Merry Measure - Lily Morton Page 0,16
night and made myself imagine his inevitable rejection in great detail. We’d argue. His family would take his side, and I would lose everything—the warmth and joy his family had always given me, along with their home, which had, in important ways, become my sanctuary, its rambling chaos so different from the ordered pristineness of my parents’ house. Then I imagined something even worse than that—Arlo no longer looking at me with delight every time we met, and instead turning away.
By the time I went downstairs, I’d convinced myself it was a moment of madness and nothing more. I’d relaxed and enjoyed the rest of the holiday with my adopted family. Unfortunately, I’d been far too complacent, because it turned out that I’d opened a box that day that couldn’t be closed again, and to my horror I couldn’t repack my awareness of him.
Now I keep hoping that I’ll go back to seeing him as a de facto little brother. Unfortunately, it hasn’t happened, and the want has grown. Not just desire, but a yearning for his company.
I arranged to fly to Amsterdam with him deliberately. I knew I’d have to see my parents to explain the split with Steven, but I promised myself a morning alone with Arlo as my prize for getting through it.
And when he ran up to me in the airport—cheeks cherry-red, hair a mess—I’d felt the now familiar sweet thrill run through me. When he slept on my shoulder in the plane, I let him. With anyone else, I’d have put them gently back in their seat, but I let him stay, his body a warm weight against mine and the scent of his shampoo in my nose. I hadn’t even minded the patch of drool on my jumper, because it was Arlo’s drool.
I groan quietly and scrub my hands down my face. Get it together, Jack, I chastise myself.
I look at him again and fix the lovely picture in my head, and then I very deliberately turn over and away from the tempting sight of him.
Arlo
I come awake slowly. I’m lying in a patch of sunshine which is warm on my face, and the duvet is wrapped around me, forming a snug little cave. For a few seconds, I think I’m late for work, and then I realise that I’m on holiday and don’t have to see any demonic and spoilt children for at least three weeks. I hum happily and hear a husky chuckle from my right. My eyes fly open, and I find Jack watching me from his bed.
He’s lying with his iPad propped on his chest, his hair is a dark mess against his blue pillow. He has glasses on, and the black frames make him look incredibly hot, whereas mine just give the impression that I’m five and should be queuing to go into a Disney film.
His stubble is as sexy as any pirate on a romance book cover, and I have a front-row seat to gawp at his bare chest. He’s got a lot more hair now than he did last time I saw him shirtless. It’s dark and looks like it would be soft on my face if I rubbed against it and—
Jack clears his throat, and I abruptly remember that he’s not porn on my iPad, but my brother’s best friend. I quickly pretend to yawn to cover up the leering, which turns into a real one involving showing him a lot of my tongue and teeth before I remember my manners and put my hand over my mouth.
“Sorry,” I mumble.
He chuckles. “For what? You slept well.”
“That’ll be the wine,” I say. “I didn’t think I’d drunk that much, but I was obviously being drunkenly optimistic.”
“Well, you didn’t drink heavily if you compare yourself to Mel Gibson. A vat is nothing these days.”
I laugh and groan as pain slices through my eyeballs. “Shit.” I press my fingers against my eyes. “I need some paracetamol.”
“I’ll get you some,” he says.
I force my eyes open in time to see him throw the sheets back and get out of bed. For a wild second, I think he’s naked, but then the sheet clears his middle, and I see he’s actually wearing blue-checked pyjama shorts that are hanging low on his hips. In the bathroom, he rummages through his shaving bag, and I can’t help but eye the view. Broad shoulders, narrow hips, and lots of lean muscle that reflects how much he loves running.
He paces back to me, carrying a