The Best Man: Part One (3 page)

He feels like an idiot when he picks up the aftershave and smells it, but he does it anyway. He doesn’t recognise the label, but it smells expensive.

Patrick’s still reading the paper when Noah goes into the kitchen and starts the coffee pot. He looks at the back of Patrick, at the perfectly styled hair and the sharp cut of his grey suit. It irritates him.

“What have you got a suit on for?”

His sudden words don’t startle Patrick like Noah had kind of hoped. He merely turns a page and murmurs, “I like to look good.” As if that isn’t the most arrogant statement he can make.

“And you have to wear a suit for that?” He realises how it sounds:
You don’t need a suit to look good
. He only hopes Patrick doesn’t pick up on it.

Patrick sits up straight, closes the paper and turns on his stool to face Noah.

Noah, breath held for whatever Patrick’s going to say, finds himself focusing on the perfect cut of his designer stubble.

“You got a problem with me, Noah?”

Noah flicks his gaze back up to Patrick’s eyes. His deep, intense eyes. “No,” he mutters, scowling. “I don’t even know you.”

Patrick tilts his head, considering him. “Give a fella a chance before you judge him.”

Only Noah’s not judging him. He’s judging himself, and his inability to pay attention to anything other than how attractive this man is whenever he looks at him. It’s ridiculous.

Patrick lifts a hand to smooth down his stubble, his jacket sleeve riding an inch or so up his forearm, his watch glinting in the morning sunlight streaming into the kitchen.

“That’s a nice watch,” Noah says grudgingly.

Patrick looks at it, runs his fingers over its face. “It was my dad’s,” he says, his voice low and soft. “About the only decent thing he gave me.”

Noah can read between the lines, can tell there’s some bad blood there, and he feels compelled to tell Patrick that he can relate.

“I never even knew my dad.”

Patrick stares at him. There’s curiosity in his eyes, but he doesn’t voice it. “Probably better off for it.”

He can think of nothing to say to that, so he turns his back and busies himself with making coffee, then hitches himself up onto the stool next to Patrick at the breakfast bar. Patrick’s reading the back page of the newspaper now, although Noah has the suspicion that he’s only doing it as a means to look occupied.

“So what do you do?”

“I’m in business.”

“What kind of business?” Noah pushes.

“This and that.”

Noah frowns at the side of his face. “If you want me to give you a chance, don’t be so shady.”

“Don’t ask so many questions,” says Patrick, pushing the paper aside and fixing Noah with a levelled stare.

“You’re not very good with people, are you?”

Patrick smiles, his eyes glinting with mirth. “Likewise.”

The front door opens before Noah can come up with a suitable response, and Connor comes in, sweaty and flushed from his run.

“Morning,” he says, brushing past them both and heading for the coffee pot. “Any coffee going?”

Patrick’s still looking at Noah, still with that glint in his eye, and Noah doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do with this much attention.

He gets up and says, “I’m off to work,” reaches for his keys in the fruit bowl.

“What do you do?” asks Patrick.

Noah’s got a smile of his own now. “This and that.”

The look on Patrick’s face says
touché
.

“I bought Noah a coffee house.” Connor takes Noah’s stool, sits beside Patrick with a cup of coffee in his hands. “He’s always liked that kind of manual work.”

“Yeah?” says Patrick, his voice slowing to a sultry drawl. “Good with your hands?”

“Get your own fella to flirt with,” Connor mutters mildly, nudging him with his elbow and stealing the newspaper from beside him.

“I’ve gotta go,” Noah says, because he feels weird, and he feels wrongfooted, and Patrick’s still looking at him like he’s the most fascinating, amusing thing in the world. “I’ll see you later.”

“All right, babe,” says Connor, giving Noah a wink, “but I’ve got a meeting in the city so I’ll be back late.”

Noah chances another glance at Patrick. “What about you?”

“Places to go,” says Patrick, because the guy doesn’t know how to be anything other than evasive. “People to see.”

