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“So,” Nat says ominously, drawing her knees up to her chest, socked feet perched on the passenger seat. “Are we going to kiss?”
Bradley almost chokes on thin air. The thought of kissing Nat – his best friend in the entire world, the person he trusts with his life, the keeper of his deepest, darkest secrets – is wrong on so many levels. It’s not that Nat is objectively repulsive or anything, it’s just that his brain refuses to contemplate the idea. “Why would we do that?”
“Because, Bradshaw,” Nat says, patience evidently wearing thin. They’ve been driving for two and a half hours, and there’s a slowly building tension that Bradley suspects has nothing to do with him and everything to do with the impending Christmas party. “That’s what people in relationships do.”
“Right,” Bradley says tightly, trying to swallow down his discomfort. “But do we have to?” When he catches sight of her exasperated expression, he sighs. “I mean, it would feel like kissing a sister.”
“You don’t have any of those,” Nat points out. “And don’t get any ideas. I’m not exactly jumping for joy at the idea either. I just think it could help sell the whole thing.”
“What if I hold your hand,” Bradley barters, wondering why he’s being such a prude. It’s not like he’s never kissed a girl before. It’s only a few years and one, big bisexual awakening ago. “Hug you?”
“I should have asked Bob to do this,” Nat grumbles, tucking her chin on her knees. “He would have kissed me.”
“Jesus Christ, Nat,” Bradley groans. “I’ll do it, okay? I just won’t…like it.”
“You won’t be the only one,” Nat says darkly. “Take the next turn.”
Bradley isn’t fully aware of this party’s finer details and isn't sure his confusion is entirely his own fault. The information Nat has been drip feeding him keeps changing slightly, which is more troubling than it is suspicious, as her mood seems to be taking a nosedive the closer they get to Santa Barbara.
It started off as an innocuous invitation to a family Christmas party, a big event hosted by Nat’s rich aunt in Montecito. On its surface, the deal seemed fairly symbiotic – Nat needed a plus one to cope with her host of nosy relatives and Bradley’s Christmas was otherwise looking lonely as hell. Attending the party sounded like a great idea – free food, expensive champagne and an excuse to book a two-bedroom condo in Pismo Beach for the seven free days Bradley has after he leaves Nat to her own devices. She’s hinted at staying in Santa Barbara until New Years Eve, but Bradley’s given her the door code to the condo anyway. If the stories about her family are anything to go by, Bradley doesn’t think she’ll make it that long without blowing something up.
As a base, Lemoore is fine – it’s even got some advantages over Virginia (something which took Bradley a while to admit) – but it's not an inspiring place to spend the holidays. Everyone who was lucky enough to get leave over Christmas has taken the opportunity to go home to see their family, but famously, Bradley’s parents are dead and there’s no way in hell he’s going to pick up the phone to Maverick. He can only imagine what that visit would look like – a lot of yelling about pulled papers, most likely. Not exactly the stress-free experience Bradley is after.
All things considered, going to the Christmas party seemed like no skin off Bradley’s back. Which is probably why it didn’t faze him when he found out that Nat’s mother was expecting Nat’s plus one to be her boyfriend. Initially, he laughed it off, confident that anyone who saw them in a room would quickly put two-and-two together, but then Nat started being weird about it.
“Does it really matter?” she asked one night while out for drinks, pressing circles of condensation into the table top with the bottom of her beer glass.
“If we’re lying to your mother?” Bradley had asked, perplexed. “Why would we do that?”
She shrugged, looking more unlike Phoenix than Bradley had ever seen her, shoulders curled forward, like she was trying to make herself physically smaller. “I don’t know. Might make her happy if she thinks I’ve settled down with someone. Maybe it’s not the worst thing if I just…don’t correct her.”
“But won’t she think it’s weird that we don’t seem like a couple?” Bradley pressed. He’s a fighter pilot, not an actor, he wanted to remind her. Bradley had never been good at lying, and he had severe reservations about his ability to keep up a ruse in front of a bunch of Nat’s family members.
