Chapter 10
CHAPTER
TEN
An honest to god mile-wide billiard table took up most of the barn of a room Temp showed us into to get changed. Posh wood panelling, leather armchairs, and acres of baize. Some Great Gatsby type should have been loitering in a tux, but short-arse me was here instead.
“Aren’t you a darling for coming to the rescue.” Phoebe skimmed a light touch over my arm right where the bite of Simon’s fingers had stopped me talking. She was too earnest to be patronising. Warm, the same way Simon was. As unfairly gorgeous as her husband-to-be.
“Imagine!” A giggle rolled out of her, and she turned to Simon, speaking a notch too slow and a notch too loud – exaggerating the movements of her lips. “You needing an. Interpreter. All. The. Time! It’d get rather Crowded. In the Bedroom. Wouldn’t it, Darling?”
Simon cleared his throat, most likely buying time to decode the butchery job she was making of her word shapes and the sentence flow. “Not too crowded at all. Is it, babe?” His eyes flashed to mine. “With just the two of us.”
His palm settled against the small of my back and twelve thousand sparks raced the length of my spine, tap dancing right where he was touching me. I swear I grew an inch taller.
“Babe..?”
What on this blue-green Earth was he doing?
Now she was clutching Simon’s forearm, a peel of pretty laughter absorbing into the walls. Turned bodily towards me, he dusted a non-existent speck off my shoulder. Phoebe’s hand stuttered in mid-air on the way to dropping down to her side.
“Ben’s a little shy.” Simon’s expression edged from coy flirtation towards gratuitous obscenity.
I spluttered. Ben bloody well was not. Why was he pretending we were together? She already knew that film wasn’t us.
This was what Sev was warning me about in the car. All the carrying on I’d enabled. The three of them could go at it. By the time we got through this, I’d be cured of my doomed crush. Bring it on.
“Darling, don’t be.” Phoebe’s hand went to my forearm instead – what was with all the touching? – and it sat there, like a pet tarantula I didn’t dare disturb. “I’d love for us all to become such excellent friends.”
“Erm..?” I gritted my teeth, forcing myself to play along. “Great.” What would be wrong with us all being friends, anyway? Oh Jesus. As if she wasn’t angling for a foursome I had no interest in being part of.
Just above my arse, right on the waistband of my jeans, Simon’s hand pressed in more solidly, and I wished he’d do more than keep it there.
“Temp, let’s stick to business. Did Beau Monde get in touch about exclusive wedding access? We can’t drop the ball on that.”
Phoebe exhaled heavily. “Yes. And they want a feature on maternity bridal couture. Lucky me being memorialised as the veritable embodiment of fertility and procreation. The be-all and end-all of monogamy and matrimony.” She rolled her eyes.
“You make it sound terrible,” I muttered. It can’t have been all that bad.
“It is terrible, darling. Utterly excruciating. If it wasn’t for this sprog and all the inheritance nonsense we wouldn’t be doing it.”
“Oh.” I frowned. The glossy magazines weren’t covering that side.
“And now there’s all this pearl clutching nonsense about this film clip.
We’re so grateful it’s you in charge of sorting the whole mess out, Simon darling.
Richard’s been beside himself worrying you’d be for the chop.
So have I. Ever-so clever to come up with this little plan.
” She leaned against the billiard table like she planned on staying put.
“I have to say, Simon’s been keeping you terribly quiet. It’s so intriguing.”
“What can I say? Ben’s a marvel.” Simon’s face stayed amiable, but I saw the edge of irritation dulling his grin. “Getting this footage locked down is going to be a tremendous help.”
“Yes. Of course. And afterwards, the pair of you simply must let us thank you.” She smouldered at me. A little bit Katherine Hepburn. “Properly.”
“Um?” Oh god. I shot Simon a panicked look, and he visibly schooled his expression. No help at all. That innocent face was a blatant lie. “Actually, Lady—”
“Oh pish, do call me Temp. Everyone does.”
“Right. Temp, I – we’re not- I’m not—”
Casual as fuck, Simon pressed his lips against the side of my neck, above my collarbone, and licked me. The tip of his tongue rasped against my pulse point; I juddered incomprehendingly as my brain rolled over and waved its legs in the air like a labradoodle.
“Sorry Temp,” Simon purred. Utter bullshit. The bastard wasn’t sorry at all. “Lovely offer. But Ben doesn’t play in groups. This one’s all mine.”
She gave a playful eyeroll. “Oh, fine. The virtues of monogamy blah blah blah. I suppose I’d better let you get on with it. How dull.”
