Page 68 of Men in Shorts

His fingers curled to form fists, and his blood fled north to collect at his face, which burned now with the need for justice. “You bastard,” he whispered.

“Sorry?” The blond quickly sat up, a look of horror replacing his sly smile. “Did I do something wrong?”

Fergus shook his head, returning to the here and now. “What?”

“I’ve never been to one of these places before.” The Not-Evan covered himself with his towel again. “That’s why I had that-that guy out there choose someone for me.” He hunched over, placing his hands on opposite knees, arms forming a protective X in front of his body. “It’s all so awkward.”

Fergus drew in a deep breath, then let it out. Evan wasn’t here. Evan didn’t matter. He wasn’t the one waiting at the end of this journey.

“‘Awkward’ is a good word for it.” Fergus turned to leave, then felt weirdly obliged to be polite. “Best of luck with…everything…I guess.”

“Cheers.” As Fergus swung open the door, the blond added, “I hope you find the one you’re looking for.”

Without glancing back, Fergus said, “I will.”

The corridor was empty now, with no sign of the man who’d tricked him into entering the cabin. When Fergus reached the stairs again, he stopped before the burly massage-suite attendant. “Have you seen a lad about this tall,” he held his hand up to his own collarbone, “dark hair, early twenties, sparkling brown eyes?”

The attendant shook his head. “Sorry, mate, it’s our policy not to look too closely at the folk who pop through. Maybe he’s upstairs?”

“I looked there. I’ve looked everywhere but the?—”

Oh.

Really, John?

Fergus ascended the steps as fast as he could in his leg-constricting towel.

At the top, he turned to enter the wee café. To his right sat plush chairs surrounding a coffee table, as well as a trio of unattended computer stations, each with aClub 212scrolling screen saver. To his left was a refrigerated case of snacks and bottled drinks.

And sitting at the bar in front of him, chatting to the server, was John Burns.

“I’m in absolute despair over Fellaini,” John was saying as Fergus came closer. “Half the time he’s on the bench for red cards and the other half he’s on the bench for playing complete shit. Every week I nearly transfer him, but then I give him another chance.”

“I’d keep him,” the server said, wiping down the espresso machine. “He’ll get more starts soon, seeing as Di María’s been the world’s most expensive disappointment. Just keep Fellaini on your bench until he finds form.”

Fergus felt himself smile for the first time since entering the building. He’d given John free rein to go where he wanted, do what he wanted. Yet to assuage Fergus’s fears, John had hidden in the club’s most innocuous spot, and instead of spreading his charm amongst naked men, he was getting fantasy-football advice from a fully-clothed barista.

At that moment, Fergus fell in love harder than ever, and he knew exactly how he wanted this day to end.

* * *

John sawthe barista’s gaze slide past him. “All right, mate?” the server asked. “What can I get you?”

“I’ll have what he’s having,” came a familiar voice that made John’s bare toes curl around the rung of the bar stool.

The server winked. “Cheesy toast and a cup of tea, pronto.”

John turned to Fergus. “There you are! Thought you’d got lost.” He gestured to the barista. “This is my new mate Calvin. Calvin, this is?—”

“Sorry, have we met?” Fergus asked John as he gracefully slid onto the next stool, sweeping his towel beneath him like a kilt.

Brushing the hair from his forehead, John purred, “I don’t believe so.” He glanced at Calvin, who moved away with a knowing smirk, sussing Fergus’s game.

It was a game John fancied. He put out his hand and introduced himself, first name only.

“John,” Fergus repeated softly, gazing into his eyes. “I’m Fergus,” he crooned in his lilting Highland accent as he took John’s hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

The current of energy between them nearly knocked John off the bar stool. He slid his palm from Fergus’s and looked at his stranger-boyfriend through his lashes. “Would it be terribly crass of me to ask if you come here often?”

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