Trust (London Love #5)

“Shit,” he said.

“No shit,” the one brain cell I had left replied. At least his dad hadn’t opened the door. “Reubs, it’s okay.”

“It’s really not.”

“Yes it is. We just had a little kiss. The world’s not going to come to an end because of that, is it?” I was whispering, but he still shushed me with a finger over his mouth.

He stared at me silently, still other than the smooth skin over his ribcage that rose and fell with each breath. Then he closed his eyes and swallowed.

“I’m not sure about any of this,” he said. “I’m really not.”

“That’s okay.” Finally figuring out how to use my limbs, I sat up and took his hand.

Not enough.

I tugged at him. All that bare skin and stupid Y-fronts and that chin that fit so perfectly against my shoulder.

“It’s okay. It’s just who we are.” I had no words, no wildly romantic future song lyrics to offer him.

I was an idiot. And I’d started all this. And to be honest? I didn’t regret it.

“Reubs,” I whispered.

He said nothing back.

Boundaries

REUBEN

Work. It had been one of those days where I questioned my sanity. Other people had nice jobs selling loaves of bread in bakeries, sausage rolls in Greggs, nice simple transactions where money changed hands with baked goods or such, no drama.

Instead, two of the girls in banqueting had got into some kind of catfight in the Queen Anne room over some bloke they’d both been shagging, even dragging each other by the hair at one point. And yes, the police had been called because the people attending the tech conference upstairs had not been amused. Then we’d caught some lowlife coming up from the loading dock, carrying cans of tomato paste, and next thing we had a bunch of irate taxi drivers having a loud slanging match outside. Apparently, some newbies were trying to elbow in on our regular drivers’ patch.

At one point, my dad had come inside clutching a handbag. It was still sat under our desk, and I’d been too busy to actually figure out where it had come from.

“Madness,” Dad sighed later on, driving us home. “I know we’re supposed to be glorified baggage handlers, but seriously, son. What the hell was today? I feel like I’ve been everything from a psychiatrist to a bouncer to some kind of political negotiator. And Mr Nick-It-All is booked in tomorrow. I seriously can’t deal.”

“He’s all right, Mr Nicholson,” I said. “He’s got real anxiety issues. I talk to him, you know. He only does stupid shit when his anxieties get on top of him. He was trying some new meds last time I saw him, but they weren’t agreeing with him. Made him feel too spaced out.”

“And that’s why people adore you.” My dad smiled. “You’re a good person. You talk to people. Remember that letter we got from Mrs Arndale? Thanking you for saving her life?”

“I didn’t save her life,” I muttered. Honestly, woman. Overdramatic much?

“You are. You’re a good kid. Deserving of good things.”

I didn’t feel like a good kid. I felt weird and wired, and that was without propping myself up with chemical stuff.

I hoped he wouldn’t be there. I hoped that his driver or security or whoever had picked him up and taken him away because there was only so much a person like me could take. I wasn’t some superstar. I was just a bloke with…with…

More than anything, I understood Mr Nicholson. Not that I went and pilfered everything in sight. I wasn’t riddled with anxiety and kleptomania. Neither was I geared up for hooking up with random pop stars.

He’d kissed me. Even thinking about that made me break out in a sweat.

He wanted things I wasn’t sure I could even contemplate giving him. Seriously, man. This whole thing was fucked up. So bloody fucked up.

Firstly, I was NOT into blokes and never had been. The thought hadn’t even crossed my mind. I liked the ladies. Sometimes watched a bit of porn, okay? My phone had a whole file with my favourite clips. Perky girls with lovely boobs and nice, round arses.

I did not have a single clip saved where there was any kind of man-on-man action. So that proved that. Didn’t it?