Page 30 of Snowbirds
“Quit twitching and fiddling, you look just fine.”
Unsurprisingly to Chris, Ivan Morrison did look fine. Better than fine. Remarkably fine. He filled out a suit extraordinarily well. Especially since Chris was more accustomed to the leathers and denim that Ivan normally wore.
They’d been invited and had obviously accepted an invitation from Andy Radisson to attend an exclusive New Year’s Eve party being held at a mansion on the Olympic Peninsula. This was their first formal event as a couple, and Ivan had been nervous since the envelope had arrived in the mail.
After reading the invite and the black-tie dress code, Ivan had announced that The Ugly Suit Warehouse would be finefor what he needed, thankyouverymuch. But Chris had put his foot down, and now he was experiencing firsthand just how good Ivan Morrison looked in a suit altered to fit him properly. Ivan had done something to his hair too, so it didn’t look like he’d recently stuck a knife into a light socket. He still preferred it to the cut from last winter. Luckily, Ivan’s current role on Radisson’s team did not require any undercover work, so overly short hairstyles were a thing of the past.
Ignoring Chris’s instructions, Morrison tugged the sleeves of his dress jacket down over his wrists again. The third time in forty seconds. This was followed by a roll of his shoulders and neck, as if the suit was actively strangling him.
“Haven’t you had to wear one of these sometime in your life?” Chris asked.
“At my dad’s funeral.”
Well.
There was a conversation stopper if Chris had ever heard one before. But… it wasn’t going to work on him. He’d known Morrison for years, and the one person he never had anything nice to say about was his father. His family, as a whole, was quite literally a dead topic.
“So what? Get over it. This time it’s for a good cause.” Plus, he’d wangled an invitation for Susie and Lance too, a fact Chris had managed to keep from his boyfriend. Their presence would be a surprise, and one Chris hoped would please Ivan.
It would, he knew it would.
Ivan shot him a scowl. “Fine.” The look might have made another man nervous, but Chris knew Ivan well, and he was really a big softy who would gladly watch Taylor Swift videos with scared teens and rescue bedraggled kittens from trees if that was what was needed.
“That’s right.Fine. It’s fine, and you’re not missing the fundraising part of this because you don’t like suits. Besides,” Chris added truthfully, “you look amazing.”
Ivan looked away and down the broad expanse of his chest all the way to his freshly shined leather shoes. At over six foot four inches, Morrison had a long way to look.
“I feel like an idiot. Next party, you have to wear leathers and combat boots,” Ivan grumbled. Chris managed not to point out that this was Ivan’s boss’s party and thus his rules, not McBride’s. Lifting his head again, Ivan shot Chris an appraising look. “You’d look pretty all right too, maybe even fool some old-timers. But”—he wrinkled his nose as he turned back to his reflection—“you’d have to do something about the Ken hair.”
“Ken hair?” Reflexively, Chris lifted a hand and touched his head. “What’s wrong with my style?”
Dark eyebrows rose toward his hairline as Morrison turned away from the floor-length mirror to move across the room toward Chris.
“Style? You never let your hair have any fun,” he said, reaching out to brush his fingers through Chris’s carefully coiffed hair.
“Knock it off.” Chris pushed Morrison’s hand away. “Now I have to fix it again.”
“You really don’t,” Morrison assured him. “Messy gives you a sort of devil-may-care look. Not the one you normally have. You know, the one that makes it look like you’re constipated. I dunno,” he added thoughtfully, “maybe you are? Do you eat enough fiber?”
“Jesus Christ. We are not having this conversation.” Ivan did most of the cooking, so he knew exactly what Chris ate.
“So, youareconstipated?”
“No, Ivan, I am not constipated. Are you happy now?”
Ivan shot him a toothy grin, the one that told Chris he’d been teased and fallen for it. Ivan Fucking Morrison, whom Chris loved with all of his grinchy heart. Every last bit of it.
Chris glanced at his watch, a Rolex he’d bought himself a few years ago. Not top-of-the-line, but it pleased him and looked good with his suit, as if he was some kind of success and not just a DEA lifer. One who now had Ivan Morrison in his bed every night.
“It’s time to go downstairs for predinner drinks and appetizers.” Glancing up, he caught Ivan’s assessing gaze. The amusement that sparked in the dark brown depths had Chris clearing his throat. “Promise you’ll behave yourself,” he said in a firm tone. “No hard-ons.”
“Oohhh.” Morrison waggled his eyebrows this time in a manner that could only be understood as suggestive. “Going all daddy and stern on me now? You know I love it when you take a firm hand.”
Chris shut his eyes for a brief moment and bit his lips together in an effort not to laugh. He knew better than to respond. Whatever he said now, Ivan wouldabsolutelytake it theabsolutelywrong way and twist his words into something that would one hundred percent give both of them semis. They’d argue and be late getting downstairs, and that couldn’t happen. He wanted to get down early and watch all the other guests as they arrived. He wanted to see Ivan’s expression when he spotted Susie and Lance waiting for them in the dining room.
“Ivan,” he muttered warningly.
Morrison snapped to attention, spine as straight as a soldier’s, and stuck his elbow out.