“We’re staying overnight,” Nat pointed out, looking up at Bradley. The little crease in between her eyebrows relaxed slightly. “Let that do the talking. We’re technically sleeping together.”
Bradley barely resisted the urge to shudder. Sharing a bed with Nat would be easy; contemplating other activities, however— he’d rather chew his own arm off. “Where’s this coming from?” he had asked, taking a pull of his own beer to try and encourage her to talk. When she stubbornly refused, he sighed. “Nat, please don’t tell me you’ve—”
As it turned out, he never got to ask, because a Lieutenant from the Black Aces had challenged Nat to a game of foosball and she had transformed from Bradley’s friend into Phoenix, the-F18-ice-queen, within a matter of seconds. Suspiciously, she seemed to be on the opposite side of the bar from him for the rest of the night.
It wasn’t until two days before they left that Nat had finally come clean. Maybe, her mother had assumed she was bringing her boyfriend and maybe, Nat hadn’t corrected her. Maybe, Nat’s family are hyper-competitive types, who love nothing more than to show each other up on the two days of the year they spend together, and maybe, Nat is cut from the same cloth. Maybe, Nat has longstanding enmity with her cousin Lena, and maybe, it spawns from their two-month age difference and being the subject of constant comparison. Maybe, Nat found out that Lena is bringing her super-hot, super-successful, finance-bro boyfriend to Christmas, and maybe, Bradley is a stand-in for the incredible person Nat will eventually end up with, because unfortunately, she’s been busy flying fighter jets and hasn’t had the chance to meet them yet.
It’s extremely convoluted. Bradley considers himself a relatively smart guy, but it took a couple of hours to appreciate the mess he’d inadvertently inserted himself into. Even then, he hadn’t properly considered the implications of fake-dating his best friend.
Like kissing, for example.
“What are you thinking?” Nat mutters, wrapping her arms around her legs. It’s so out of character for her to be nervous that Bradley almost doesn’t know what to do with himself. There’s a part of him that wants to lean across the center console and pat her on the back, but neither of them are particularly tactile, which is only now starting to seem like a problem.
Instead, he decides that being encouraging is the best course of action. After all, he’s locked into this mission now. “I’m thinking tactics,” he says, trying to speak in a language they’re both familiar with. “If we’re going to kiss, it should be in front of everyone. Maximum effect. A mistletoe situation.”
Nat snorts. “I haven’t even told you about Aunt Jennifer yet.”
“Wine aunt and mistletoe enthusiast?” Bradley asks, pleased to hear the dry humor returning to Nat’s voice. “Does she chase people with it?”
“Something like that,” Nat admits. “We’ll need to stick together too. Otherwise, Sharon – she’s Uncle David’s wife, by the way – will probably try to lay one on you. Don’t think their marriage is going too well.”
“Shame,” Bradley deadpans. “I’ve been looking for an older woman to—”
Nat makes a gagging noise. “Shut up, Bradshaw.”
Bradley grins. “Okay, so Operation Mistletoe. Tongue, or no tongue?”
“No tongue,” Nat says quickly, to Bradley’s immense relief. He would do it if he had to, but he’s not sure their friendship would ever be the same. He knows Nat’s gonna bitch about the moustache, and he’s not sure he has capacity to take on extensive feedback regarding his kissing technique.
“Copy that,” he confirms. “It makes sense to keep it sweet in front of the family.”
“Not too sweet,” Nat says. “I need you to go full Rooster on them. Diabolical levels of confidence. Pretend you’re swinging through the doors of a bar, about to drink them dry while putting on a one-man piano recital.”
Bradley laughs. “I didn’t even bring a Hawaiian shirt.”
“I’m sure you’ll adapt,” Nat quips, sarcasm slipping into her tone. “I’m just saying, don’t hold back on the peacocking. I will take it personally if a scammy finance-bro outsells my boyfriend.”
