Page 8 of Our Bright Christmas Town
“My eyes?” I asked. “Like... eyeliner?”
“Bit of mascara too, if you fancy. I can make it subtle.”
I glanced from her to my own winter-pale skin in the mirror. Could do with some contrast, probably. “Yeah, let’s try it. But I reserve the right to wipe it off if it’s too much.”
“Fair enough.” She sat me down on the edge of the bathtub and tilted my face up with a, “Your eyelashes are truly wasted on you.”
“Thanks, I think.”
She grinned, then turned quiet and focused, the way she always did when working with make-up. Three years older than me, we’d had our normal share of quibbles, but I knew she’d have my back no matter what. It went both ways—when Mum had tried to talk Shelly into finishing her business degree, to notthrow it away for an offer to film ads for a hiking gear company, I’d sided with Shelly. She’d become one of the most in-demand outdoor videographers in the UK.
Hopefully, Shelly would return the favour once I told Mum I’d reject an almost certain, rather prestigious offer in London. I just wasn’t cut out for the big city.
I held very still while Shelly worked, afraid to smudge the result. It drew a soft laugh from her, gaze briefly finding mine. “You can breathe, you know.”
“Right.” I inhaled slowly, then exhaled. So. This was happening, then—a gay bar, with Ashby. And I’d show up in jeans that hugged my arse and eyeliner that hopefully brought out my eyes, but the only one I really wanted to notice was him.
Shelly stepped back to study me, then nodded. “All right, take a look. I think you’re ready to break some hearts tonight.”
“Not actually part of my plan.” I checked my face in the mirror, and yeah, it was... different. But not half-bad. The hint of definition around my eyes made me look sharper, less boyish charm and more ‘take me home.’
“And you’ll go with Ashby?” Shelly asked as though she required a confirmation.
“Yeah.” I shot her a look and a slightly strained smile. “Asfriends. He’ll, like, point out guys who he thinks are into me.”
“Interesting,” she said, with the air of someone who’d just come across a fascinating new type of butterfly.
I gave her a proper look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Oh, nothing.” Her tone implied the opposite. “Just, it’s you and Ashby. I didn’t think he’d be terribly keen to help you chat up random guys.”
“It was his idea.” Kind of, at least. Yeah, I’d started talking about how I wouldn’t feel comfortable venturing into some gay club all by myself, but he was the one who’d said, casual as anything, that he could show me the ropes.
Shelly assessed me for an uncomfortably long moment, silent.
“What?” I asked, striving for a casual air. “Do you know something I don’t?”
Another beat, then she gave a small shake of her head before pulling me into a surprise hug. “Good luck, kiddo.”
“Thank you, sis,” I said, low and serious to signal I meant more than just her words. Between my family and friends, I was a lucky guy—coming out wasn’t something that needed to scare me.
Shelly and I drew apart just as Mum called me from downstairs. “Honey? Ashby is here!”
“Coming!” One last look at the mirror, another second of fiddling with my hair. Okay.Okay.I turned away from my reflection, drew Shelly in for another passing hug, and grabbed my phone on the way to the stairs.
Halfway down, I caught a snatch of Ashby chatting with my mum, his voice warm and amused as he defended not stopping by quite so often, what with how he didn’t live next door anymore.
“It’s a five-minute walk from your new flat!” she chided, mostly playful, but the affection in her tone tripped me up. Ashby and I—we’d always ducked in and out of each other’s houses like we belonged. If I pushed for a change between us... Ah, hell. Too muchthinking.
I rounded the corner and found him and my mum in the entryway. He glanced over, and for a hot second, his attention slid down and back up my figure.Maybe. Then he tossed me an easy grin. “Oh, fun. Is it too late to book crowd control?”
“Crowd control?” my mum asked, smiling a little, and Ashby swept out a hand.
“To make sure the lads form an orderly queue,” he said.
I snorted. “Look who’s talking.”
Because, yeah, he’d absolutely put some effort in as well—his dark hair looked intentionally tousled, a winter coat draped over his arm, and his jumper clung to his broad chest in a way that didthingsto me. He was... Christ. He was gorgeous, and somehow, I’d failed to notice until our months apart jolted me awake.
