Melting - Sean Ashcroft Page 0,17

like they could see all the way down to my soul.

“Kinda,” Wes said. “You’re all limbs.”

“I meant in terms of likelihood of biting your head off.”

But the limbs thing was… interesting. Maybe not flattering, but interesting.

Wes snorted. “No. I mean, I think maybe sometimes you want people to think that, but no. There’s a chocolate center under that hard outer shell.”

I wrinkled my nose at the comparison. “So I’m an M&M?”

“Better than a praying mantis, right?” Wes grinned at me. “Although, actually, hang on.”

I waited while he got his phone out of his pocket, sipping my perfect coffee patiently.

“Baby praying mantises are so cute, you have to see this,” Wes explained, passing the phone over to me.

I squinted at the picture, and then realized what I was looking at—a tiny, almost transparent praying mantis standing on the end of someone’s finger.

“He looks like he’s about to charge into battle,” Wes enthused. “We had a bunch of them outside earlier in the year, I kind of love them? And I like their weird little alien heads. I dunno. To the right person, praying mantis vibes could be a plus.”

“Are you saying I have a weird, alien head?” I asked, passing the phone back and raising an eyebrow.

“No, actually, I think you’re cute. But we might wanna put some concealer on those dark circles.”

My eyebrow hitched up a notch.

“I propose a deal,” Wes said. “I help you fix your profile, and in exchange, you come out with me tonight so I can win that bet with your dad.”

It took me a second to work out what he was asking. “To a gay club?” I asked.

“Yeah. I take it you’ve never been?”

I shook my head. No, even when I was younger, it wasn’t exactly my kind of thing.

Wes’s smile broadened to something that made the pit of my stomach knot up.

But I didn’t have to be boring, cold Hayden whose older boyfriend left him for a younger model out here. I could be cool.

I could pretend to be cool, anyway. Even if Wes had already seen though me.

And I did need his help if I was planning to make good on my promise to Marissa.

“Fine,” I said, before I could talk myself out of it. “Deal.”

I’d made a mistake.

“Oh my god, where did you find a leather jacket for him?” Seth enthused as he opened the front door, staring wide-eyed at me.

Wes had picked out my wardrobe—and I’d let him, because the whole point of letting him help was to let him help, and I felt exposed enough in a jacket I hadn’t worn in a decade, another one of my thinnest, most worn, shrunken white shirts, and the same jeans I’d been convinced to wear last night by Marissa.

“This is his!” Wes enthused, nudging me inside.

Mark’s house was different to my dad’s, despite having the same footprint and probably the same architect. He’d kept the original entrance hall, where dad had opened ours up and put in a central staircase, leaving the downstairs living spaces more open without going full open-plan.

It was also mostly bright, clean white, dark marble—which I approved of—and gold.

Seth, in a fluffy pink robe with a flamingo embroidered on it and his hair in literal curlers, somehow fit right in. Like a doll in a dollhouse, standing under a crystal chandelier that, at a glance, seemed to be from about the same 1920s period as the house itself.

We had talked about antiques, and Mark knew his stuff.

“That’s adorable, Mr. Fuckable has a rebel side,” Seth said, grabbing my hand. “Come into my parlor.”

“Said the spider to the fly?” I asked as he dragged me—with surprising strength for his size—toward the stairs.

I looked to Wes for help, but he only shrugged and wiggled his eyebrows as he let Seth lead me away.

“Am I bartending?” he called up to Seth.

“I want a slow, comfortable screw,” Seth responded.

I blinked.

Wes burst into laughter.

“Andre would be so proud,” Wes called up, and I realized I was missing something. “Hayden?”

“Uh. I’m. Fine?” I said, hovering on the edge of a step as Seth stopped dead.

“You don’t sound all that sure,” Wes said.

“Because I make him nervous,” Seth said, gripping my hand tighter. “Get him a single malt, he’s a chef, he’ll appreciate it.”

Some part of me felt like I should object—or at least say something intelligent—but Seth was already tugging me forward again and Wes had disappeared.

“It’s a cocktail,” Seth said as he pushed open a paneled door that led into a room filled