Privately, Bradley doesn’t think outselling someone who has probably established a Ponzi scheme will be too difficult. “I got your back, Phoenix,” he promises. “Parameters acknowledged.”
Bradley must give credit where credit is due; Aunt Jennifer is a cunning woman. For starters, she’s hung mistletoe over practically every doorway, which is either going to result in everyone’s lips being catastrophically chafed, or the mass development of spinal problems. Bradley’s neck already hurts from looking up to check his positioning, and he’s only been at this party for an hour. He’s also pretty sure the non-alcoholic punch has been laced with something because Sophia, Nat’s seven-year-old niece with brown pigtails and a pink jacket, has been shooed away from it multiple times.
On the upside, the plague of mistletoe meant that Bradley’s kiss with Nat was over and done with very early. It wasn’t even necessarily Aunt Jennifer’s doing, either. Instead, Nat was forced to lock lips with him in front of everyone as soon as they stepped into the living room, because she introduced him as her boyfriend and seven-year-old Sophia frowned, crossed her arms and said, “Prove it,” extremely loudly.
With the worst of it over, Nat and Bradley settle into a routine of periodically touching each other on the arm and calling each other “darling” for effect. It’s not too bad, actually. In fact, the more Bradley reframes it as a classified mission the more competitive he gets, which is a good thing, because Lena and her boyfriend are laying it on thick. Their first mistletoe kiss involved Lena being literally swept off her feet, and the generous application of tongue.
If Mattel ever created a Californian pilates princess Barbie doll, he’s sure it would look exactly like Lena. She’s petite – five-one or five-two at an absolute maximum – with long, immaculately curled brown hair, swept off her face with a little claw clip. Her pale pink dress sits perfectly against toned, tanned limbs, and Bradley had to corral Nat in a spare bedroom for a good five minutes to remind her that being a fighter pilot is a real job and Lena has impossible proportions because she’s an influencer and is literally paid to look that way.
If Lena is Barbie, then her boyfriend is basically Ken. He’s got a fake smile, an atrociously handsome face and a shoulder-to-waist ratio that makes Bradley feel slightly insecure. They haven’t spoken to each other yet, mostly because Nat seems intent on staying out of Lena’s immediate vicinity, but Bradley’s been analysing the guy anyway. It might be something about his tan skin, warm against the rolled up sleeves of his baby blue shirt, which seems at odds with someone who ostensibly spends hours in the office doing whatever it is that financial services professionals do. Bradley’s got this indescribable feeling that something isn’t adding up. It might be white collar crime, he thinks. Or, it could be something else.
Whatever the Ken doll is up to, Bradley is going to find out. When he mentions it to Nat, she just laughs softly and turns to whisper into his ear. “Do you think he has veneers?”
“Why would I care if he has veneers?” Bradley asks, now looking intently at the man’s teeth in a slightly creepy way. “No, I mean—”
“He’s definitely into crypto,” Nat interjects, reaching up to adjust the adorable, reindeer ear-headband her mom had insisted she wear. Bradley’s going to tease her about it next time they’re on a hop. “Probably created one of those stupid coins and named it after himself.”
That’s not a bad guess, Bradley thinks, albeit not illegal. “What about a pyramid scheme?”
“Oh!” Nat exclaims, clinking their champagne glasses together. “Definitely an MLM boss babe on the side. You think if we talk to him he’ll try and get us to join his downline?”
“Twenty dollars on Herbalife,” Bradley says, sticking out his hand.
Nat looks at the guy, then shakes Bradley’s hand. “I’m going with the one that sells the stupid water filters.”
“Don’t think I’ve ever had to shake hands with a girlfriend before,” Bradley mutters under his breath as Nat snickers into her drink. “Very formal.”
“Watch yourself,” she warns. “I overheard Sharon telling Mom how handsome you are. I could always tell her you’re up for a rendezvous under the mistletoe.”
