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Baz

Thank fuck this is the last night. It’s been nonstop--London, Milan, Paris, New York. I’ve walked Fashion Week many times before, as the central focus of the high couture line. The primary face of the season’s collection. 

One face of the collection this time, I should say. I’m the one they chose for the Pitch Moon line. 

Simon Snow is representing the Sun line. 

Which is both maddening and utterly on point. 

Snow has never been part of a high couture line. He’s been the face of print ads showcasing rugged, comfortable clothing. Ready to wear styles. Retail contracts. Catalogs and magazine ads. 

Snug jeans and cozy jumpers. Swimwear. Unbuttoned henleys and fitted shirts.

Gorgeous, mind you, but not Fashion Week material. 

Those daily wear contracts are the bread and butter of Watford’s business but it isn’t what gave us our reputation as a premier modeling agency when my mother ran things. 

She hired only the most unique and unusual talent. The best of the best. It was a mark of high achievement, of exquisite refinement, of unparalleled accomplishment, to be signed by Watford. The most highly sought after models. The talk of Fashion Week. The most riveting and haunting visages. 

Snow has none of that. 

Well, I suppose he is riveting. I’ll give him that.

But he has absolutely no experience on the runway. He’s completely bewildered by the pace and pattern of the shows. He has no appreciation for the designs themselves. 

It’s been absolute torture being saddled with him for the past month. 

It’s ludicrous that he got this job. 

But Mage has been pushing Snow relentlessly for the past few years. 

Ever since Mage took over my mother’s agency he’s been advancing his own agenda. Which seems less focused on high couture and far more on pedestrian, mass-market wearables. 

We’ve lost models. We’ve lost agents. We’ve lost contracts. 

The House of Pitch is one of the only high-end design firms that still contracts exclusively with Watford’s models. Mainly because my aunt is the head of it. And she demands that I figure prominently in Pitch shows, advertisements and magazine coverage. 

She’d drop Watford in a minute if I left. 

But I won’t leave. My mother started this company. I’ve been modeling under the Watford banner since I was an infant. I’ll not stop now, just because this bastard took it over after Mother died. 

I’ll outlast him. I’m sure of it. 

I can’t believe Fiona actually approved Snow’s hiring. But she’s got a soft spot for Ebb and for some misguided reason Ebb adores Simon. 

She goes on about his wholesome good looks, his sunny disposition, his adaptability. 

He may have all that but he’s also a chavvy nightmare with no manners to speak of and an alarming devotion to food, considering the line of work he’s in. He won't last long in this industry if he doesn’t lay off the pastries and contraband snacks. 

This is Ebb’s first real show. I think that’s why Fiona is coddling her. 

Ebb’s been working as her brother Nico’s assistant for years, but this collection is their first show as co-designers. Equal billing. Nico’s Moon designs and Ebb’s Sun ones. 

It’s quite a big thing for Pitch, to have two head designers with such complementary but individual styles. 

I’ve nothing against Ebb’s creations. 

What’s truly exasperating is how fucking good Simon Snow looks in them. 

No, what’s truly exasperating is how good Simon Snow looks all the fucking time. 

Even in his chavvy track bottoms and hoodies. 

It’s embarrassing to admit I’ve been fascinated by him since the first TopMan advertisement he appeared in. 

That tawny golden complexion. The constellations of moles and freckles dotting his skin. The chiseled magnificence of his jawline, the defined muscles of his chest, his abdomen, the perfection of his forearms. 

It would have been fine if I never had to see him in person. If I never had to interact with him. 

But once Simon Snow was chosen as the face of the Sun line I was doomed. 

We had to sit through planning meetings together, make ourselves available for Ebb and Nico’s brainstorming sessions, participate in photo shoots, interviews. 

I couldn’t go anywhere, do anything, without being accosted by the sight of Snow. 

This month has been the worst of it. 

It may be Fashion Week but for us it’s been a solid month of insanity. Starting with London and ending here in New York.

Endless days of travel, of last minute fittings, rehearsals, hot lights, no food, clothing mishaps, hours of makeup, hair styling, the endless repetition of instructions, and interminable meet and greets. 

Mage shouting, Fiona having a series of profanity laced melt-downs, Ebb’s recurrent panic attacks, and Nico fucking off to God knows where at the worst bloody times. 

And through it all Snow, sticking to me like a shadow. Looking to me for guidance on how to maneuver through his first runway season. Asking for advice. Annoying me with his inane sense of humor. 

Distracting me with his glorious good looks, charming personality and devastating smile. 

And absolutely annihilating me with his enforced proximity in our shared dressing rooms. 

It’s all been a tremendous struggle but sharing a dressing room with Snow--having to watch him stripping down between turns on the runway, having him so close I can catch the aroma of the shampoo he uses, so near that I can feel the heat of his body, breathe in the hint of his tangy, sweaty scent--it’s beyond anything I’ve ever had to endure for the sake of my job. 

It’s been maddening. That’s putting it mildly. 

There’s no point to any of this. I may be besotted with him but I’m fairly certain Snow is straight. 

Not that I know all that much about him. For someone as outwardly gregarious as Snow I’ve learned precious little this last month. 

I know he’s from Wales. I’ve had a few vague hints that his life before Mage found him was a bit tumultuous. That modeling is his chance for something better.

His mobile lockscreen is a photo of him with his arms wrapped around two girls about his age--a stately blonde and a shorter brunette. Agatha and Penny. 

He texts with them during our rare downtimes. 

The two of them came to find him after the London show. I was outside, waiting for Fiona to finish whatever shit meeting she was in so we could go home and I could get one last night of sleep in my own bed, before we all fucked off to Milan. 

I heard Snow laugh and turned my head. He was at the end of the block, in jeans for a change. Still wearing one of his ubiquitous hoodies. 

Snow’s lack of fashion sense is astounding, particularly for someone in the business. It’s one thing to cultivate a look, a unique style of your own. 

I’ve done that. Made floral patterns my signature look. Long before Harry Styles.

Oversized hoodies and designer trackie bottoms aren’t a statement I’d personally care to espouse but if done properly it could work. But Snow’s not cultivating a look, unless he’s going for slovenly uni drop-out. 

I’d watched him out of the corner of my eye that day, pretending to be absorbed with my mobile. 

He’d looked happy. 

He was beaming at the two girls and it was obvious they were pleased to see him too. The shorter one--Penny, I think--was hanging on his arm, talking a mile a minute. The other one--Agatha, I assume--was smiling up at him fondly. He had his arm around her shoulder and there was a comfortable appearance to it. Like she belonged there. 

It was painfully clear to me that she was Snow’s girlfriend. 

Hopeless, this crush of mine on Snow. I’d stop caring if I could. 

I’ve tried. 

Tried to focus on the negatives. How Snow chews with his mouth open. How he always runs late. His unhealthy habit of slathering butter on everything. The ease with which he falls asleep on planes. The way he snores (mouth breather). His annoying habit of stealing my contraband crisps. His poor concept of personal space.

