From the round-eyed expression on his face and the way he not-so-casually dropped his hands to shield his groin… he was, too.
He wrapped up the podcast a few minutes later. It was weirdly relaxing to sit on the sofa with a beer, in shorts, scarf, and socks, watching him chatting into the mic and pimping the revolting shorts to his followers. Personally, I couldn’t wait to get out of them: the fabric was as stiff as cellophane, and an awkward cut meant the back kept catching in my arse crack while, in the front, my balls felt like they were strangling in a kid’s beach net.
“Thank you,” he said again.
I nodded. “Everything went okay?”
“Very well. I think they liked my new model.” He smirked. “But I’ll have to follow up this stock issue with my sponsor. Errors like this have been happening a lot lately.”
I’d finished the beer: guessed it was time for me to go. I bent to pick up my jeans. I was warm enough where the scarf reached, but my knees were starting to lock from the chill. When I straightened, I caught him staring at me. “You ogling my arse?”
He flushed. “The shorts. I’m checking out the merchandise.”
I snorted at the obvious lie, and his mouth twisted as if he wanted to smile, too. “You know they’re shit, don’t you?” I said. Never been known for subtlety, me. “I wouldn’t buy them. They fit badly and it feels more like plastic sheeting than cloth. But I’m glad I could help you out. Guess I don’t mind exposing myself to a couple of hundred kids online.”
“Twenty thousand. I’m aiming to be a top influencer. And I have a very loyal follower base.”
What the f—? Had twenty thousand people been staring at my private parts?
He laughed. And then… hey, why not? I laughed with him. He’d shown me a new experience, and I was known for liking that.
“You should have modelled this,” I said, letting go of the scarf with reluctance, and not just because it would have protected me when I went back out into the cold. “It’s fabulous.”
When I looked back at him, there was a weird expression on his face.
“The seasons are six months’ out, remember?” he said tightly. “No one’s buying winter wear at the moment.”
“Bollocks,” I said heartily. “But, hey, what do I know? You’re the influencer, right?”
He nodded distractedly. I huffed my way into my coat and trudged back to the door. When I glanced back, he was standing there watching me leave.
His diamond stud caught the spotlight, glittering against his skin.
Two
On The Second Day Of Christmas
I had another box for Mr A Partridge the next day. Rather shamefully, I cleared all my other deliveries first, so I could take my time with it: so I could see Mr A again. I realised I was really looking forward to it. The snow was still falling, but the roads had been gritted overnight so I could put on some speed, and the radio in my van played that same bloody pop song all the way there—though I thought the twelve days of Christmas were meant to run from after Christmas, not before?—until it conked out again. When I parked behind the charity shop, two scrappy, grey birds sat on the bottom rung of the fire escape, blinking carefully at me: at least, until I stomped my way up the stairs, scattering them to the sky.
When Mr A opened the door and took the box, I just followed him in. Assumed he’d tell me to get lost if he thought it was creepy, or he didn’t want me there. But he didn’t.
“So, what’s the A for?” I asked. “In your name. You’re not a partridge, so it must be something human...”
“Alec,” he said. “Sorry. I should have introduced myself before.”
“Seeing as we’ve already exposed ourselves to each other,” I said with a laugh. Then wished I could bite my bloody tongue out for being gross.
“What is it this time?” I rushed on. “Still the summer fashion theme?” I peered in with him, as he opened the box. Our heads were very close together, and for a wild moment, I imagined I could smell strawberries. Jesus. In December? The cold must have affected my brain.
It was a stock of sunglasses. Bright colours, big lenses, wide frames, and they were all covered in little jewels like confetti. As he picked out a couple of pairs, the neon light caught them, and the sparkle nearly blinded me. Talk about overkill. “You’re surely not going to wear them,” I scoffed. “They’re for teenage girls, aren’t they?”
Alec’s expression was mischievous. He nibbled at his plump lower lip in a way that made me want to grab him and offer my lips instead. “Dear me, Gray. How un-metrosexual you are. They’re for whoever wants to wear them.” He glanced at my face but in an assessing way, rather than a look-how-hot-Gray-is-and-I-want-to-ravish-him way.
I laughed nervously, because I had a feeling I knew where this was going. “Which, duh. Isn’t us. Right?”
No immediate answer from Alec. When I glared at him, his cheeks turned pink.
“Will you join me on the podcast again, Gray? It’ll look so much better with two models. We can create all sorts of fun shots. I’ve got some cocktail glasses, a beach ball. It’ll be like taking selfies from beside the pool in Ibiza.”
What the fuck? This was a cold, bleak office unit off Clapham High Street at the end of December. You couldn’t get further away from a Spanish beach. Not that I’d ever had a foreign holiday, but I imagined it as somewhere with the sun hot and canary yellow above us, lying on a sunbed in next to no clothes, Alec’s smooth skin glistening with suncream, sipping his margarita and blushing so, so prettily when I ran my fingers along his thigh…
I cleared my throat and we broke our mutual stare. He was flushed: looked strangely confused.
And so… there I found myself, again. Lined up under the spotlight, in those stupid sunglasses, peering into a suddenly dimmer room, and shivering without my shirt.
“Pretend you’re at the beach.” Alec glanced worriedly at his watch. “We go live in four minutes. Please, Gray?”
He’d tacked up a holiday poster as background behind the light, and he wanted me to take my jeans off. Not for any sexy reason, either, though I’d tried waggling my eyebrows a bit to clue him in. He said a glimpse of denim would destroy the illusion.
“It’s no warmer than yesterday,” I grumbled. “It’s still drizzling with rain outside.”
He sighed and rolled those pretty, sparkling eyes. “Put these on, then.”
He gave me another pair of shorts, then half-turned his back while I quickly shimmied out of my jeans, grumbling all the time, though I still did what he asked. But these shorts weren’t the scratchy, twisted, uncomfortable ones from yesterday. These were soft and cosy. They fitted like a second skin: like I wasn’t wearing anything at all. The fabric was warm and thick, but not restricting, and sent shivers of sensual delight across the crotch when I moved. And, I had to admit, such a cute design! Around the hem was a border of vehicles, hand-sewn, trundling along: trains, planes, bikes. They were grown-up versions, like sportscars and racing bikes, but the fun factor made me feel like a kid again. Like I was on an adventure.