by Anna Martin
“I’m sorry.”
“I want us to be together too. But I don’t know if it’ll work. We’re too different.”
“It’ll work if we want it to. If we work at it. Same as any relationship.”
“But we’re not the same as any relationship,” George said. “We can’t undo our past before we met each other. And you were right about some of it. I didn’t go to a posh school. I don’t have a rich family. My parents do breed like bloody rabbits.”
Alex took another step closer and put his hands on George’s waist. Just his fingertips. Just lightly.
“You know that doesn’t matter to me. I don’t look at you and see your family, George, or your background, or your upbringing. I see this man, who I’m falling in love with.”
George screwed his eyes shut and skimmed his palms down Alex’s arms, then lifted his hands to wrap around his neck. Their slight height difference meant this was a familiar position to them, for early morning breakfast hugs, or when one or the other of them got in from work.
“The press will have a field day.”
“The injunctions are already in place. They can’t write about you, or anyone in your family.”
“I won’t be able to hide forever.”
“We can deal with that when we come to it. I want to be with you. I want to make this work.” He could feel George’s resolve start to crumble. It was almost heartbreaking to feel the resistance, how much effort George was putting in to holding back. “Please kiss me,” Alex whispered.
George closed his eyes but leaned in and brushed their mouths together. It was soft and sweet, the lightest reconnection. Then he twisted to put his head on Alex’s shoulder. For a while, they held each other and the world outside stopped.
This wasn’t what he’d expected. The feel of Alex in his arms again was too perfect and too fragile and too tempestuous for George’s liking. The smell of him, though, that soft, clean, crisp smell, with the woodsy stuff he used in his hair, and the feel of his expensive cotton shirt under George’s hands, that was right. Even if it was going to take a while to rebuild what they had before.
Alex slipped his hand into George’s and led him through to the living room. He had the History Channel on, some documentary about the pharaohs of ancient Egypt. It was muted, though, and his laptop lay abandoned on the coffee table.
“Sorry, were you working?”
“It’s fine. I can finish it later.”
“I can go,” George said. “I should probably go.”
“No,” Alex said. His lower lip jutted out in a familiar stubborn pout. “Stay. I’ll make dinner for us.”
George grinned. “Or we could get a takeaway?”
“Or that,” Alex agreed. “Please don’t go. I only just got you back.”
There it was—that twisting in George’s stomach that warned him things were still so incredibly breakable. Still.
He pushed it to one side and took his preferred corner of the sofa, kicking his flip-flops off and tucking his feet up underneath himself. That seemed to reassure Alex, and he curled up opposite.
“What next?” Alex asked.
“What do you mean?”
“I’m not sure,” Alex admitted. “I don’t know where we go from here.”
George played with the cuff of his shorts and didn’t look at him. “Me either.”
“I want you to move in.”
That made George look up. He shook his head slowly. “I’m not sure, Alex.”
“Well, that’s what I want. I thought I’d get it on the table.”
“Don’t you think it would be better to give us some time? Some space?”
“It’s up to you,” Alex said, though George could hear the familiar stubbornness in his voice. It was the tone Alex used when he was used to getting his own way and things weren’t going like that. He could be an entitled asshole at times, but he was George’s entitled asshole.
“You’re thinking mean things about me, aren’t you?”
George laughed and shook his head. “No. I think we need to decide if this is something we’re serious about. Right now I feel like I could walk away from this, and it would hurt like fuck, but I’d get over it, given some time. If we go on….”
“If we go on, we’ll be public,” Alex finished for him. “You’ll never be able to go back in the closet. You’ll have to deal with the consequences whether we stay together or not. If we do, it’ll all get more intense as time goes on. People will want to know more and more about you, and we’ll have to decide if and what we’ll tell them.”
George nodded. “And if we end up breaking up at some point, that’ll likely be in the paper too, and there’s no way of me knowing what sort of spin the media would put on that story.”
“There’s nothing that’s going to change the fact that we’re radically different people.”
“No.”
“I want you, George. But more than that, I want you to want me.”
For a second, George couldn’t look at him. Then he opened his arms and felt the familiar, warm weight of Alex crawling onto his lap. He pressed a kiss to Alex’s forehead and tried to hold it together.
“I tried not wanting you,” George murmured. “It didn’t work.”
“I love you. Please come home.”
It took a moment for George to unravel that sentiment. Although he’d lived in a few different places in his life, he’d always considered “home” to be wherever his mum was. Home was a concept fixed to her, and all the other Maguires who surrounded her. For home to be somewhere else, someone else….
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll come home.”
George was deep into formula calculations when his phone rang, distracting him from the complex task. After spending all morning daydreaming about the night before, he was now working to a too-tight deadline to get the information over to his prototype department.
Last night… shit. Last fucking night.
Alex had decided, for some unknown reason, that he was in an exhibitionistic sort of mood. And he really wanted to fuck, to make up for lost time. George had sprawled on his back, legs spread, while Alex straddled his thighs and rode him like a goddamn pony.
