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Roy Kent had lost his fucking mind.
Looking back, he wasn’t sure when the last thread of his sanity had snapped. Maybe it was watching Jamie fucking Tartt laugh on the football pitch. Definitely sometime between having the dumb fucking thought that it felt nice to hold Jamie in his arms and the worse realization that he wanted to do it again.
And Keeley had fucking helped it go, encouraging him to ask Jamie to take her spot in Marbella, bringing up polyamory and triads. The love of his fucking life, sending the last remnants of reason up the fucking river.
He needed to stop reading so much. That was almost poetic. Roy Kent didn’t do poetic.
Unfortunately, what he would like to do at the moment was Jamie Tartt. Who he had invited on a six-week vacation. And there was only one fucking bed.
He sent several alarmed messages to Keeley, who only responded with a series of unhelpful emojis.
Fuck. He needed to get so drunk.
***
When some journalist twat who needed extra cash co-wrote his memoirs with him—and Keeley would make him do it, wouldn’t she, and he’d say yes because she was fucking irresistible—they would write that this was the worst fucking idea he had ever had.
Why the fuck had he brought Jamie Tartt somewhere that had a fucking Jacuzzi? He had seen that stupid show. He knew what Jamie got up to in Jacuzzis. He couldn’t stop thinking about what Jamie got up to in Jacuzzis.
Fuck. Jamie was headed toward him. And said Jacuzzi.
Roy closed his eyes and pretended to relax, rather than openly ogle Jamie. He had seen the other man undressed many times—in work, and on that stupid show—but something about his proximity now was fucking tempting.
“Who gets a villa this posh with a Jacuzzi but no spare bedroom?” Jamie asked as he settled in next to Roy. Roy cracked an eye open. Why was he sitting so fucking close?
“It was for Keeley,” he said. Keeley. She thought he should make a move in Marbella. He wasn’t sure, couldn’t get a read on how Jamie was feeling, and didn’t want to pressure him. He wasn’t even sure how he was feeling. Maybe this was just a fucking weird mix of leftover sympathy and pride for the bastard and he would remember soon that he generally found Tartt annoying. He had to admit that was starting to sound weak, though. Especially after the night he stayed far later at the club than he had intended to, just to keep talking to the prick.
Speaking of annoying. Jamie was being weirdly silent. Roy opened both eyes further to see a strange expression on the other man’s face, a shuttered look that didn’t suit him near as well as his usual confidence. The strange, protective urge to hold Jamie that had been bothering him since Wembley reared its head. Jamie Tartt wasn’t supposed to look that sad. Fuck.
“Champagne?” he asked, nudging Jamie slightly to get his attention back. The odd look fell from Jamie’s face and he flashed Roy his typical cocky grin, taking the proffered flute in hand. It didn’t seem quite right, though.
Roy watched Jamie’s throat bob as he swallowed and shifted slightly, the surge of desire catching him off guard. Great. He wanted to hold Jamie and he just plain wanted him. He was completely fucked.
***
Only a few hours later, and any hope he was holding on to that he would find Jamie annoying again was quickly disappearing. Jamie was fucking brilliant. He’d known this—seen him on the pitch, seen the way the boys in the locker room gravitated toward his charisma once they’d forgiven him—but it was one thing to know something and another thing entirely to have it all directed at him. He was fucking funny, and captivating, and Roy couldn’t fucking look away from him.
He was also drunk.
Roy did not need to know that Jamie crinkled his eyes more laughing when he was drunk than when he was sober. He did not need to know how wide his smile got, and which words tripped him up more. For that matter, Jamie didn’t need to know how to make Roy laugh. Yet here he was, laughing along as Jamie giggled his way through a story featuring Colin, Isaac, and a day-long marathon of American reality tv. Roy took a long pull from the champagne bottle.
Fuck, he really wanted to know if Jamie would taste like the champagne they’d been drinking, though.
“We should go swimming,” Jamie said. It took Roy a minute to stop fantasizing about kissing him and realize he was being spoken to. Had he been staring? Had Jamie noticed? “In the sea.”
Fuck. Respond. “That’s brilliant,” he jumped up, internally wincing at the jolt it sent through his knee. Fuck. “Let’s go.” Maybe water would…cool him down, so to speak.
Jamie took off like a shot, running out the villa down to the shore with a wild whoop. Roy jogged behind him as much as he could, trying to hide how much he was laughing at him. He almost fell entering the water as Jamie grinned at him, tongue out and hair wild.
The warm waves of the Mediterranean grounded him somewhat, the pounding of the surf distracting from swirling thoughts about Jamie’s tongue. He swam out past where he could stand, Jamie nearby. The moonlight caught Jamie’s eyes as he floated on his back, making them glint.
Roy’s tension faded as they swam there, the force of his want simmering down to a dull ache. He knew he was still staring, but he was thinking less about licking Jamie’s collarbone and more about holding his fucking hand. Jamie looked at him and he was just so fucking vibrant, full of brashness and boundless energy and hidden fucking depths that Roy couldn’t help but smile at him, softly, gently, tamping down on the urge to draw him close and not let go.
He was too fucking obvious, because Jamie looked at him in shock and stopped floating long enough for a wave to catch him off guard, effectively ending the moment. He resurfaced, sputtering, with his hair flopping in front of his face. He glared at the waves with a personal vendetta, and Roy found himself laughing, hard, at his sheer look of betrayal.
Maybe the moment hadn’t ended after all, though, because when Roy stopped laughing and Jamie started heading back to shore, the air felt tense, full of something Roy couldn’t quite name…potential, maybe. And there Jamie was, looking at him, hair glinting in the Spanish moonlight, the little twat who had shown up to Richmond AFC with a chip on his shoulder turned into someone Roy was fucking proud to know, rough edges and walls down enough to be soft with him, to laugh with him and float peacefully in the Mediterranean. And here Roy was with him, close enough to touch, but not quite close enough.
“Thanks for coming with me,” Roy said, and it wasn’t enough, wasn’t nearly fucking close to what Roy really wanted to say, but the words wouldn’t come anyway. And maybe they shouldn’t—maybe they weren’t ready yet—but as Jamie smiled back at him and it was like the fucking sun, he started to think that maybe they’d be there soon.
He might be losing his fucking mind, but as Jamie wrapped his arm around his shoulders, he decided this might be better than being sane, anyway.