“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” Bradley bites back, then cranes his neck upwards to check that they’re clear of any offensive plant matter. “Sharon hasn’t even seen me at my best.”
“You mean on the piano?” Nat asks, “because Mom is going to volun-tell you to play that later.”
“I won’t say no,” Bradley muses, pretending he didn’t do a lap around the baby grand to admire it while Nat was being admonished by her older sister for wearing pants instead of a dress. “But I was actually referring to the impressive amount of turkey I can consume.”
“Ew,” Nat teases, wrinkling her nose. “You should never eat poultry. It’s basically cannibalism.”
Bradley raises an eyebrow at her. “Kinda rich coming from you, Phoenix.”
“It’s different,” she argues. “Mythical birds don’t count.”
Bradley spots Aunt Jennifer looking at them in a mildly threatening manner, mistletoe sprig in hand, and steers Nat toward the kitchen instead. Maybe they’ll be safer if they offer to help serve the food. “Whatever you say, honeybunch,” he says, plastering on his most aggressive fake smile.
Nat rolls her eyes. “Glad you agree, sweetheart.”
Bradley gets ample opportunity to find out everything he wants to know about Lena’s boyfriend at dinner. Which is to say, they’re seated next to each other and Nat has abandoned all pretense of civility in an effort to tell Lena just how smitten she is with her incredibly daring, naval aviator boyfriend. Bradley wishes he had the foresight to record the conversation, because he’s pretty sure he’s never going to hear Nat say such nice things about him again.
Lena, for her part, doesn’t seem too interested in Bradley, preferring to talk about her boyfriend, Jake, instead. In fact, watching Lena and Nat go round-for-round is kind of interesting. They’re not actually having a conversation, Bradley realises. They’re just talking at each other.
“So, Bradley,” Jake says, apparently tuning out from the cousin-to-cousin chest-beating. There’s a green bean skewered on his fork, and up close, Bradley notices that it’s a similar color to Jake's eyes, which is an incredibly strange thing to be thinking about. “Is living in Lemoore boring as shit?”
It’s not the question Bradley expected, but he finds he doesn’t mind. It’s better than listening to Nat lie about the extent to which she loves and adores him. “It’s a naval base,” he replies with a shrug. “They’re all pretty much the same. Probably doesn’t compare to whatever a career in finance can buy you.”
Jake hums, but doesn’t reply immediately. Instead he chews on the green bean with a thoughtful expression. “Lena makes it sound like Natasha has such an exciting life.”
“Nat’s a great pilot,” Bradley says carefully, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. In just a few sentences, he’s started to notice that they’re both skirting around certain topics.
“And you?” Jake asks, skewering another bean. “What are your skills like?”
Bradley mirrors him, stabbing a piece of turkey as he recalls Nat’s instructions to peacock as much as possible. “I’m decent.”
Jake swallows, and Bradley finds himself momentarily wrapped up in the way his throat looks when it constricts. He needs to get a grip, stat. The shoulder-to-waist ratio has thrown him for a loop. “I gotta say, Bradley,” Jake says, a smirk pulling at the corner of his lips. “You’re giving me almost nothing to work with here.”
“Almost all of my work is classified,” Bradley points out, although he feels like his face might be flushing. “Not much I can tell you anyway.”
“Could ask me something about myself,” Jake prompts, resting his fork on his plate and leaning back in his chair. “That’s how conversations usually go.”
“Alright,” Bradley says, putting his own fork down and reaching for his glass of wine. “I’ll bite. What do you do with yourself, Jake?”
“Bit of this, bit of that,” Jake replies. It’s starting to feel like a game, Bradley realises. Or perhaps a personal joke that he’s not clued in on. Whatever this guy is playing at, Bradley is in, hook, line and sinker, and he kind of hates himself for wanting to know more.
“Now who’s giving up nothing?” Bradley presses. “Might have to start making assumptions.”