But then he flashes me one of his brilliant smiles and I’m lost. 

There couldn’t be a more perfect model for the Sun collection, much as I hate to admit it. No more ideal embodiment than Snow. Tawny skin, gleaming gold highlights in his bronze hair, sun-kissed cheeks. Eyes as blue as the morning sky. A smile so bright it chases the shadows away from even my melancholy soul. 

He’s beautiful. 

And completely unattainable. 

But tonight is the last night. Once we finish our final walk down the runway, Snow and I are done. 

I won’t have to deal with his presence every day. 

We still have the Vogue photoshoot when we get back to London, but that’s just one day.

I can handle one day. 

I can handle the next few hours. 

I’m backstage waiting for our final walk, for the whole team of us to go on together, Ebb and Nico joining us on the stage. 

The applause is deafening. Snow’s taking his final solo walk and I’m drinking in the sight of him. He’s finally gotten the hang of this. Found the rhythm and pace of the runway. The confident walk, the meaningful pauses, the seductive way to make the turn. He’s all broad shoulders, narrow waist, tumbled curls.

Breathtaking. 

The next bit is a blur, the whole company making the celebratory runway walk. The music is blaring, the lights are flashing, Ebb is in tears again, but there’s a shy smile on her face as she takes in the culmination of her first successful season. 

Snow and I walk side by side this time, leading the rest down the runway and back. 

It’s over before we know it and we’ll be back to our dressing room soon enough, assistants whisking away the couture collection pieces as we strip them off our bodies. Then it’ll be the process of wiping away the layers of makeup, shaking out the stiffness of our sprayed hair, finding our own clothes again, and gearing up for the inevitable after-party.

I’d rather go back to the hotel. 

Unlike most of my counterparts, I've never been much for the party scene.  Perhaps it’s because I grew up in the industry. Perhaps it’s that drinking holds no appeal for me. Perhaps the random hook-ups that are the hallmark of these events aren’t my style.

Maybe it’s simply because I’m not overly fond of the company of others. I’d rather head back to the solitude and silence of my hotel room, order room service, and indulge in a few hours with a good book. 

That would be the ideal night. 

But Mage demands that his models make their appearance at these after-events. The House of Pitch is hosting tonight’s celebration so Fiona will surely expect me to at least make a showing. Let the press get some photos.

I’ll put an hour in and that’s it. I don’t have it in me to watch the girls fawn over Snow tonight. I don’t have it in me to see the way the men in this industry look at him, the predatory gazes that follow him around the room. 

I’ll make my rounds, I’ll shake some hands, I’ll avoid having my arse grabbed too frequently, and then I’ll fuck right off to the hotel. 

Sounds like a solid plan. 

I get to the dressing room first. I sit down and start the process of becoming myself again. 

Snow bursts into the room, all radiant good looks and smudged makeup. He slams the door behind him and grins at me, arms thrown wide. “We did it, Baz!”

My lips quirk up. I can’t help smiling back, particularly when he’s energized like this. He’s glowing. Literally. The gold powder they’ve dusted on him glitters and he looks as if he’s made of light. 

Incandescent.

I’ve wiped some of the silver powder off my face but I’ve not managed to get it all. I catch a glimpse of us both in the mirror. The lighting here renders me in a paler cast than Snow, luminescent and gleaming still, but muted in comparison to the brilliance of him. 

You are the sun, Simon Snow , I think to myself. And I’m crashing into you.

I have to look away. 

He’s in high spirits, irrepressible and effusive. I remember that rush, the intoxicating exhilaration of my first successful Fashion Week. 

I had been giddy. I couldn’t stop smiling, seated between my mother and Fiona at the after-party, basking in the success of my debut. Seeing the pride in my mother’s face, the joy she had felt watching her only son carry on the Watford tradition, wearing the signature designs of the House of Pitch. The dreams she and Fiona had pursued since they were young realized in all their glory. And now the heir to the Pitch fashion empire had finally taken his place at their sides. 

It was a heady moment. I can still see my father’s smile as he took our photograph. The three people he loved most in the world united in the personal triumph of that night.

That photo still sits on his desk. 

It was my mother’s last Fashion Week. The accident happened just a few months later.

Three years ago. 

I shake my head. No good will come of dwelling on that. I have an event to slog through yet tonight and letting myself get morose won’t do me any favors. 

I turn back to the mirror, meticulously wiping the last vestiges of silver from my face, neck and arms, focused on the task at hand, Snow’s chatter distant static in my head. 

I’m dressed before Snow is, my tailored suit fitted and crisp, the red roses brilliant against the midnight blue silk. It’s a good look, with the pink shirt. Last season’s line but one of my favorites. 

Snow is still in his pants, the nightmare, standing before the mirror scrubbing at his face with Boots generic makeup wipes. I roll my eyes. I don’t know how he manages to keep his skin in good condition, using pedestrian products like that. 

The rest of the skin he has on display is flawless, however. He’s lean, muscular, fit. Snow is certainly easy on the eyes. 

It’s probably what makes me snap at him. “You’ll ruin your skin with those, Snow.”

He turns around, a perplexed expression on his face. It would be comical if this were the first time we’d had this conversation but it’s not. I don’t know how he does it--eats the way he does, assaults his skin with the generic pharmacy brand soaps he favors, eschews any routine facial regimen--and still manages to look flawless. 

I hate it.

“Let me use some of your posh brand then.” 

This is new. He usually just scoffs and keeps right on doing what he wants. 

I rummage through my bag and pull out my supplies, crossing the room to hand them to him. It’s unnerving being fully dressed while Snow is practically naked. 

It’s not so bad when we’re both in some state of undress. I mean, it’s absolutely distracting, but at least it’s both of us. Right now the sight of Snow clad only in his pants, reflected in the mirrors that surround us--without the diverting hustle and bustle of stylists and assistants and makeup staff--is distinctly troublesome.

I’ve been in dressing rooms my whole life. In various states of undress. With men, women, nearly naked some of the time. Most of the time. It’s never affected me. It’s part of the job. I can shrug it off. 

I can’t shrug the sight of Snow off. My feelings for him make it impossible to take a dispassionate view. I can feel my face heating up. 

I turn away, making of show of packing my belongings, checking the outlet for my mobile charger, anything I can do to keep my eyes off Snow. 

He’s finally scrubbed clean and dressed. 

I like everything about Snow in this suit. It’s grey, a pearly, shimmery grey, from the current line. Nico’s line. The Moon line. 

I’ve worn a version of this suit on the runway but this particular one is from the ready-to-wear ensemble. It fits Snow perfectly, hugging the lines of his body, setting off his considerable assets. 

The color suits him. It suits him far better than it suits me, if I’m going to be honest. The Moon line is a triumph, the palette of colors mesmerising and rich. I make a striking figure in it, with my dark hair, grey eyes, rich complexion. 

But Snow is simply glorious in this suit. You’d think it would wash out the tawny hue of his skin but it sets it off instead. 

“You ready to go, Snow?”