There was something incredibly distracting about watching a guy bottom on top. For the longest time Alex ignored his own dick, preferring instead to clasp his hands behind his neck, head thrown back, throat exposed. His back arched perfectly and he had rocked back and forth, up and down, back and forth in a decadently undulating rhythm. George had grabbed Alex’s hips, for something to do with his hands more than anything else, and watched as another man took pleasure from his body.
Hot damn.
George looked over at the number readout on his office phone and recognised the last three digits as Alex’s. His mobile, which was on silent, flashed with a couple of missed calls.
With a sigh, he answered it.
“George Maguire.”
“Hey. Sorry for calling at work.”
“It’s okay. I’ve been busy this afternoon.”
“Sorry,” Alex said again, and George could hear the genuine apology in his voice, mixed with a little anxiety and a healthy dose of excitement. “Do you want to come meet my family next weekend?”
“Huh?”
George dropped his pen and stretched up, feeling his back and neck click back into place.
“It’s my aunt’s fiftieth birthday, and I have to go because, you know, family thing. I booked my tickets ages ago, but I just looked online and I can get you on the same flight as me, and I spoke to my mum, and she said you can come if you want to.”
George said, “Um.”
“I know we’re still a bit… you know… delicate at the moment, but this means a lot to me, and I wouldn’t be able to spend any time with you next weekend otherwise because I’m leaving on Friday night and won’t get back until late on Sunday. And I’d really like you to meet them.”
George glanced at his calendar. He didn’t have any plans for the wee
kend, so it wouldn’t be such a big deal.
“Okay,” he said.
“Really?”
“Yes,” he added with a laugh.
“Okay. Can I meet you from work and we’ll go shopping?”
“What do I need to go shopping for?”
“Well, there will be a big sit-down dinner. I want to show you off, George. So I thought I’d get you a nice suit.”
“I have suits.”
“A nice suit.”
“Alex, are you being a snob?” George teased, leaning back in his chair and bouncing on the mechanism.
“No! Yes. Probably. I’ve just got this theory that you’d look amazing in Ted Baker. You know—classic English tailoring, bold colours, snazzy ties. It’s just your thing.”
“It’s your thing,” George said affectionately. “But okay. I should be done by six.”
“Six? That’s late.”
“Well, it might be earlier if I can get off the phone and do some work.”
“No, six is fine. Jenners is open late anyway. We can go for dinner after.”
“Sounds great.”
A few hours later he found himself in a changing room at the classic Edinburgh department store with a dazzling array of menswear.
Alex had ushered him into the store and convinced the manager to close early so they could try things on in peace. George still didn’t have any idea how he managed this and with such startling regularity. It was a combination of charm, money, and confidence; three things which George didn’t really have at all.
Alex seemed to be convinced that George would look good in a three-piece, so he was trying on waistcoats alongside the jackets and shirts and trousers and bowties and regular ties. And cufflinks.
“Alex?” he called.
“Yeah?”
“I’m not wearing a purple suit to meet your parents.”
“It’s not purple, it’s indigo.”
“I’m not wearing an indigo suit to meet your parents, then.”
“Can you please just try it on? You might be surprised.”
George sighed and stripped the trousers from their hanger. For some reason, he never seemed to win these arguments with Alex. Charm, money, confidence a little voice whispered into his ear. Apparently he was just as susceptible to those things as the shop manager was.
“Which shirt?” he asked after he’d pulled the trousers on.
Alex stuck his head around the curtain and looked over the dozen or so that were hung on hooks all around the changing room.
“None of these,” he said decisively. “Hang on.”
George played Candy Crush until Alex returned with a new shirt, this one white with a pattern of light purple tiny splodges on it.
“Really?”
“If you stop bitching and just try the damn shirts on, this will be a lot quicker and less painful,” Alex said, then stepped up close and planted a soft, decisive kiss on George’s mouth. George took the kiss and put on the shirt.
“What do you think?” Alex asked the sales manager, who had stayed after dismissing the rest of his staff. Jonty—his name was Jonty—tilted his head to the side and tapped his chin.
“Better than the check,” he said.
The checked suit was not happening. Not in a million years. But George was staying silent on that, waiting to pull out his big “foot-down No” until it was needed.
“I still like the burgundy,” Alex said.
“Is anyone going to ask me what I like?” George asked.
“No,” Alex and Jonty said together, then shared a conspiratorial smile.
“The navy blue is safe,” Jonty continued as if the interruption hadn’t happened. “But if you pair it with a patterned shirt and a bright pocket square—”
“No tie,” Alex continued, picking up the thread of Jonty’s thought. “Maybe… brogues?”
“Tan brogues,” Jonty agreed. “You’ve got stylish and modern there, with a nod to classic but still laid-back enough to be very him.”
“I have brogues in my wardrobe at home,” George offered.
Alex gave him a look, and he shut up.
