, I untie the bowtie and set about trying to do it correctly. I can’t get the damn thing right.
“Corwin?”
“I’m up here still.” I call back to Nigel, listening as he climbs the stairs. He peeks his head into the bathroom and smiles at me through the mirror.
It should be a criminal offense, to look that fucking good in a tuxedo. I swallow, trying to reintroduce moisture into my suddenly dry mouth, and turn around to see all of him. He grins when he sees me checking him out.
“Uh, you look good.” I clear my throat. “Really good.”
“Thank you. Wish I could say the same, but there is just no hope for you. You are desperately plain.”
I laugh, shoulders losing some of the tension that has been steadily building all day. He winks at me and steps forward, knocking my hands away from my neck and taking up the ends of the bowtie.
“Let me help you, mon chéri.”
He’s clean shaven, like me, and standing this close I can smell every note of the aftershave he uses. I take deep inhalations, wanting to introduce as much of it into my system as possible, like little hits of dopamine. He’s biting his lip, eyes lowered, as he concentrates on what he’s doing; several times, his fingers brush my neck and I curse the sheer amount of clothing separating us. We haven’t even arrived at this damn event, and I already want to leave.
“There you go.” He turns me by my shoulders so I can get a look in the mirror. It looks fine, but even if it wasn’t, I would have left it.
“Thanks.” I turn back around. “You ready to go?”
“Sooner we go, sooner we can leave.” He tugs on his sleeve cuffs, rolling his shoulders.
We drive separately, which is both a necessity and a nuisance. Lawson had offered to carpool but since Nigel will be coming back to my house later, I figured the best plan of action would be to drive myself. We pull up to the valet simultaneously, since I followed him here in my car. It feels ridiculous to have to put on a show—pretend we didn’t arrive together but got here at the same time by happy accident, and walk in together as nothing more than teammates. The farce adds to the already sick feeling in my stomach, particularly when I see Lawson make a beeline for us as soon as we walk in the door. He’s my best friend and every day I don’t tell him about myself is another day I’m lying to his face.
“Hey Cor, Saint.” Lawson grins at us as he joins us by the door. Behind him, the woman he’d been speaking to before we arrived looks disappointed. She’s twice his age, but it wouldn’t be the first time he’s been propositioned at one of these events; Lawson is universally loved.
I do something I don’t usually do, and pull him into a half-hug. Not the way I hug Nigel, obviously, but the kind of bro-hug we might do on the ice. “Hey, Lawson.”
Nigel greets him the same way I did, and I take the opportunity to glance around the room. My dad is a big guy, 6’3” like me but a lot wider. He was an imposing figure on the ice, and carries that with him off as well. I heave a relieved sight when I don’t see him in the crowd. A short reprieve, since he’ll be here later, but a reprieve nonetheless.
“It’s an open bar, I’ll go get you guys a drink. Saint, what are you having?” Lawson knows I don’t consume alcohol, so doesn’t bother asking what I’ll have. He knows.
“Just bring me whatever he’s having.” Nigel tips his head in my direction. “Thanks.”
Lawson heads off to charm the bartender, who’s eyes light up with visible interest as he approaches. “I guess we’d better start making the rounds.” I tell Nigel, trying not to sound like a man on his way to face a firing squad.
We stick together, moving forward into the throng of party goers. Off to my right I can see Volstrom standing in front of a backdrop, taking a picture with a group of men. Nigel follows my gaze and grimaces; staged photo-ops like this aren’t something any of us enjoy.
“Poor bastard.” Nigel mumbles, eyeing Volstrom’s pained-looking smile.
“It’ll be us, soon enough.” I tell him, watching as the director of the Dianne House of Hope spots us from across the room and heads our way. She’s an imposing woman, mid-sixties with a head full of grey hair cut into a bob, and sharp, hawkish features. I’ve met her on several occasions, and have always liked her brisk, no-nonsense nature.