He’s tossing his belongings into a backpack, stuffing his track pants and t-shirt in as I watch. “Yeah.” At least he doesn’t mar the perfection of his suit by slinging his bag over his shoulder. 

I make my way to the door and turn the handle. 

Nothing happens. I jiggle it and try again. It doesn’t budge. “What the hell?”

“What’s the matter?” Snow’s crowding next to me, bumping into my shoulder with his broad build. 

I use more force to sweep the handle down and lean my weight into the door. It stays resolutely shut. 

I turn to glare at Snow. “What the fuck did you do?”

His eyes widen. “Me? I didn’t do anything.” He moves forward, shouldering me out of the way and grabs the handle, rapidly pumping it up and down. It moves a little, creaking ominously, but the door doesn’t open.

“It’s locked.”

He really is a moron. “Brilliant deduction, Snow. How did you ever come to that erudite conclusion on your own?”

He frowns, “Shut up, Baz.”

“I think the hell not. You’re the one who fucked up the door.”

“I did no such thing.”

“You did. You charged in here, banged the door open, then slammed it shut. How you managed to get us locked in here I don’t know, but here we are.”

Snow rattles the handle vigorously. I smack his hand away from it. “Will you stop, you brainless git? It’s bad enough you’ve jammed it. Don’t break the bloody thing.”

His lips are set in a thin line and his brows are lowered. He drops his backpack and turns back to the countertops behind us, rummaging around in the detritus of hair products and accessories. 

“Ha!” He pulls up a bent bobby pin and advances on the door.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Snow tilts his head at me, an endearingly earnest expression on his face. “Picking the lock?”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Serious as a heart attack. I’ll have us out in an instant.”

I gape at the sight. Snow drops to his knees and bends the bobby pin even further before gingerly sliding it in the keyhole. He’s got his ear pressed against the door, eyes closed, clearly not sparing a thought for the neatly pressed creases in his trousers that are wrinkling before my eyes. 

He wiggles the bobby pin up and down, back and forth, testing the door handle intermittently. 

It’s no good. He keeps at it for a good five minutes and then slumps against the door with a muttered “What the fuck?”

“This isn’t Ocean’s Eleven, Snow. Stop playing around.”

“I’m not playing around.”

“What? You expect me to believe you actually thought you could pick a lock with a hair accessory.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” he mutters, before going at it again with even more gusto and a stubborn jut to his chin. 

Bloody hell. “Come off it, Snow. You can’t expect me to believe that.”

He tilts his head up to glare at me and I can’t say that the sight of Snow, on his knees in front of me, isn’t bloody mesmerizing. 

“You don’t know anything about me, Baz. Trust me, I’ve gotten out of worse jams than this.”

“Be that as it may, you’re not doing much as far as improving the situation at the moment. Don’t bugger up the door.” I pull my mobile out of my pocket. “I’ll just call Fiona and have her send someone to get us out.”

My call to Fiona doesn’t go through. Neither do my calls to Nico and Ebb. I finally call Dev in desperation. He’s worthless under most circumstances but he is Fiona’s assistant, God knows why. He should be able to find a way to extricate us from this disaster of Snow’s making. 

Again nothing. He’s probably buggered off somewhere with Niall, the useless berk. Fiona will have his hide when she hears about this. 

I try Fiona again. Nothing.

Snow’s still messing around with the lock, his face flushed now and a bead of sweat on his brow. I follow the path of it, completely absorbed in the way it gleams on his forehead and slowly, ever so slowly, traces a tantalizing path down his cheek. 

I want to lick it off and then slide my lips along his jawline. 

I”m disturbed. Ask anyone. 

I can feel my face heat up. I drop my eyes to my mobile and tap out a furiously worded text to Fiona. 

And one to Dev. 

I stare at my screen, waiting for the bubbles of an incoming reply, but it remains blank. 

Fuck it all. Fiona’s probably stashed her mobile in her purse and is no doubt already on her second round of drinks. She always lets loose at the end of a successful run like this. Dev is either wrangling with the caterer or engaging in a thorough exploration of Niall’s tonsils. I shudder at the thought. 

I turn my gaze back to Snow. I may as well enjoy the view. There’s little else to enjoy about the way this evening is shaping up. 

He keeps at his diligent attempts to pick the lock for a few more minutes but it’s not long before he slumps in defeat. 

“Bloody hell.” Snow rakes a hand through his hair and I imagine it’s my hand brushing through his locks, tangling in his curls, rasping against the soft bristles of his undercut.

He looks up at me once more and it’s even more difficult to keep my composure at his appearance--still on his knees, cheeks flushed, bottom lip caught between his teeth, hair mussed and tumbled, and a faint sheen of sweat clinging to his skin. He’s absolutely pornographic like this.

“I think we’re stuck, Baz.”

“How observant of you, Snow.”

“Fuck off. I’m trying to help at least, not standing around spouting snide commentary and failing to be of any earthly use.”

“Why, Snow, I’m touched you’ve noticed. Failing to be of any earthly use is my prime directive.”

“Sod off, Baz.”

“Redundant, Snow. You just told me to fuck off a moment ago. Try to be a little more creative.”

“You really are a bastard, you know that?”

I cross my arms and lean against the wall, one eyebrow up. “Not your best comeback.”

He stands up, rolling his shoulders, which is a move that should clearly be illegal based on how sensuous he makes it look. 

“So what do we do now? Call someone?”

I roll my eyes and wave my mobile in his direction. “Already a step ahead of you, Danny Ocean.”

“Someone on the way, then?”

“Unfortunately, no. They’re all likely at the after party already. Calls didn’t go through and no one’s answering my texts.”

“So, we’re stuck here? For the night?”

“It appears so. You’ve managed to fuck my evening up quite completely, Snow.” 

He leans against the wall and slides down until he’s sitting on the floor. “Bloody hell.”

I frown at him then punch another furious text to Fiona, Dev, Niall as well this time. No response from any of them. 

I even text Marcus, on the off chance he’s still driving the limo, ferrying partygoers to the event. 

He doesn’t reply. Typical.

What a way to bollocks up my night. Fiona’s going to be livid when I don’t show up at the party. I’d have expected her to have lit up my phone with angry texts, but she’s probably too caught up celebrating with Nico by now and hasn’t noticed my absence. 

So much for my plans to make the rounds quickly and fuck off to the hotel. My stomach rumbles and I remember it’s been over twelve hours since I’ve eaten anything. 

I stalk back and forth across the length of the dressing room, Snow watching my every move.

“I’m sorry, Baz.” He sounds contrite. “I didn’t mean to bollocks up the door.”

I glare at him. “You never mean to do any of the stupid things you do, Snow, yet somehow you manage to bollocks up my life just the same.”

I don’t even have the will to shout at Snow about how he’s wrinkling his suit. I try to avoid looking at him as I continue to pace. 

“You’re going to wear a path in the rug if you keep that up, Baz.” Snow pipes up again a few moments later.

“Did I ask for your commentary, Snow?”

“It’s not like I did it on purpose, you tosser.”

