Merry Measure - Lily Morton Page 0,15

curtains, and I roll to my side, enjoying the firmness of the mattress and the peace of the early morning. Then a soft snore sounds, and I observe my room companion.

Arlo is lying half out of the covers, his legs stretched out and his head buried half under the pillow. The reddish-brown waves are muted in the dim light and his face, so alive and vivid during the day, is now quiet and peaceful, his full lips pursed as if he’s chasing a thought in his sleep.

He’s wearing only sleep shorts; last night he’d declared the room too hot for a T-shirt. The amount of wine he drank was probably more to blame than the thermostat. He’d been very merry last night, chattering away as we walked back to the hotel after the meal, bumping against me and tugging at my arm every chance he got. He’s always been physically demonstrative, but when he’s drunk, he becomes more so. There were buzzing hummingbird touches on my arm and my side, and he’d even cupped my face to get me to look at him, making a forceful point with laughter brimming in those smoke-grey eyes.

I shake my head. “Merry” applies to Arlo, whether he’s drunk or not. He defines the word. He’s warm and funny and quick-witted, and he draws me like a fire on a cold night.

Amidst the mess of blue sheets, his pale skin glows, the slender length of him laid out for my eyes. My greedy eyes.

I curse my stiffening cock and shift position, feeling like a peeper ogling him while he’s asleep. Unfortunately, it isn’t the first time I’ve looked at Arlo like this—with want.

I can pinpoint the exact moment I first became aware of him as someone more than just Tom’s adorable younger brother. I always had a soft spot for him, and he’d always cheered me up for some reason. He was scatty and dreamy and extremely chatty. There always seemed to be a layer of warmth around him, like the Ready Brek kid moving through life protected by a cheerful red glow. His family is lovely, but Arlo is the warmest and funniest of the lot.

But my feelings for him changed a year ago. It was Christmas Day and he was totally blitzed. Hardly surprising, as he’d been drinking his dad’s eggnog, which is so strong it probably has the power to sanitise your hands. Everyone else had staggered into the lounge to watch the Christmas special of EastEnders, but Arlo and I stayed at the kitchen table, drinking and talking.

At first, we talked about his career and how much he loved teaching. Somehow the conversation turned to Steven and our relationship. Arlo had obviously decided that honesty was the best policy and embarked on what can only be termed a character assassination of Steven. I’d tried to protest out of loyalty, but honesty forced me to silently admit that he was right on most points.

Arlo had grabbed my hand, leaning in and talking animatedly, and in that moment, everything changed. I remember so clearly looking at his pale face, his grey eyes bleary but determined, and thinking how beautiful they were. Then I’d looked at the rest of him—the slender body clad in old jeans and an atrocious Christmas jumper, his red-brown hair waving around his face. A charge had run through me like I’d stuck my finger into an electrical socket.

I remember thinking, Oh my God, he’s so gorgeous. I wanted to touch his hair to test its softness and kiss those full lips. I wanted to do everything.

I’d stared dumbly at him, trying frantically to bring myself back to sanity. But then he’d had another cup of eggnog and passed out at the table. By the time I’d roused him and shoved him into bed where I wouldn’t be able to see him anymore, I’d managed to think sensibly.

Arlo was my best friend’s little brother, I’d told myself. Tom would fucking kill me if I went there, and how did I know Arlo would reciprocate my attraction, anyway. I knew he’d had a crush on me at one point and the knowledge had been like a sweet whisper that I’d tucked away, but I was pretty sure he’d got over that years ago.

Even if he did return my interest, I was sure that I’d end up driving him away, the way I had everyone else with my obsession with details and tidiness and planning. I stood outside his bedroom door that