He was bustled back into the changing room and told to change back into the blue suit from earlier, this time without the waistcoat and with a paisley shirt that had nice buttons. He left the top button undone, as instructed, and called out to Jonty with his shoe size so the sales manager could go and find some brogues in his size.
And a pocket square.
Heaven forbid they forget the bloody pocket square.
This time, when he stepped out of the changing room both men smiled.
“That’ll do nicely,” Jonty said, stepping up close to straighten his collar and fix the pocket square, which George had just shoved into the jacket. He’d already learned not to flinch when Jonty lifted up the jacket at the back to check how the trousers fit against his ass (perfectly, apparently) and stood still as he was appraised.
“Starting to feel a little uncomfortable now,” he said in a singsong voice.
Alex grinned, stood up from his big leather armchair, and came over for a kiss.
“Sorry,” he said in that way that often meant he wasn’t sorry at all. “You look incredible. I can’t wait to go show you off.”
From behind him, Jonty snorted.
“Okay, go get changed,” Alex said. “Are you hungry?”
“Starving.”
“What do you want to eat?”
“Wagamama?”
“Works for me,” Alex said.
George stepped back into the changing room and shook his head. He had been ushered into the largest of the changing rooms in the shop and the whole place was littered with various suit paraphernalia. Including the ill-advised and short-lived experiment with braces. Those had not looked good on him. Thankfully, both Alex and Jonty agreed with him.
“Don’t worry about getting it all back on hangers,” Jonty called through. “I’ll do that.”
“Um, okay,” George said, gratefully giving up his struggle with one of the waistcoats.
His work suit had come from Marks & Spencer. It was nice, clean and tidy, and not particularly flashy. It was something he wore out of necessity, rather than being one of those guys who truly appreciated and looked good in a suit.
When he was dressed, he looked around the changing room again, buried his guilt, and grabbed his coat before stepping out with the items Alex had chosen.
“Don’t worry about those,” Alex said. “Jonty is going to get it all delivered to the flat for us.”
George narrowed his eyes. “Did you buy all this?”
Alex just smiled and slipped his hand into George’s. “And a few extras. Dinner? I’m really in the mood for noodles now.”
By Friday, George had worked himself into a state of near-panic.
He’d never met a boyfriend’s family before.
He’d never met royalty before.
He was pretty sure he was about to royally fuck this whole thing up.
Alex pressed his hand to George’s knee, probably to get him to stop it bouncing.
“I thought you said you were okay with flying,” he said, leaning in to murmur the words in George’s ear.
“I am.”
“Then will you please calm down? I think you’re freaking that bloke out.”
George looked across the aisle to where a middle-aged, paunchy man was pale faced and sweating.
“Crew, please take your seats for landing.” The voice from the cockpit was terse.
“Oh God,” George murmured.
“Oh God,” the man across the aisle groaned.
“Look,” Alex snapped, leaning across George to address Mr. Sweaty. “He’s freaking out about meeting my parents, not because of anything to do with crash landing. Can you please calm the fuck down?”
George pushed him back into his seat before the exchange could escalate and mouthed “sorry” to the man who didn’t look any happier for Alex’s rant.
Normally bo
uncy landings didn’t bother George, but the thought of the man sitting next to him vomiting explosively in his direction made George lean in close to Alex, who had graciously taken the middle seat on the rather full flight. He had longer legs, but George had bigger thighs, so he was allowed to take the aisle seat.
Alex didn’t exploit his VIP status at the airport; they waited in the queue to go through immigration with everyone else, then waited for their luggage at the carousel. George had already made the decision to just take hand luggage when Alex pulled out his suitcase and reliably informed him with an arched eyebrow that “Princess doesn’t travel light.”
They were taking a suit each, plus clothes for the rest of the weekend, so George thought they could almost justify it.
A driver was waiting for them in the arrivals lounge, holding a sign saying “George Maguire.” It probably wasn’t a good idea to put the name of a member of the Dutch royal family on a card in Amsterdam airport. It would draw attention, to say the least.
Alex greeted the man like an old friend, and George followed them silently out of the airport to a sleek black car.
“Hop in,” Alex said with a grin.
George tried to smile, though he was sure it came out more like a grimace.
“You okay?” Alex asked as he slid into the car next to George.
“Yeah. Nervous.”
“Don’t be,” Alex said and squeezed George’s knee.
“Am I going to have my own room?” George asked in a rush, the thought only just occurring to him.
“No, I already spoke to my mum. We’re both staying in my room.”
“Your room from when you were a kid?”
“Yeah. But don’t get any ideas. My mum redecorated ages ago. It’s just a nice guest room now.”
“Okay. Alex?”
“Yeah?”
“What if they don’t like me?”
Alex gave him a sweet little smile. “They’re going to adore you. Just like I do.”
George didn’t have words for that, so he decided to say nothing.
Chapter Fourteen
Alex’s family had a house just outside Amsterdam, so it took a little while for the car to get there. It had been in his father’s family for some time and had been his childhood home, so Alex felt a familiar rush of nostalgia when they pulled up the long driveway.