“That’s immaterial at this point. You’ve fucked up my evening. I had plans for tonight and being stuck in a stifling dressing room with you was not part of them.” 

“I know we’re missing the party and all . . .”

“Fuck the party.” I swear if Fiona ever answers my texts and somehow manages to get us out of this blasted room, I am going directly to the hotel. For a hot shower, a grand fucking cheeseburger, and a slab of cheesecake too. With cherries on top, my diet be fucking damned. 

I step back to the door and give the handle one more wrenching twist. It makes a grinding noise but remains firmly fixed in place.

I pound the flat of my hand against the doorframe once and then turn to rest my back against the wall, sliding my way to the floor so that I’m mirroring Snow, one of us on either side of the door. 

I rest my crossed arms on my bent knees and drop my head. Nothing to do but wait. 

I can hear Snow rustling. I ignore him. 

The rustling resumes and suddenly I catch the scent of him--his cheap shampoo, the tang of his sweat, that sweet and smoky scent that’s all his own. 

My head whips up to find Snow has sidled up next to me, back against the door. I glare at him. “What do you want?”

“Think we should try to call someone again, maybe? I texted Ebb but you know she’s never got her phone on her.” He pauses, clenching a mass of his curls in one fist. “Maybe we should call emergency services?” 

“You can’t be serious. Call the police to come rescue us from a locked dressing room? That seems a bit much. This is New York. They have real emergencies to attend to.”

Snow’s fingers clench and unclench. “They’d be able to knock the door down, maybe?”

I shake my head. “You watch too much television.”

“But at least we’d be able to get out. You could get on with your plans for the night.”

“They’ll eventually notice we’re missing and call.” I’m honestly a bit vexed at them. You would think someone would have noticed our absence. The photogs must be harassing Fiona by now. 

Which means she should be harassing me. 

I pull my mobile out of my pocket to make sure I haven’t missed an expletive laden message from my aunt. 

Bloody hell. 

There’s red on my message icon. And “ Not Delivered” on every one of my text messages. Fuck.

No service. How the fuck is there no service in here? 

“Check your mobile, Snow. Do you have service?”

His eyes widen and he pulls his mobile out to look. He taps at his screen and then shakes his head at me. “No, there’s nothing. My text to Ebb didn’t go through.” His forehead creases. “What do we do now?”

I thump my head against the wall. “Fuck it all. I think we’re stuck here for the duration.”

“All night? But we’ve got a flight tomorrow, Baz.” The crease in his forehead deepens.  

I want to reach over and smooth that crease away with my fingertips. Sweep the curls back off his forehead. 

Get it the fuck together, Pitch. 

“It won’t get to that. Fiona’s probably been trying to call so she can shout at me. Won’t be long before she thinks to send a search party and they’ll get us out.” I close my eyes. “In the meantime, we wait. Nothing else to do.” 

I feel like an absolute tit. I should have realized when the calls weren’t going through. I should have noticed I didn’t have service. 

It’s impossible to notice anything but Snow, when he’s so close to me. 

I make a vow to myself to pay more attention next time. To focus on my surroundings rather than the intoxicating sight of him. 

Not that there will be a next time. It’s highly unlikely that Snow and I will ever headline a show together again, let alone an entire line. 

All we have left is the photo shoot. That’s it. Then Snow will go back to his catalogs and print ads and I’ll jet away to the next high fashion venue. Tokyo. San Paolo. Los Angeles. Who knows where. 

Snow’s blinking at me now, the realization that I’m a blithering idiot likely racing to the forefront of his brain. 

“I really fucked this up, didn’t I?” is what he says instead.

I can’t find it in myself to snap at him. Yes, he’s a splendid moron, but it seems I am too. It isn’t like he planned this. He wasn’t trying to annoy the ever living fuck out of me. 

He isn’t annoying the ever living fuck out of me. He’s the embodiment of everything I want and can’t have. He’s the first thing I think of in the morning and the image of his face is the last thing I see before I go to sleep. 

Blue eyes. 

Bronze curls. 

The fact that Simon Snow is the most breathtaking man alive. That nothing can ever change that for me.

That I’m hopelessly in love with him. 

And have been for months. 

Snow’s hand comes to rest on my forearm and the heat of it reaches my skin, through the layers of my suit and shirt. “I’m really sorry, Baz. I didn’t realize you had a date.”

My head snaps up and I turn to glare at him. What in the blazes is he talking about?

“A what?”

Snow flushes. “A date,” the glorious muppet repeats. 

“What makes you think I have a date?”

He shifts, eyes dropping and his hand going up to rub at his neck. “You didn’t seem too keen on going to the party and you kept saying I’d bollocksed up your plans for the night.” He swallows and it’s a whole scene. 

I watch the bob of his Adam’s apple and the play of the muscles in his neck. 

“And that made you think I had a date?”

He nods. 

I lean my head back against the wall again and huff out a laugh. “No, Snow, I don’t have a date.” I raise an eyebrow at him. “Unless you were referring to my rendezvous with my bed.”

He frowns at me, looking so befuddled that I laugh again. I suppose I have to spell it out for him. With small words. 

“The only plans I had were for a cheeseburger from room service and the only company I’m looking forward to is the book I’m currently reading. Both of those preferably indulged in from the comfort of my bed.” 

His mouth is open and he’s staring at me. 

“You must be joking.”

“Alas, I do not jest, Snow. My needs are simple, my desires mundane.” A complete lie, of course. There’s nothing simple or mundane about Snow. 

“You’re not meeting someone tonight then?”

I sigh. “No, Snow, I’m not meeting anyone.” I don’t know why I keep speaking. I don’t know why I add the next part. “I’m not seeing anyone.” I take a breath and plunge recklessly ahead. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

Snow’s eyes widen. His mouth is still open and there’s a blush of pink on his cheeks, all the way to the tips of his ears. It’s enchanting. My gaze flits down to his lips and I force myself to drag my eyes back up. 

“Surely . . . surely . . .”

“Surely what, Snow? Spit it out.”

“Surely there’s someone, Baz. A bloke like you, smart, fit . . .”

I’m the one gaping now. Did Snow just call me fit ? I mean, yes, I’m a model. I’m basically the definition of fit. It’s practically the first line in my job description, for Christ’s sake. 

It’s one thing to be generically fit, to the agents, designers, consumers. 

It’s another to be fit in the eyes of Simon Snow. 

He keeps blustering. “I mean, I’ve seen you flirt with Gareth and I know Rhys is always hovering around you. I . . . I just assumed that there was someone. I mean . . . you don’t talk about it but you’re a bit of a private person. I . . . I just assumed there was someone that had your interest.” He rubs the back of his neck again, eyes cast down. I’m holding my breath. “I just . . . you leave the events early. You’re on your mobile all the time.” He swallows again. “I just wondered about it.”

Snow’s been wondering about me ?

My heart is pounding in my chest but I try to keep my expression bland and my voice cool. I decide to address the least unsettling thing he’s said. “Everyone flirts with Gareth and Rhys, Snow. It’s inconsequential. They’ve been together for years.”