I nudged Simon’s arm as soon as Temp swept out of the room.
“What the hell was that about?”
Mine, he’d said, like it was nothing.
“Hm?” The zip on his suitcase buzzed as he opened it out, right on top of the playing surface.
His eyes flitted between my mouth and my eyes – ready for my words, same as always.
“I don’t particularly enjoy people thinking I’m reliant on you to have a perfectly ordinary conversation in a social setting. ”
“Right. Wait, what? I meant the other bit.”
Face blank, he titled his head in silent question, like nothing about what had happened was unusual. Because licking me was such an everyday occurrence it hadn’t registered? Damn it. The irritant of a man was going to make me spell it out.
“Last time I checked Babe was a pig in a movie.” And by spell it out, I meant not directly reference it at all. Because now was probably not a good time to shove him up against the table and try my luck.
“A book. Originally.” The pedantic arsehole stood there, nodding along, willfully ignoring my reaction to his chosen term of endearment. And all the rest. Grinning at me.
Right. Fine. Nothing to see here.
With a little tight tug at each sleeve, Simon removed his jacket. I stared as he conjured a coat hanger to put it on. Who brought their own coat hanger apart from car thieves in the 1980’s and Mary bloody Poppins?
“You know what? I don’t care about the pig.”
“Okay.” Humour quirked his lips. “And the real problem is..?”
“Are you laughing at me right now?”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Hooking a finger into the neck of my t-shirt, he stretched the fabric forwards. I rooted myself to the spot to keep from stumbling into him.
“Ben. My lover. This needs to come off.”
I swallowed. Hard. And stepped back sharply, dusting his hand away.
“Don’t you my lover me. You went a bit bloody overboard.”
“Did I?” He stepped closer, grinning, and I collided with the edge of the billiard table, trying to keep space.
“You know,” he said, entirely too earnest to be believable, “the whole point of being here is to do the fake boyfriend bit. Not just talk about it.”
“Yeah, but Temp”—oh god, I was calling her that now—“knows it was you two. We’re literally here to fake footage.”
He shrugged, staying put instead of stepping forward again. Ducking down to unlace his shoes, Simon blinked up at me from one knee. Because he was lip reading. Not because the most beautiful man I’d ever known wanted me to unzip and shove my hopeful cock in his face. Get it together, Cooper.
“If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather they didn’t think my love life is barren enough I have to force my interpreter to fake a sex tape with me.”
“Yeah. No, right. That’d be awful.” The back of my neck itched with heat. What did he want from me? “Is it the interpreter bit that’s the problem?”
Shoes neatly parked, he stood, fingers halted on the buttons of his waistcoat. “It’s the me paying you bit that’s the problem.”
Concentrate. I needed to concentrate. On anything other than him getting naked.
“It’s that if you hadn’t stepped in with this ridiculous plan, I wouldn’t have had someone else to ask to do the same. Because I don’t date. And the pair of them know it.”
A V of skin opened out as he worked down the line of his shirt buttons. He had a bit of fuzz on his chest. I wanted to lick it. Shit. No. Focus. What did he mean he didn’t have anyone to ask?
“You – uh. You must have someone you’ve been… Not-dating?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Do keep up. That would be Richard, wouldn’t it? You may have noticed I’m something of a workaholic. I don’t have any intention of wasting my free time on arcane courting rituals for the privilege of swapping bodily fluids with someone on a regular basis.”
“You what?”
His lips thinned. “I don’t see the point of burning my very limited downtime with a rotating gallery of strangers on a media-enforced playbook of empty gestures, which are somehow supposed to initiate intimacy that, in my experience, nobody wants anyway.”
I blinked at him. “Wow. You really don’t like dating.”
“No.” He held my eye. “I don’t. And even if I did, I couldn’t afford it. I spend all my disposable income on my interpreter.” Teeth flashed at me between his smiling lips, eyes twinkling charmingly. “He’s fearsomely expensive. Worth every penny of course.”
The bastard knew exactly what he was playing at. “I thought you were spending it all on your vintage suit collection.”
“Mmm. And the shoes. You wouldn’t believe the price of a pair of handmade wholecut Oxfords.” He tilted his head. “Come on, it can’t be entirely inconceivable to the rest of the world we genuinely like one another. So does it really matter if we lean into that today?”
“I guess not?”
He was right. Where was the drama if Temp and Richard thought it was as real as we were trying to tell everyone else it was?
Why should we be inconceivable? Other than Simon being the epitome of A-list glamour and me being the guy tagging along trying to be invisible.