“Do tell,” Jake counters, reaching for his own glass and taking a sip. A splash of red wine stains the bottom of his lip. Bradley momentarily forgets how to breathe. “I’d love to hear your theories.”
“Nat says you’re in finance,” Bradley continues, since that’s the obvious place to start and his brain is still a little hazy from the way Jake’s tongue darts out to wet his lips.
Jake tilts his head slightly. “Makes me seem very boring. Be honest. Would you take financial advice from me?”
“Probably not,” Bradley says drily. “Since you can’t answer a straight question.”
“Should have been an attorney,” Jake muses, without missing a beat. “Way too good at thinking on my feet.”
Bradley rolls his eyes. “Modest, too.”
Jake’s smile widens, dripping with charisma and confidence. “Hard to be modest when you’re the best.”
Bradley wonders what kind of instructions Jake received from Lena, or whether the self-assurance is wholly authentic. A traitorous part of his brain finds he doesn’t mind the bluster. Maybe, he finds it a little attractive. “I still don’t know what it is you do.”
“Don’t mind being an enigma,” Jake says, taking another sip of wine. “Say, mind if I ask you another personal question?”
Bradley resists the urge to sigh. “Would it matter if I did?”
Jake laughs, although it sounds playful rather than vicious. “You got a callsign, right?”
“We all do,” Bradley says bluntly.
“You gonna tell me what it is?” Jake goads, and Bradley wants to tell him to stop drinking because he looks so damn good when he swallows. Maybe he should take his own advice, because the alcohol certainly isn’t helping his dangerous thought patterns.
“You gonna tell me something real about yourself if I do?” Bradley challenges. “I think it’s only fair.”
Jake arches one perfect, blond eyebrow. “You got yourself a deal.”
“Any question I want,” Bradley insists, making sure the rules of engagement are crystal clear. He doesn’t want Jake backing out somehow. He’s too invested for that. “And you have to answer it truthfully.”
Jake waves him off, as if the clarification is unimportant. Bradley doesn’t trust him one bit.
“Fine,” Bradley relents, draining his glass because he’s an idiot. “It’s Rooster.”
Jake, whose glass is halfway to his lips, pauses. After a beat, his eyes briefly drop to Bradley’s lap as he says, “Any reason for that?”
A long-winded explanation about waiting for the right moment and something about sunrises is on the tip of Bradley’s tongue, before a thought hits his alcohol-affected brain. If he’s not mistaken, Jake is asking about his dick. It could be a coincidence – questions about his callsign are not uncommon – but the way Jake is looking at him, burning curiosity mixed with an unequivocal challenge, is something he’s seen shades of before. Maybe, Bradley thinks, he’s not the only fake boyfriend at this party.
He considers his options for a long moment. He could answer Jake’s question honestly. Or, he could use his one and only question to gather some physical evidence. He’s not against the former, it’s just that he’s thoroughly uninterested in the turkey if there’s something better to sink his teeth into.
A quick look at the table confirms that no one is going to notice if he goes missing for a moment. Everyone is wrapped up in their own conversations, and various people have started drifting from the table. One of Nat’s cousins is drinking wine straight out of the bottle. Aunt Jennifer is passionately making out with someone – hopefully her husband – under the mistletoe. Nat and Lena are still in the middle of a heated discussion, if their animated hand gestures are to be believed.
He turns back to Jake, heart beating in his chest as if he’s chasing the target; shooting blind. “Wanna find out?”
“Interesting place to have this discussion,” Jake says, before promptly shutting up as Bradley hauls him through the door of the bathroom with a strong tug on the front of his shirt. For a moment, Jake’s eyes go wide, like he’s trying to work out if Bradley is going to throw a punch, but the smirk settles back onto his features as Bradley crowds him against the bathroom countertop.