“They’ve what?”

I roll my eyes. “Even you can’t be that thick, Snow? Isn’t it obvious?”

He sputters and mutters out a “No,” and then frowns at me again. “But they’re all over you, Baz. Every time. Draped over your shoulders, giving you backrubs, playing with your hair.”

“Rhys and I have known each other since we were infants. It’s practically incestuous to think of him that way.” I almost take pity on Snow, he’s flushed and disconcerted and so very thick. “We’re friends, Snow. It’s normal for us to be physically affectionate in that way. It doesn’t mean anything more.”

“But . . but . . .”  He’s like a tea kettle about to boil over. I should put him out of his misery but it’s quite entertaining to see him this way. 

It’s fucking adorable. 

“Have you watched them together?”

Snow’s brows come together and he mumbles something. It sounds very much like “only when they’re with you, ” but that can’t be right. 

“Watch them next time. You won’t get a chance tonight, but watch them the next time you see them. They may not be overt with their touches . . .” I pause and close my eyes, thinking on the effortless way Gareth and Rhys connect so intensely but subtly.

I envy them that. The easy rapport they have. The way they can be on opposite sides of a room, a crowded dance club, separated by a mass of people, but their focus is so distinctly on each other. Linked by an invisible thread, their eyes indulging in private conversations, their body language sending messages only they can decipher. 

It’s beautiful. 

It’s . . . well, it’s pointless to hope I’ll find something like that. Theirs is a once in a lifetime connection. 

“So you mean . . . you mean, you don’t. . . you haven’t . . .”

I can’t believe Snow is still fixated on this. “Yes, Snow. That’s what I mean. I don’t have a secret boyfriend sequestered away in the East Village. Or in Canary Wharf. I’m single and likely to stay that way.” Why the everloving fuck did I blurt that last bit out?

I’m a disaster. Endlessly shaming myself. A constant disappointment.

His head tilts. “Why do you say that? You’re fit as hell, Baz. Any bloke . . .”

He’s going to be the death of me with his assertions of my fitness, I swear to God.

I shake my head. “I’d not be so sure.”

He narrows his eyes at me, scooting closer. As if he isn’t already far too near. I can feel the heat of him, radiating through the silk of his suit, catch the tangy scent rising from his skin. 

“There’s someone. I can tell.”

I’m exasperated now. We’ve near beat this horse to death. “I told you, Snow—” but the numpty interrupts me. 

Snow’s shaking a finger at me, just under my nose. “You may not be with someone, Baz, but you’re interested in someone, I can tell.” I tilt my head away from him and smack his hand aside.

“You know nothing, Simon Snow.”

“Very funny, Baz, very funny.” He’s staring right at me, his impossibly blue eyes just inches away. “Who is it?”

“As if I would tell you.” Fucking hell, I am a complete and utter berk. I’ve basically gone and admitted there is someone. Blast Snow. I lose all my composure around him. 

“Aha!” He shouts and pokes his finger into my chest. I bat it away and try to glare at him, but I’m too afraid to make direct eye contact so I just give him a sneer. 

“There is someone, you jammy bastard, I knew it! Come on, tell me.” He’s close enough that his shoulder jostles me. 

Why is he so close? 

I lean forward and wrap my arms around my bent knees, curling away from Snow. He knocks his knee against my leg. “Come on, Baz, spill.”

“Shut up, you presumptuous nightmare.” 

“Aw, I thought we were friends. Surely you can tell me.”

Friends. Are we friends, I wonder? I take in the grin on his face, the freckle on his cheek I’ve wanted to kiss for months, the extraordinary blue of his eyes.

I suppose that’s all I’ll ever get. Friends.

It’s more than I expected. It’ll do. It’ll have to do.

I’m so soft for him, which is probably why I make my admission. 

“There is someone. But it’s hopeless, really.”

His face clouds, concern taking over his features. “Why would you say that, Baz?” His voice is lower, gentler. 

I can’t look at him. I rest my chin on my forearms and stare down at the carpet. “It just wouldn’t work out.”

His fingertips touch my shoulder lightly, butterfly wings against the fabric. “It’s work, isn’t it? The travel?”

I close my eyes. This is excruciating. I need to shut it down. I’d snarl at him under any other circumstances, but knowing I’m stuck in here with him until heaven knows when curbs my tongue. 

No. Just being this close to him is enough to make me go soft.

“Listen, Snow. It’s not work.” I drop my forehead onto my arms and exhale. “He doesn’t know.”

I hear the intake of his breath and then he’s thumping me on the shoulder. “Why haven’t you told him, you berk?”

I keep my head down. I cannot believe I am having this conversation with Snow. It’s agonizing. 

“I can’t tell him.”

“Why the hell not?”

Because I think he’s straight. Because I’m fairly certain he has a girlfriend. Because he’s you.

I can’t say any of those things. 

So I tell the only truth I can manage. “Because I know he’s not interested.”

“How can you be sure?”

I groan. “Ugh, Snow. Can you stop? It’s bad enough I have unrequited feelings for someone. Going through every grisly detail of my pathetic pining with you isn’t making it any easier.” I’ve said too much, again, but perhaps I’m now pitiful enough for Snow to drop the subject. 

He drops his arm across my shoulders instead, clumsily pulling me to him. I go rigid. What fresh hell is this?

His fingertips lightly run across the fabric of my suit, a soothing, repetitive motion. 

Christ, the muppet is trying to comfort me. Will the humiliations never cease?

He’s talking. Murmuring words close to my ear. I can feel his breath against my skin. 

It makes me shiver. It makes me lean into him, just a little. 

“I’m sorry, Baz. That’s bloody awful.” His arm is warm as it rests against me. His knees are bent up now too and his left leg is pressed against mine, thigh to thigh, knee to knee. “I’d say I can’t imagine how that feels.” There’s an intake of breath again and then he huffs it out. “But I’d be lying.” 

Oh, please, for Christ’s sake, no. I don’t think I can take it. I simply cannot sit through Snow regaling me with his own tales of yearning. Truly, I’d rather go up in flames. 

I don’t speak. I don’t move. I suppose it would discourage him from saying anything more if I pulled away, but I’m so weak for him. I’ll take any crumb of affection I can get, even if it’s only shared with me out of pity. 

Blast it, he’s still talking. His lips are near my ear, his breath stirs my hair and it’s so fucking tender I may literally die. 

“I know how it is, Baz. It’s hard, yeah. It’s bloody painful. Being so close and yet so far. Fucking yearning for someone who’s just a touch away. It’s been months for me. Months. I tried not to think about it, tried to convince myself it was pointless, useless. That he’d never be interested in someone like me.”

My heart stutters in my chest. I must have heard him wrong. Snow couldn’t possibly have said he . 

“It’s hard, though. Hard to see him and know there’s no chance.”

Snow definitely said him.  

My heart decides to take a short trip up to visit my tonsils before reversing course to crash into my stomach. Are these palpitations? Is this what they feel like? Like my heart has just joined the bloody Cirque de Soleil?