Irritation is building in Noah’s veins again. “Right,” he says, tone snappish. “Fine.”

Then he leaves, wondering if it’s too much to hope that Patrick won’t be there when he gets back.

* * * * *

Christmas is heavy in the air. The morning’s bright, the air’s crisp and clean, and the street before him is starting to turn red and green and silver with Christmas decorations. He’s always liked Christmas, but he could do without the cold, and he stomps into the coffee house with his arms around himself, trying to rub warmth back into his torso.

“Freezing out there,” he says to Ron, who’s in the process of restocking coffee packets on the display shelf.

He nods. “I reckon we’ve got snow on the way.” The final packet goes up, and he turns it just so, ensuring the label lines up with all the rest in the row. Stickler for detail, is Ron. “How was your weekend?”

“Don’t even get me started,” Noah grumbles, making Ron raise his eyebrows at him. Noah heads behind the counter to hang up his jacket and put on his apron, struggling to tie it with his frosty fingers. “Connor’s best man flew in from America.”

That piques Ron’s interest. “An American?” He’s always been weirdly fascinated with American culture.

“No, Irish. He moved to the States a few months ago.”

“Oh,” says Ron, hopeful eyes dimming. He picks up the empty delivery case, carries it past Noah and into the kitchen. “What’s the problem anyway?”

“There isn’t one.” Ron gives him a stare that says he’s not buying it and Noah huffs. “He’s just really annoying, right. Arrogant.”

“Really?” Ron frowns. “That’s not cool,” he says, because he’s prone to these mild statements that speak the obvious but don’t say much of anything. “Maybe just try to stay out of his way.”

“Bit hard, that,” Noah says sardonically. “Seeing as he’s staying with us.”

“Then…I don’t know. Just ignore him.”

“You don’t know him,” Noah grumbles. Ignoring Patrick Walsh seems like the most impossible goal in the world right now.

“Neither do you,” Ron points out reasonably, the bastard.

“Let’s just…” Noah searches around for a change of subject, because Ron’s right, and he doesn’t know how to respond to it. “We’re doing the decorations today, right? Let’s just get on with that.”

Ron looks as though he’s trying not to smile at Noah’s misfortune. “Fine. Can you go to corner shop to see if they’ve got any of that snow spray left?”

He’s only just bloody got here, but he goes anyway, takes his apron off again and puts his coat on, heads across the way to the shop.

Of course Patrick’s in there, peering at the loaves of bread as though making a vital decision. He notices Noah’s arrival and he glances up, surprise flashing into his eyes.

“Following me?” Noah asks him, and he knows he sounds like a petulant teenager.

Patrick considers him for a long moment. “That was supposed to be my line.”

Noah’s defensive, because the last thing he wants is for Patrick to think he’d seen him come in here and decided to join him. “Just came in here for some snow.”

“I don’t think they sell weather here, Noah,” says Patrick, and even though Noah knows he’s taking the piss, his tone is carefully neutral, leaving Noah unable to rise to the tease.

“Snow spray,” he clarifies, spotting a bottle of it on a shelf nearby and grabbing it. He holds it up for Patrick’s inspection, but he doesn’t look at it. “We’re putting up the Christmas decorations in the shop today.”

“That your shop there, is it?” Patrick asks, nodding out the window towards the coffee house.

“Yeah.”

Patrick smiles. “Cute.”

“Shut up,” Noah grumbles. He hates how difficult Patrick is to read when he’s being perfectly neutral, his tone and his eyes giving nothing away.

“I was being genuine.” Patrick gives him a look that might be sincere. “Looks like a nice little place.”

“Oh. Thanks.”

Noah tries to walk away from him, goes to the counter to pay for the snow spray. Patrick’s behind him the whole time, waiting in line, then purchasing bread and jam and a small bottle of deodorant. Noah, without really knowing why, finds himself waiting outside the shop after for Patrick to come out, feels it would be impolite to just disappear without saying anything. This man is, after all, his houseguest.