“So,” Bradley says conversationally, pressing a hand into the starchy fabric of Jake’s shirt and willing himself out of a spiral about how the muscle feels under his fingertips. “How did Lena convince you to come to this party?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jake defends, lifting his chin. Bradley uses his slight height advantage to stare him down.
“Look,” he says. “I barely know a single thing about you, but I’m not an idiot. You followed me here for a reason, Jake.”
Jake gives him an unbelievably nonchalant shrug. “I asked you a question about your callsign.”
“While looking at my crotch,” Bradley accuses.
“I was hoping it wasn’t an indication you were going to peck me to death,” Jake replies, mirth in his eyes as he scans Bradley’s face. “At least I know one thing for certain. You’re sure as shit not dating Natasha.”
“I love Nat to bits,” Bradley says fiercely. “Which means I wouldn’t be hauling you in here if I was actually dating her.”
“Interesting,” Jake observes, reaching out to flick one of Bradley’s shirt buttons. “And what are you planning on doing with me?”
Bradley bites down an extremely frustrated noise. “Jesus Christ, you’re one of the most annoying people I’ve ever met.”
“And yet here we are,” Jake murmurs, his smile turning dangerous, bottom lip caught momentarily in between his teeth. “You and me, this bathroom, our dates fighting with each other over god knows what—”
“Are you gonna answer my question or do I need to walk out?” Bradley asks, point blank. He’s thinking about it too, because he’s not sure all the back and forth is worth it, except that a sick part of him actually really likes the challenge. Nothing worth having ever comes easy, which is saying something about Bradley, because he’s dragging a man he’s spoken to for all of twenty minutes around his fake-girlfriend’s aunt’s house to have his way with him.
Jake raises an eyebrow. Bradley makes a mental note to ask him how he has such great control over his facial muscles. “May I propose another game?”
“Depends,” Bradley huffs. “Are you gonna play by the rules this time?”
Jake nods, eyes darting to Bradley’s lips. “Maybe.” When Bradley takes a step towards the door, he catches him by the wrist. “Wait. Yes.”
Bradley allows himself to be coaxed back into Jake’s space, before Jake pushes himself up on the counter, grinning like the cat who caught the canary. “You ask me a question,” he says, “and if you like the answer, you can reward me.”
“Reward you?” Bradley asks, stepping between Jake’s legs as they fall open. Oh, his brain supplies, fight’s on.
Jake gives him a mock salute. “However you see fit, Lieutenant.”
Bradley’s never really had a thing for titles, but hearing it on Jake’s lips makes him second guess everything. Ironically, he’s finding out more about himself than he is about the man on the counter. “Are you actually dating Lena?”
“No,” Jake admits. “She asked me to be her date for tonight to one-up her cousin.”
The confirmation feels better than getting tone lock in a dogfight. Bradley grins. “So, you’re single, right?”
“That’s two questions,” Jake says, holding up his fingers as if Bradley needs a visual reminder of how math works. “But yes.”
“Cool,” Bradley breathes, reaching up to wrap his hand around the base of Jake’s head, drawing him closer. It’s an extremely lame thing to say to someone you’re trying to hook up with, but whatever, Bradley’s never had a way with words. “Is this a good reward?”
“Suits just fine,” Jake murmurs, his breath ghosting along Bradley’s cheek. “As long as you’re actually gonna kiss me.”
Bradley has to resist the urge to smile too hard, leaning forward to meet Jake halfway. His hands drop to the countertop next to Jake’s thighs as Jake threads his fingers through Bradley’s hair, anchored steady as he presses their lips together. The proximity is enough to generate a head rush that has nothing to do with the wine Bradley can taste on Jake’s lips and with the slightest persuasion, Jake deepens the kiss, his tongue brushing hot and intoxicating against Bradley’s own.
The whole thing feels a bit juvenile – a clandestine hook up in someone else’s bathroom gives Bradley flashbacks to his high school days – but it’s passionate and all-consuming in a way which promises more. There’s a definite spark, written into the way Jake rakes his teeth over Bradley’s bottom lip, and if this is how good one kiss feels, the prospect of other activities makes Bradley feel slightly weak in the knees.