I lean into Snow just a bit more. His fingers grip my shoulder, holding me to him. 

I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m chewing my lip, head still resting on my forearms. The picture of abject misery, I’m sure. 

I don’t dare look up. 

“It’ll be alright, Baz. We’ll manage. You and me. We’ll find someone new, yeah? Laugh about this in a few months.” His hand starts moving again, running over my shoulder, stroking down my arm. 

I don’t want him to stop. I never want him to stop. 

Something brushes my hair and if I didn’t know better I’d swear it was Snow’s lips. 

It feels like Snow. The heat of his breath. The feather light touch of his lips brushing against my hair. 

Fuck, I’ve had fantasies about this. 

That’s it. I’m hallucinating. Snow’s proximity has short circuited my neurons and my brain is on fire. 

I’ve got to put a stop to this, whatever this is--Snow’s misguided attempt to comfort me--my pathetic yearning allowing me to cling to this moment for far longer than is appropriate. 

I lift my head and shift the slightest bit away from Snow, hoping he takes the hint, hoping he breaks off the contact, fuck knows I’m too craven to do it myself. 

He draws his arm back slowly, the drag of it searing me as it drops off my shoulder. And then, because I am an actual disaster, an utter dumpster fire of a human being, I open my mouth and say the first thing that’s popped into my head. 

“I always assumed you were straight.”

Bloody hell, I would sink through the floor if I could, light myself on fire, die a thousand painful deaths. 

But instead, I’m sitting here next to Simon Snow, the boy I’ve loved for half a year, the boy who’s just admitted he has feelings for a bloke (a bloke who doesn’t happen to be me, to my eternal regret ) and I’m making inane, judgemental comments about his sexuality. 

“Oh Christ, I’m sorry. What an utterly stupid thing to say. I just . . . I just assumed, I suppose, with Agatha . . .” The devil take me, I just bollocksed this up even more. I shouldn’t be allowed around people, really I shouldn’t. 

Snow flushes, which is painfully attractive, but not enough to distract me from my utter mortification. “Bloody hell, Snow, I’m sorry, I’m being a complete idiot here.”

He’s actually smiling, the nightmare, lips quirked up in an unmistakable smirk. 

Fuck, he’s gorgeous. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this flustered, Baz.” He grins, eyes crinkling in the corners when he does and I am transfixed at the sight. “I like it.” 

I am on fire. Cheeks burning, heat searing through my chest. 

“Agatha’s my friend. We dated for a bit, a while back, but it wasn’t a good idea. We’re much better as friends, yeah.” He’s rubbing the back of his neck. Even in my dazed state I realize it’s something he does when he’s nervous. “Yeah, so. Yeah.” His eyes dart away then back at me, then dart away again. “The bloke thing . . . uh . . . that’s . . . a more recent development. Don’t quite know what it makes me, but I’m pretty confident I’m not straight.”

“It was out of line for me to say anything, Snow. My apologies. I shouldn’t have allowed myself to make assumptions.”

He swallows and glances my way again. “‘S’alright, Baz. I don’t mind you knowing.” His voice drops. “Probably better that way.”

I’m not so sure. It’s one thing to pine over Snow when he’s completely unattainable due to his overwhelming straightness. 

It’s another to pine over him, knowing he’s attracted to men, but that he’ll never be attracted to me. 

I think I preferred him unattainable. It was far less depressing. 

“An unexpected commonality we’ve got, Snow, an affinity for blokes.” I’m trying for a light tone, a desperate attempt at cheer. 

“Just one bloke. For me.”

That makes it even worse. Some lucky bastard has been the genus of Snow’s queer awakening and the tosser doesn’t even know what he’s missing by being so bloody oblivious. 

“I’m sorry, Snow.”

He waves a hand at me. “Not your fau--.” He pauses, as though he’s searching for the correct word. “Not to worry. I’ll be alright.” He leans towards me. “You?”

What about me? I’m shaken to the core, that’s for certain. I’ve been pining in desperation, convinced Snow would never have an interest in me, that he was unattainable. 

He still is, of course, but the tantalizing fact remains that there might have been a possibility, if only I had taken the chance, been brave enough to say something. 

But even that’s not true, is it? He’s been pining over someone else for as long as I’ve been besotted with him. 

But still . . . it does shine quite a different light on things. 

I nod at him. “I’ll be fine, Snow. I’ll be fine.”

We both lean back, shoulder to shoulder, heads resting against the door behind us. It’s more companionable than it was just a few moments ago. 

“What’s he like?” 

He can’t be doing this. We’ve bared our souls, politely traded commiserations, and now the proper thing is to pretend none of this ever happened. 

He can’t possibly expect me to do this. 

“Who?” I decide to play dumb. 

He bumps my shoulder. “You know who. The bloke you fancy.”

“We are not doing this.”

“Oh, come on.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Why not? What’s the harm? I’m trying to figure out your type. I’ve got some ideas.”

I shift away and glare at him. “You can’t possibly expect me to have this conversation. You’ve got no business ferreting out my type, Snow.”

He crosses his arms and tilts his head towards me, a calculating expression on his face. “Alright then, if that’s how you want to play. I’ll tell you what I think.”

“I don’t want to know what you think!”

“You can tell me if I’m right.

“I bloody well will not.”

“I’d tell you, if you wanted to guess for me.” 

“Which I do not. What part of ‘no’ is confusing you, Snow?”

“Come on, Baz. What else are we going to do? Each other’s makeup and hair?”

“That sounds a sight more appealing.”

Snow snorts. “Alright then, I’ll start.” He takes his chin in his hand and looks thoughtful, finger tapping on his lip. “Hmm.”

“Don’t.”

He waves a hand at me, knocking into my arm as he does.  “Hush. If I’m right you owe me . . . you owe me . . . you can buy me a coffee tomorrow.” 

“I think not.”

Snow looks affronted. “But that’s the bet.” 

“There is no bet. I’m not playing.”

He huffs. “You are such a stick in the mud, Baz.”

I sit up straight. “I am no such thing.”

He knocks my shoulder. “You are.”

How did he get so close again?

“Alright then, here goes. If I’m right, you owe me a coffee. If I’m wrong, it's your turn to guess, same stakes.” 

I cross my arms and curl my lip. He can say whatever he wants. I’m not playing along.

“So, let me see.” He taps his lip again. Snow’s lips are full. Lush and rose colored. He has a tiny mole just below his bottom lip. I want to kiss it. 

Snow keeps talking. “So I’ll have to say tall, dark and handsome, like you. You’d probably like the similarities, so you can share clothes. I’m thinking brown eyes--they’re so expressive--and hair that’s shorter than yours, undercut maybe, to contrast with your mane. Posh. Smart. Literary type. Speaks half a dozen languages. Oxbridge educated.”

He couldn’t be more wrong and against my better judgement I tell him just that. “That’s rubbish, Snow. Not my type at all.” 