Patrick comes out a minute later with his purchases balanced in one arm. His eyes are drawn to the dark abandonment of The Grand as he stops beside Noah.

“What’s this building here?”

“Theatre,” says Noah. “Hasn’t been open for a while though.” He joins Patrick in staring up at it, silently reminiscing. He had some good nights in there with Julie back in the day, buying tickets for male stripper troupes when they should have been saving for the next electricity bill.

Patrick’s not so much looking at the place now as he is scrutinising it. “Hmm.”

“You interested in it?” Noah asks, attention caught on Patrick’s face now, the way his eyes are narrowed as he takes in every line of the building.

It takes Patrick a moment to look back at him, tear his attention away from the building. “I don’t even live in this country, Noah,” he says, then he shrugs. “I was just curious. I run entertainment venues for a living.”

Noah feels a sudden burst of irritation. “You could’ve just said that this morning.”

“Wouldn’t have been half as much fun, though,” Patrick counters, smirking, “would it?”

“You’re very…” Noah struggles for the right word to sum up what Patrick’s making him feel right now.

“Charming?”

“Irritating,” he decides, sticking to what he knows, the one thing he’s managed to figure out about this man.

It makes Patrick laugh, low and dirty. “Maybe I’ll come in for a coffee later.”

“We’ve got coffee in the flat,” says Noah.

“I bet yours is better,” Patrick says, and it’s like his words are a caress down Noah’s skin, settling in his gut.

He doesn’t come in all day, no matter how many times Noah looks up at the door each time it opens.

* * * * *

Noah’s all Christmas’d out by the time he leaves work for the day. He’s seen enough tinsel and sprayed enough snow on windows to last him a lifetime. The place looks nice and festive though, and he’s pleased with it.

He stops in the corner shop again on his way home to pick up ingredients for dinner, and he’s all cosy in his sanctuary—the kitchen—by the time the front door opens and Patrick walks in.

Noah doesn’t know when Connor gave him a key, but he supposes it’s better than having to make sure there’s always someone home to let him in. He stops what he’s doing just long enough to look over his shoulder and acknowledge the man before he returns to chopping vegetables.

Patrick comes into the kitchen and sidles up beside him at the counter, standing so close that Noah can feel the heat of him. He wonders if anyone’s ever sat Patrick down and talked to him about personal space.

“Evening,” Patrick says lowly, oblivious to Noah’s hyper-awareness of his proximity. “Connor not back yet?”

“No, still at that meeting.” He uses his knife to scrape aside the carrot he’s just chopped and reaches for another. “Uh…I’m making stir-fry if you want any,” he adds, because he’s polite.

“I never turn down food.” Patrick peers down at what’s already gone into the pan, then makes a low noise of appreciation that sounds like pure filth to Noah’s ears. “Looks good.”

“It’ll taste better,” Noah promises. The one thing he’s never been modest about is his cooking ability. And perhaps his blowjob technique.

Patrick does little more than stand there and watch him, and while Noah’s uncomfortable at first, he soon relaxes and even starts to enjoy the attention, the way Patrick’s watching his hands work, paying close attention to how he handles the food.

“You like cooking?”

Noah smiles. “Yeah.”

“I can’t cook anything,” Patrick admits. “I burn water.”

“Everyone can cook,” Noah says, looking up at him in amusement. “It’s just practice.”

Patrick huffs a laugh. “I would offer to prove it to you, but I reckon Connor wants you alive for the wedding.”

“You can’t be that bad.”

“You’d be surprised,” says Patrick. They fall into another weirdly comfortable silence, and Noah’s sure that any moment now Patrick will get bored, wander away, do something else other than watch Noah chop and fry vegetables. It can’t be that thrilling to watch, but he looks content standing there, leaning against the counter, arms crossed over his chest. Eventually he says, “So why a January wedding?”