Back Best Man
Chapters (22)
  1. Blurb
  2. Dedication
  3. Epigraph
  4. Prologue
  5. Chapter One
  6. Chapter Two
  7. Chapter Three
  8. Chapter Four
  9. Chapter Five
  10. Chapter Six
  11. Chapter Seven
  12. Chapter Eight
  13. Chapter Nine
  14. Chapter Ten
  15. Chapter Eleven
  16. Chapter Twelve
  17. Chapter Thirteen
  18. Epilogue
  19. Newsletter
  20. Thank You
  21. Contact Lily
  22. Also by Lily Morton

“I’m Marquez though, aren’t I?” I say, shrugging off my jacket and slinging it over a chair before hastening over to the balcony doors to open them. Fresh air scented with the fragrance of freshly mown grass hits my face, and I sigh happily and stretch. “That’s better.” I turn only to stand still, caught in his fixed stare. “You okay?” I ask.

He jerks and looks slightly awkward. “Yes, I’m fine,” he says hurriedly.

“Okay.” I wander over to the table where the room service info is. “I’m going to order some food.”

“You’ve just had a meal.”

I fix him with a hard stare. “Zeb, that wasn’t a meal, it was an amuse-bouche in four fucking courses. That wouldn’t have filled me when I was ten, let alone now.” I look down at the menu and smile contentedly. “I’m having a burger and chips. What do you want?”

He stares at me for a second. “Eating a huge meal after what we’ve just eaten is guaranteed to give you heartburn.” I gaze at him and deploy the big eyes, and he sighs. “Okay, I’ll have a salad.”

I make a moue of disgust, and he shakes his head. “I’m going to get changed,” he says, moving towards the wardrobe. I place the order on the phone while watching him open the doors and look at the neat row of his clothes hanging inside. I look guiltily at my suitcase which hasn’t been unpacked yet. Instead I’d dug through it earlier and now it looks like a very small bomb went off in it, strewing clothes around the vicinity with abandon.

Zeb takes his jacket off and hangs it neatly in the wardrobe, and I watch idly as he takes off his tie and coils it into a drawer before unbuttoning his shirt. Then I watch not so idly as the hairy planes of his chest appear. He’s muscled and the skin glows golden in the low lamplight. I think what I like best is that he’s not perfect. He doesn’t have a perfect six pack. He’s muscled but it lacks the definition of the gym junkies I’ve slept with lately. He looks more real somehow and all the more desirable for that. I study the way his trousers hang loosely from his narrow hips and the way the skin shines soft and warm there.