He laughed because Knox and Sydney Grammar were two of the most prestigious boys’ high schools and were competitive in almost every field.
“Wonder what would have happened if we’d met on a rugby field in high school,” he mused.
“Well, first of all, you’d need to assume I ever played rugby.”
“Oh, I know you didn’t.”
“How so?”
“One, your nose is perfectly straight. And two, I’d have remembered you.”
I chuckled. “Do you really think I could have ever played a full-contact sport like rugby? I’d have been snapped in half. You’d have met me in the library or the pool, swimming laps. And that’s only if you were looking at older guys, because I’m two years older than you.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Is that right?”
“I’m twenty-eight.”
He grinned. “And you have a sister?”
Okay, so now the personal questions were flying. “Yes. Susannah. She’s twenty-five.”
“And you’re close?”
“Yep. We meet once or twice a week.”
“I wish I had a sister,” he admitted.
“You know, I’m pretty sure the only people who say that are those who never had a sister growing up.” I smirked at him. “Just kidding. I was probably more high maintenance than she ever was.”
“You? High maintenance? I can’t see that at all.”
“Your ability to pull off sarcasm needs some work.”
He laughed again, then turned his glass of water in a half-circle, his smile fading away. “A sibling would have been good. Being an only child is being the lonely child.” He met my eyes then. “That sounds really morose, sorry.”
“Don’t apologise. And hey, if you want, I can loan you my sister. Then she can spend hours on end telling you of all the mistakes you’ve made, and not me.”
That earned me a smile. “Hmm, maybe she could spill all the dirty details about you and all those mistakes you’ve made. Were any of them good enough to make twice?”
“There would be clauses regarding that. And subclauses and subsections regarding all secrets, dirty or otherwise. And no, very rarely was any mistake made twice. Though there was this one guy . . . The second time was a mistake, but the third time was definitely a choice.”
He laughed. “I hope I don’t fall into that category.”
“Oh no. No mistakes were made. Unless we count today where we found out each other’s names. If that was something you were trying to keep under wraps.”
“Nope. I was going to tell you this morning. I asked you if you wanted to know my name and you said no.”
“I was trying to give you the impression I didn’t care.”
His smile softened and his eyes were warm. “You were quite flustered when you showed us the York Street property.”
“Quite flustered? I was a shambles, and I couldn’t think straight. I really must apologise for that.”
“Oh no, don’t be sorry. I liked it.”
“You liked that I spoke like an idiot?”
He grinned. “No. I like that I made you speechless.”
I sighed, ignoring how hard I blushed. Maybe he couldn’t tell from the red lantern above us . . . But then his gaze went to my cheeks and my neck and back up to my eyes, and I knew he saw it. “Is that a rash?”
“Fuck you,” I whispered, making him burst out laughing.
“Are you ready to go?” he asked.
“No, I’d like to stay and be humiliated some more. I’m having a lot of fun.”
He chuckled and reached over to squeeze my hand. No, not squeeze. He clasped my hand, giving it a bit of a squeeze, but then he threaded his fingers with mine and kept it there. He was holding my hand . . . “I’m glad I brought you here,” he said quietly.
“I am too,” I managed to say, barely above a rough whisper. I remembered how he stood on the street and watched me walk to work this morning. God, was that today? “It’s been a pretty good day.”
His smiling eyes met mine. “It has.”
He signalled for a waiter, paid the tab, and we left. Not before I got an exquisite view of his arse and that fucking bulge in the front of those dark grey suit pants. He, of course, caught me checking him out. “See something you like?”
“I was just thinking that the suit designers and fitters at Brioni should get a pay rise and possibly a commendation of merit for their aesthetic efforts to gay men all over the world.”
He laughed again. “I’ll tell them that at my next fitting.”
He held the door for me but I stopped at the bottom of the stairs. “There’s a very good chance the body in the suit pants is the reason they fit so well,” I said. “So Brioni can’t take all the credit.”
But then, of course, I had to walk up the stairs in front of him, giving him the perfect view of my backside. “I could say the same about your arse in that suit, but you already know I like it on you.”
I waited for him in the alley. “Yes, your eyes almost fell out of your head this morning. And you wanted me to wear this now when I open the door on Friday nights.”
He grinned. “Hell yes. But then I’ll miss the robe. It really is a conundrum. Maybe you could wear the suit on Wednesdays and the robe on Fridays. Or vice versa.”
We walked toward his car. “Or,” I replied, “I can wear whatever the hell I want. It’s only going to end up on the floor anyway.”
Bryce laughed. “That’s very true. And in all honesty, I don’t care what you wear. I don’t care what anyone wears.”
“Oh, I know. I seem to remember you taking me out of my gym clothes with just as much enthusiasm. And you wear vintage band T-shirts.”
He opened the passenger door for me. “Don’t knock my band shirts.”
I smiled as I slid into my seat. “Thank you.”
He closed the door gently and walked around the front of the car to his side. When he sat behind the steering wheel, I added, “I’m not knocking your band shirts. I secretly love them. The night we first met, it was your shirt I noticed first.”
“You did?”
“For sure. In a bar full of expensive suits and egos, you walked in wearing a faded T-shirt with The Clash on it. You gave no fucks what anyone thought. Actually, my first thought when I saw you was that you didn’t fit in in that bar. But now I realise I had that very wrong.”
“Oh no. You were right. I don’t fit in with that crowd.”
I shook my head. “No, what I assumed was wrong,” I clarified. “My first thought was that you didn’t belong there, surrounded by ten-thousand-dollar suits, because you weren’t rich enough. And that’s where I was wrong. You don’t fit in with that crowd because you’re better than them.”
“You think money means—”
“No,” I reached over and took his hand. “I’m not explaining this right. It’s not the money. Not to you. But it is to them. That’s all it is to them. They think respect and self-worth are directly proportionate to their net value. But you’re not like that. You walked into that bar wearing jeans and a T-shirt with more integrity than they could dream of. Because you know your self-worth, and you know that fake bullshit is cheap.” I sighed, hoping I’d explained myself. “That was my first impression of you. Confident, classy, and sexy as fuck. In a vintage The Clash shirt.”