Nico eyed him. “Bad day?”
“Not especially. Long, but they all seem that way at this time of year.”
“Because it gets dark early,” Nico said. “And it’s dark when you leave the house, or mansion, wherever it is you live.”
“I don’t live in a mansion.” Though Jonah supposed a penthouse apartment in Chelsea wasn’t much different. Nico lived in Hammersmith so he could be close to his ailing parents. He’d never told Jonah this, but Jonah had overheard enough pub gossip to know it. “What are you doing for Christmas?”
“The usual.” Nico sank the rest of his beer. “Fighting with my sister while trying to stop my ma burning the place down because she’s forgotten how the oven works. You?”
“The same, as in, the usual. I stay with my parents for a week or so, then I come back to the city for the New Year.”
“Sounds like fun,” Nico said, but Jonah could tell he wasn’t all that interested.
And Jonah wasn’t that interested either. Most years, by now, the anticipation of the festive season had usually got under his skin. The lights, the food, the crowds on Oxford Street as he battled through them to do his last-minute gift shopping, but it hadn’t played out that way this year. Too busy to shop in person, he’d made most of his purchases online, and aside from the glitzy fir tree—the yolka—in his apartment, everything else had passed him by. And he couldn’t even blame Sacha.
Why would you want to? Is it his fault you’re obsessed with him?
No. It really wasn’t.
“He’s staring at you again,” Carl said from across the table.
Jonah’s booze-addled gaze sharpened enough to focus on him. “Who is?”
“The hungry Russian.”
“Stop it,” Jonah snapped. “He has a name, and I’m willing to bet this entire table of drinks that he’s not staring at me.”
Carl snorted. “Well, I guess there’s no way of finding out unless you’re willing to turn around and look for yourself. And if you’re not, I can only assume it’s because you know there’s a distinct possibility I’m right and you don’t want to get caught returning the favour.”
“You’re an arsehole.”
“Never said I wasn’t.”
Carl went back to flirting with Winona across the table, sliding back into his conversation as if his exchange with Jonah hadn’t happened, much less that his boss had called him an arsehole, and Jonah remembered why there was a tiny part of him that had always hated Carl. Or, perhaps, admired his ability to take things at surface value and move on, not like Jonah who was so stuck in his Sacha-themed brood that he could hardly think straight.
He turned back to Nico, who was shaking his head. “What?”
“Nothing, boss.”
“Really? Because you look like you have something to say.”
If Nico was affected by the uncharacteristic edge lacing Jonah’s tone, it didn’t show. He shrugged and claimed another drink from the fast depleting tray. “Nope. Not me.”
Jonah let out a sigh that seemed to come from the end of the world. Apologies danced on his lips, but he didn’t voice them. Didn’t need to. Nico wasn’t listening anyway.
More drinks came Jonah’s way. He drank them until he’d reached the limit on how inebriated he was prepared to be in front of his team, then he excused himself for some air.
He took his phone with him and stepped out of the fire exit. The night was still damp, and a bitter wind had struck up. Jonah enjoyed the chill, letting it sober him up. At some point, he’d have to call a car and go home, but he didn’t feel like being alone just yet. His empty bed held little appeal, especially now he’d experienced the magic of having Sacha in it for an entire weekend.
But you are alone. You’re hiding outside by yourself and you don’t even smoke.
The irony made Jonah laugh out loud, startling an older gentleman who was having his own moment of peace with his pipe. Jonah raised his hands in apology and stepped back inside, hit immediately with a wall of noise that made his head spin all over again.
He ducked into the nearest bathroom. It was empty. Jonah leaned on the sink and studied his reflection in the mirror. He really needed that haircut, and beyond that, he was kind of a mess. The whisky had reddened his eyes, and there were shadows beneath them that rivalled Sacha’s. Could he blame it on work?
Probably not.
As the thought completed, the bathroom door opened—Jonah had forgotten to lock it. He took a breath to tell whoever it was to wait a little longer, but the words died on his lips as the intruder made himself known. “It’s you,” Jonah said, astounding himself, as ever, with his powers of observation.
Sacha shut the door. Locked it, and leaned back against it. “It is.”
“What do you want?”
“From this room, or from you?”
“Either. Both. Actually, I don’t care.” Jonah washed his hands and dried them on a paper towel. He fired the rubbish into a nearby bin and moved to the door, but Sacha was still there, slouching against it as if it was perfectly normal for them to be holed up in a grotty pub bathroom.
Not that the bathroom was all that grotty. The establishment was upmarket enough that the space was spotlessly clean and smelt of essential oils rather than bleach.
Regardless, Jonah had no desire to linger under the weight of Sacha’s wordless stare. “Excuse me.”
“Why?”
“Why do you think?” Jonah jerked his head at the door. “I want to leave.”
Sacha didn’t move.
And after a week of trying, and failing, not to stare at him without abandon, Jonah was abruptly lost in him—his stubbled jaw and strong shoulders. His hot, liquid gaze. “Move,” he whispered.
Sacha shook his head. “I don’t think you want me to.”
“I do.”
“You don’t.”
“What do I want then?”
“I don’t know.”
Jonah glowered.
Sacha’s gaze remained steady and Jonah found himself struck by an overwhelming urge to shake him.
He kissed him instead, crashing their lips together, all the while steeling himself for Sacha to push him away.
Sacha didn’t. He snatched a breath and kissed Jonah back, his arms coming around Jonah in a tight embrace that slammed their bodies together.
Jonah was instantly hard, his dick straining against his fitted suit trousers, but he fought Sacha’s hold on him and reared back, tearing their lips apart as suddenly as they’d come together. “No. We’re not doing this anymore.”
“Since when?”
“Since you decided we weren’t.”
“When did I ever say that?”
Breathing hard, Jonah shook his head wildly. “You said we weren’t friends. I took that to mean you didn’t want to be.”
“I never said I didn’t want this.”
“This? What is this?”
“It is what it is.”
“Fuck off. That doesn’t mean anything. What are you actually trying to say? That you don’t want to be my friend, but you still want the benefits?”
Sacha frowned, gaze darting as he caught and processed Jonah’s rushed speech. “I am…tired,” he said. “And you speak too fast. Are you asking me I still want to sleep with you?”