It isn’t. My type is staring at me from just a few inches away. 

“So what’s your type then, Baz? Fair’s fair.”

“Dream on. You’re wrong, that’s all I’ll say. There were no stipulations beyond determining if you were right or wrong. I’ve decisively negated your theories. Our airport coffee is on you.”

“Not so fast, my wannabe barrister. I said you had to guess too. What my type is. Fair’s fair.” Snow’s grinning again.

“I agreed to no such thing.”

“Yes, you did. Assent by participation. I laid it all out. Come on now, what’s your guess.”

I frown and decide to needle him a bit. “Your typical Geordie. Square jaw. Rugby type. Musclebound. None of those lanky, weedy scholars. Hair cut close.” I can’t help but grin back at him now. “Chavvy track bottom aesthetic. Ratty t shirts that are just a bit too snug, to show off his bulk.” 

Snow kicks my foot. “You are such a twat.” He’s laughing as he says it, eyes bright.

“But am I wrong? Probably not.”

He kicks me again. “You didn’t even get one thing right, you arrogant prick.”

“You must be joking. Not even the rugby bit?”

He shakes his head. “No. I played at school. Don’t fancy that type at all.”

“I should get partial credit.”

“For what? You missed the mark across the board.” 

“You’re a rugby type. I should get a point for that.”

“Piss off. That’s cheating.”

We bicker back and forth. Snow is adamant that I’m buying our morning coffee.

“I don’t see how you come to that conclusion. We both missed the mark, Snow. If anything we’re square.” 

“Then we need a tie-breaker, obviously.”

“We most certainly do not.” 

Snow slides to the floor, on his back with his arms behind his head, for all the world like he’s settling down to take a nap. He’s precariously close to my thigh. 

“Alright. Here’s the deal. We’ll play twenty questions. Whoever gets the most guesses right wins. Loser buys coffee.”

“Snow, this is going to take all night.”

He tries to raise one eyebrow but all he manages to do is wiggle both brows at me. It’s captivating. “You have somewhere else to be?”

“Don’t I wish,” I mutter and then instantly regret it as I see Snow’s face fall. 

I wish I could take it back. I wish I could tell him the truth. That there is nowhere I would rather be right now than here with him.

I make it up to him by agreeing to his terrible idea. 

The first few questions don’t give too much useful information, but I’m in possession of the knowledge that Snow is partial to tall, dark haired blokes. Preferably in skinny jeans. 

I’ve revealed that I have an appreciation for more muscular physiques. And that I prefer having a height advantage. It’s acutely embarrassing.

We keep going. Snow shifts around until he’s perpendicular to my legs and then he shifts a bit more, until he’s resting his head on my upper thigh. Our eyes meet. “This alright, Baz? The floor’s not got much padding.”

“And are you saying I do, Snow?” It comes out more amused than sarcastic. 

“I’d say you’re just right, Baz.” His blue eyes stare up into mine. Wedgewood blue? Burnley blue? I never know how to describe Snow’s eyes. There’s an intensity to them right now, his gaze serious and focused. “Just right.”

I look away. I can’t maintain that kind of eye contact with him and not have him see into my very soul. 

I clear my throat. “Do you prefer brown eyes?” I’m confident in this question, based on his assertion that they were expressive earlier, when he was guessing for me. 

He shakes his head. “No. My turn.” He’s still looking at me. I can tell. “Brown hair?”

I have to think about this one. Snow’s hair is listed as brown on his info sheet but that word doesn’t do it justice. It’s a warm, light brown, yes, but swirled with gold and caramel. Bronze highlights and hints of honey. 

It’s inches from my fingers now. 

I watch my hand lift from where it’s been resting on the floor and come to lightly touch his curls. “What color is this?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. 

“Brown.” 

“Hmm. You sure?” I let my fingers sink into the mass of his hair. “This looks more golden to me.” 

Snow chews his lip, eyes never leaving mine. I should look away but I can’t. “You haven’t said if I’m right, Baz.”

“What was your question again?”

“Do you prefer brown hair?”

I twine one of his curls around my finger. “Definitely.”

He gives me a slow smile, eyes closing as my fingers continue to slowly weave through his tangled locks. “Good to know.”

It’s my turn to ask a question. “Do you prefer booksmart or streetsmart types?”

Snow opens one eye. “That’s not quite following the rules.” 

“Answer the question.”

He closes his eye again and tilts his head back into my hand. “Booksmart.”

Interesting. 

It’s Snow’s turn to ask. “Football or rugby?”

“As a type, you mean?”

“No, which sport do you prefer.”

“Oh, football.” That’s an easy answer for me. “You?” 

“I told you I played rugby at school.” He’s looking up at me again. “Is that really your question?”

It’s easier to ask that one than the other dozen that are clamoring for answers in my brain. I roll my eyes. “Yes, that’s my question.” 

“To play--rugby.” He rolls onto his side, cheek pillowed on my thigh. “To watch--football.” He smirks then, the glorious nightmare, and adds “And I’ve got a healthy appreciation for footballer thighs.” His eyebrow raise is perfectly indecent this time.

I swallow, then clear my throat again. “A bit more information than I expected. But good to know.”

We keep going. 

A few more rounds go by. I’ve lost track of how many questions I’ve asked. I don’t care. I’ll gladly do this all night.

It’s Snow turn to ask. “Orlando Bloom as Will Turner or Legolas?”

Another easy answer for me. “Definitely Legolas.”

“Hmm. I prefer the Will Turner look.” Snow’s eyes are half-closed as he volunteers this bit of information. 

It’s my turn to ask again. It’s getting harder to think of questions, with Snow like this, the weight of his head on my leg, the tantalizing constellations of freckles on his skin within easy reach. 

He’s mesmerizing.

I go for a simple one.  “Favorite movie?”

“Say Anything .”

“You are a sap, Snow.”

“ ”Kickboxing. Sport of the future’. I mean, how can you not love Lloyd Dobler?”

“‘I gave her my heart and she gave me a pen.’ One of the most brutal brushoffs in any romcom.”

“So, what about you, Baz? What’s your favorite movie?”

“ A Room with a View. ”

“You are such a cliche. Art, music, the hills of Tuscany, Victorian self-restraint.”

“Shut up, you nightmare. The soundtrack is divine.” I tug on one of his curls. “And it’s a celebration of Edwardian culture, you ignoramus.”

“Julian Sands and Rupert Graves aren’t half bad.” He smirks. “But Daniel Day-Lewis is painfully awkward in that one. He was much better in The Last of the Mohicans . All wind blown hair and yearning.” 

“No argument there.” What to ask next? “Favorite film series?”

It’s a painfully dull question.

I expect he’ll say Star Wars or The Matrix . Some action type films.

“I don’t know if they’re my favorites but the Hobbit trilogy wasn’t half bad.”

“Snow, you can’t be serious. They took a short, widely revered children’s book and turned it into a bloated, overlong, farce of an action-adventure film.”

He narrows his eyes at me. “It has Aidan Turner and Orlando Bloom. What’s not to like?”