“Another question,” Bradley says after a couple of glorious minutes spent making out, shifting one hand to rest on Jake’s thigh. Jake simply hums against Bradley’s neck, where he’s unbuttoned enough shirt to suck an incriminating bruise just below the collar. Beautiful and smart, Bradley thinks. “There’s no way you work in finance.”
“That’s a statement,” Jake points out, admiring his handiwork before he momentarily tucks a finger into the chain of Bradley’s dog tags. “These are more attractive than I thought they’d be.”
Bradley closes his eyes momentarily, enjoying the feeling of Jake’s hands on his neck. “Do you work in finance?” he deflects, opening his eyes to find Jake watching him with a bemused expression.
“With this body?” he quips, moving a hand to cup the back of Bradley’s neck. “With this face?”
“You look good,” Bradley tells him, even though he clearly doesn’t need the ego boost. “But you need to learn to answer questions.”
“I can be incentivized,” Jake teases, pulling Bradley closer. “I’m a first responder. Fire. Funnily enough, a lieutenant.”
“Shit,” Bradley breathes, admittedly impressed. “Why didn’t you lead with that?”
Jake stops accosting Bradley’s jaw for as long as it takes to shrug and say, “Lena didn’t think the pay grade was impressive enough.”
Bradley snorts. “Trust me, Nat is not motivated that way.”
“Yeah, well,” Jake says, his thumb stroking Bradley’s earlobe. “As long as I can motivate you somehow—”
There’s no hesitation in the kiss Bradley shuts him up with, and Jake responds hungrily. The frantic energy intensifies when Bradley manages to get his hands under Jake’s shirt, and fuck the man really is a Ken doll because he has abs that shouldn’t be legal, even when he’s sitting on a bathroom counter.
The soft whine he pulls from Jake’s lips makes Bradley feel lit up like a Christmas tree, and when Jake wraps his legs around his waist, well, Bradley has half a mind to suggest they lose a couple layers of clothing. He has to constantly remind himself that he’s in a near-stranger’s bathroom, mere feet away from Natasha’s entire family, which is very difficult when Jake’s lips are ravaging his mouth and his jaw and his throat. Bradley wants to wreck him.
One hand inevitably finds its way to Jake’s lower back, pulling him impossibly closer, and the movement makes Jake drop one to the counter to stabilize himself. Unfortunately, his hand lands on the turtle-shaped soap dish sitting next to him, which goes clattering into the sink, forcing them to break apart.
“Fuck,” Jake says breathlessly, peering into the sink to check the damage. The soap dish remains intact, but the hazy, dangerous bubble of desire has definitely popped. “My bad.”
“Probably for the best,” Bradley says, thoroughly uninterested in the soap dish when he has his hands on Jake. He presses a kiss to the corner of Jake’s lips, just because he can.
“Your hair is fucked,” Jake tells him, without a hint of regret.
Bradley quirks his eyebrows. “And whose fault is that?”
“You complaining?” Jake counters, running his fingers through the top of Bradley’s hair, roughly combing it in place. “It’s sexy. I think I improved it.”
“You’re going to need to fix your shirt,” Bradley observes, tugging Jake’s collar back into place. “This is not office appropriate.”
Jake hums, then tips Bradley’s chin with one of his fingers, coaxing him back in for a kiss. “HR would definitely have its hands full with—”
“Oh my god,” comes a voice from over Bradley’s shoulder, and fuck, Nat really is a stealth pilot because he didn’t even hear the bathroom door open. Instead, her presence is announced by a couple of choice curse words and the quick slam of the bathroom door behind her. “What the fuck, Bradshaw?”
Bradley spins on the spot, mind racing with lackluster ideas about how to explain his current predicament. “Nat, I—”
Somehow, he registers that she’s smiling. He wonders whether he’s stepped into an alternate reality or whether Jake has simply kissed all of the brain cells out of his head.