And the bit where it sounded like he’d rather chew his own arm off than date anyone at all. Oh god, what was I doing?
Simon took The Tie out of his suitcase and looped it around his neck, even though his shirt flapped loose at his sides, unbuttoned all the way down. “Look, full disclosure…”
Oh, that was laughably delayed.
Simon studied me, lips pursed like he didn’t want to disclose anything at all.
“The thing is, I’m concerned this might trigger a grand, self-congratulating polyamorous coming-out broadcast to the world, where they announce I am their third because they think I might die alone if they don’t. And I really want to avoid that.”
“Oh.” What was I supposed to say? “Right.”
Simon fastened the knot in his tie, angling for a reflection in the glass of a picture hung on the wall.
“Being open to casual sex doesn’t make me their pet.
They struggle with the difference between treating people like people with their own agenda, and trying to impose their own.
I don’t want to be swept up in their happily ever after, and you being here gives us all a tidy, painless out. ”
“An out,” I echoed. “Okay.” Forcing myself to stop fiddling with the hem of my t-shirt, I tugged it off. No sense getting knotted up about getting changed in front of him.
“Look,” Simon continued, watching me wadding my top into a ball, “untangling from them once was hard enough. They’ve always been disgustingly in love, Richard and Temp – always tried to make everything with everyone far more than sex.
It’s exhausting, and I’d rather avoid having to do it again.
For god sake, there’s nothing wrong with just sex. ”
I choked on my own tongue. “Can you say that again?”
“Which bit?” Tugging his belt buckle free, he undid his fly.
Eyes above the waist, Cooper. Breathe. Like a human being. Keep it together.
“The nothing wrong with just”—he dropped trou. “—sex. Bit?”
Holy fuck. A lot of dedicated leg days went into getting thighs like that. My mouth flooded with saliva.
Simon’s eyes narrowed and his lips curved with the shape of his laugh. “Absolutely not.”
What was wrong with me?
His boxers had peacock feathers on them. They were probably legitimately silk, and probably felt amazing against bare skin even if they did sod all for containment – and I did not need to think about that right now.
We had to do this film together, and the second he touched me, I would annihilate myself inside my pale grey boxer-briefs. Anti-matter meeting matter. Pure physics, wasn’t it?
Good god I needed to get a grip and stop side-eyeing his crotch. Being a creep trumped having a coat hanger in your bag times ten thousand. “So… all your happy sunshine act is rubbish and you secretly hate everyone?”
He stopped faffing with the hanger. “God no. I don’t hate anyone. I adore people. People adore me.”
“But… you hate love?”
He laughed flatly and held out a shirt. It looked a lot like the one Richard had stripped off before they got all flagrante on the sofa.
“For you. Put it on.”
“Right.” Because we were here to fake that sex tape. Not discuss his propensity for holding everyone at arm’s length.
I took the shirt off him.
“Why did you stop me signing? You’d seriously rather pretend to understand them while we’re here?”
“You’re making a big deal out of a non-issue. I manage perfectly fine with my friends.”
“Yeah, but you don’t have to manage when I’m here do you?”
Simon wrinkled his nose. “Can we not do this? I’ve barely slept.
I’m sure you think it’s pure vanity for me to want to conduct my social life directly, but the last time I had a go-between for that, it didn’t go well.
I do appreciate you, Ben, deeply. Your very existence enables my entire career, but—”
“Fuck off, it does not.” What was he going on about? Did he think I wanted thickly layered gratitude for being here? “I’m a… conduit. Language in, language out – all of it’s yours. So all of it’s your choice. Even vanity. Even taking the hardest bloody route possible.”
“Okay.” Simon’s eyes narrowed with amused suspicion. “Good.”
Tilting his head, he watched me button the bloody shirt. His eyes matched the wood on the walls – warm and rich and layered with depth, darkening critically under his frown.
“At least it fits on the shoulders.” He plucked at the shirt, near the neckline. “Good job Richard had the sleeves rolled up. They’re a bit long on you otherwise.”
Taking the hint, I shoved them up, hoping to look less like a hobbit stealing Hercules’ dress shirt.
Quietly, Simon stepped in closer, taking my arm, where I’d made a crumpled mess of scrunching the sleeve up.
Drawing it down, he diligently folded the cuff back on itself, neatening the fold and rolling it over until it hit below my elbow.
I watched, hypnotised by his focus on getting the creases right.
When he let go, he caught me staring. “You do sell yourself short, you know?”
I smoothed something invisible from his dangling tie. “Makes two of us then, doesn’t it?”
How had I ever convinced myself I knew how to play this game?