He has a point but I’m not going to concede that. 

This game has been properly illuminating and vastly unsettling. 

What I know of Snow’s preferences so far is that he prefers tall, athletic, dark-haired men, who can speak French, who are booksmart, have a wry sense of humor, and look good in skinny jeans. 

I can’t let myself dwell on it. I can’t let myself think about what that might mean.

What he knows about me is far too revealing. But I can’t lie, not with him so tantalizingly close. Brown hair. Blue eyes. Muscular build. Good sense of humor. Shorter than me. Infectious laugh. 

And a tender heart.

It’s basically an image of Snow himself. 

“So.” Snow says. “One question left for each of us.”

“Your turn.” 

“You go first this time.”

It’s my last chance to ask something. My last chance to pull information from Snow. To confirm a desperate hope that’s been growing in my chest as we’ve been trading questions and answers back and forth. 

“Model, yes or no?”

He’s still curled up on his side, his head resting on my leg, my fingers still gently sliding through his hair. “Meaning would I date a model or do I fancy one?”

“Either. Both.” 

“Hmm.” He reaches out and touches his fingertip to my hand, the one that’s still resting on the floor between us. Snow traces a pattern on the back of it, gliding from knuckle to knuckle. It feels electric. “Yes.”

I close my eyes. Alright, then.

My tongue feels thick, my mouth dry. My voice comes out low and raspy when I speak. “Your turn?”

He keeps tracing over my skin.

When he finally speaks it’s just one word. “Me?”

I freeze, my fingers stilling in his hair. The only movement is Snow’s hand, no longer tracing patterns over my skin but sliding over mine, his fingers slipping between my own. 

I lick my lips, swallow, try to work some moisture back in my mouth. Try to form words to answer. His fingers tighten on mine. 

I can do this. 

I think I know what he’s asking.

Our eyes meet. There’s a question there, a hesitation. His face is flushed, his lip pulled between his teeth. 

I brush the curls off his forehead, let my fingers trace the line of his jaw. His eyes close at the touch. 

“Always you.” It’s barely above a whisper but I know he hears me, as his eyes open to stare up into mine. 

“You’re sure?” HIs voice is a whisper.

“I have been. For a long time.”

He lets his breath out in a shaky exhalation and then he’s surging up onto his knees, his hands cupping my face, lips crashing into mine. 

I rest my hands on his chest, feel the warmth of his skin through the fabric. He’s too far, still too far. 

As if he can read my mind, he moves closer.

Snow straddles my hips, still on his knees so he’s taller than me, making me reach up to find his lips. I slide my hands under his jacket, press them just above the small of his back, against the silky fabric of his shirt, and pull him to me. 

He’s so warm. 

He’s good at this. So good. 

He does this thing with his chin that has me melting into him. I’m mortified at the sounds I’m making and desperate to never have him stop doing what he’s doing to make me respond this way.

Snow pulls back, face flushed, breaths coming short and fast. He runs his fingers down my face, a gentle touch, as if I might break if he pushed any harder.

I won’t break. 

I reach up and slide my hands into his hair, the short bristles of his undercut rasping against my skin, until I’m burying my fingers into the mass of his curls. I pull him to me, bring his mouth to mine and then I’m lost, lost in the sensation of Simon Snow.

The weight of his legs on mine, the hint of cinnamon and smoke on his skin, the glide of his lips, his tongue, the way he’s cradling my face as if I’m something precious. 

The next time we pause for breath Snow rests his forehead against mine. Our breaths mingle as he settles himself on my lap. 

“I’m glad you fucked up the door.” The confession slips out of me. 

“I wish we’d figured this out sooner. We missed the chance for romantic strolls in Paris and sneaking into each other’s rooms in Milan.” Snow reaches out his hand and touches my stomach, rubbing it, fingers slipping between the buttons of my shirt to spark against my skin. 

My eyes close. I want him to kiss me again. I want him to keep touching me.

He does. 

His lips find mine once more and every touch is electric, lighting up my nerves, speeding up my heart, taking the breath from my lungs. 

I don’t register the knock until it’s too late.

Until the door is crashing open behind us and Snow and I are tumbling back in an awkward heap, his quick reflexes the only thing that keeps me from cracking my head on the concrete floor. I can feel his hand cradling the back of my head. 

Fiona, Dev and what looks to be a security guard stare down at us.

“Bloody hell, Baz.” Fiona nudges me with her pointed shoe. “You’ve had months to snog Snow. You couldn’t wait a few more hours to get your shag in?”

Dev looks around the room and smirks at me. “Mirrors. I like that. You two shag on the counter yet?”

Snow is scrambling off my lap, as I try to muster up whatever shreds of dignity I have left. 

The security guard makes himself scarce, leaving Dev and Fiona--with matching raised eyebrows--watching Snow and I clumsily get to our feet. 

I adjust my cuffs and lift my chin, giving my aunt and cousin as steely a gaze as I can muster under the circumstances. I feel Snow at my side, our shoulders brushing as he comes to stand next to me. 

He slips his hand into mine and squeezes once. 

I squeeze back, fingers tightening my grip on him, then I shrug my shoulders to settle my suit and sweep my hair back with my free hand. 

“Took you long enough,” is all I say. 

Fiona launches into one of her expletive-laden tirades. I tune her out. It’s a skill I’ve honed since childhood. I’m at expert level now. She’ll get it out of her system quicker if I just let her rant. 

Dev leans against the doorframe, a self-satisfied smirk on his face. He mouths “You owe me fifty quid,” so I hiss “ Fuck off,” back at him. He pulls his wallet out and taps at it meaningfully. 

I never agreed to the bet. That was all Dev and Niall, taking the odds on if I’d ever have the balls to confess my feelings to Snow. 

I don’t owe the wanker a penny. It’s was a mutual confession so it doesn’t count. Dev can fuck right off. 

Actually he and Fiona can both fuck right off. 

There’s only one thing I want to do right now and that’s go directly to my hotel room and snog Snow senseless.

I dart a look at him. He’s gaping at Fiona. She’s in rare form. Nico must have plied her with more than a few drinks before she noticed we were missing. She’s showing no sign of slowing down. 

I put up a hand. “I get the gist, Fiona. Not our fault. Thanks for the poorly timed rescue. Now, if you’ll excuse us, Snow and I must be on our way.” 

I snatch up my satchel and motion to Snow to pick up his backpack.

I walk away from Fiona, who mutters “You’re made of trouble, Basil.” I move past Dev, as I drag Snow along in my wake.

I can hear Fiona shouting as we make our way down the corridor— “Don’t you get any stains on those suits, they’re worth more than the two of you combined, you horny bastards. I will drown you in the Thames, Basil, mark my words, you besotted twat.”

Snow’s stumbling as he tries to keep up. I pull my mobile out once we’re clear of the building. I’ve got service, finally. 

I call up an Uber. Snow and I wait, hand in hand. 

“Hey, Baz.”

“Yes, Snow?”

“I could really go for a cheeseburger.”