“So, you’re definitely not Lena’s boyfriend,” she accuses, looking past Bradley to find Jake, who is hopping off the bathroom counter and pulling his shirt down suspiciously.
“Depends who’s asking,” Jake says, because he has no idea how dangerous Nat can be when she really locks onto something.
“No point lying,” Bradley tells him. “She’ll beat it out of you if she has to.”
“Not amenable to a reward system,” Jake muses. “Okay.”
“Spill,” she demands. “Before I bring Aunt Jennifer in here with a sprig of mistletoe and make you both kiss Sharon.”
“Jake is a firefighter,” Bradley declares, which unfortunately generates some very sexy visuals. Maybe he’s into a man in uniform. Maybe there’s a calendar. “He’s not gonna sell you Herbalife.”
Jake snorts, as Natasha says, “You owe me twenty dollars. Actually, fifty, because I had to watch you kiss someone.” Then, she points to Jake. “Where did Lena acquire you?”
“At the pilates studio,” Jake admits, without a shred of embarrassment. “What?” he defends, when Nat raises an eyebrow. “It’s a great workout. Everyone could do with a little more core strength and flexibility.”
Flexibility. Bradley wonders if he’s gonna spontaneously melt onto the bathroom tiles. He needs to get a grip, but it’s kind of hard when Jake is a walking wet dream who apparently has a great range of motion.
“Cool,” Nat says, looking between them. “So, here’s what’s gonna happen. We’re all going to leave this bathroom pretending like I never saw this, until I find the perfect moment to tell Lena I’m onto her lie. You,” she points at Bradley, “are gonna keep it in your pants until tomorrow, and you,” she points at Jake, “are gonna make yourself look slightly less perfect than Bradshaw for the rest of the night.”
“Just agree,” Bradley grits out as Jake opens his mouth, presumably to protest.
“I was just going to ask when Bradley is allowed to stop keeping it in his pants,” Jake says sweetly, although it gets the precise reaction he was probably aiming for.
Natasha scowls at him. “Whatever you two get up to outside of this house is none of my business.”
“I have this place booked in Pismo Beach from tomorrow—” Bradley starts, before Nat squawks.
“That place is a two bedroom!” she argues, crossing her arms over her chest. “And you promised I could have the second one!”
“That’s okay,” Jake replies breezily, “we only need one bed.”
“I didn’t sign up to be a third wheel for the holidays,” Nat huffs, eyeing off Jake. “You only just met him, he’s been my fake-boyfriend for years now.”
Bradley shrugs. “I’m sure we can work out some kind of custody arrangement.”
“Please stop,” Nat protests, putting her hand back on the door knob. “I’m leaving, and I better see you both back in the living room in less than five minutes.”
“Yes ma’am,” Jake drawls, patting Bradley on the shoulder. “I’ll make sure he looks real good for you.”
Later, when the lights are out and they’re lying in bed, Bradley rolls over to find Nat pummelling her pillow into an acceptable shape, before flopping down on her side. “Hey,” he says, squinting through the dark, “I’m sorry for being the worst fake-boyfriend ever.”
Nat makes an exasperated sound and kicks him gently under the duvet. “Never thought I’d be saying this tonight, but you owe me, Bradshaw.”
“I have a place in Pismo Beach,” Bradley jokes, tucking his hands under his pillow.
“Does that place come with an annoying blond?” Nat bites back. “Don’t remember signing up for that.”
Bradley smiles through the dark. “You’re still my best friend,” he says. “I’ll un-invite Jake if it’s going to make you uncomfortable.”
Nat sighs deeply. “And let you miss out on your holiday romance? I don’t think so, Bradley.” Then, she rolls over, taking most of the duvet with her. Bradley tugs it back aggressively. “I’m only gonna say it once though,” she mutters. “The walls in that place better be thick.”