Unlikely in Love Read online

  “You okay?” Dan asked, his breath wafting on my cheek. “You have goose bumps.”

  I smiled. “I’m good. Just thinking ahead to happy times.”

  His blue eyes twinkled. “Good to hear. I’ve been waiting a while to get this close to you. I never thought you’d be interested in me.”

  I gaped. “Whatever would give you that idea?”

  He shrugged. “You’re always with Radcliffe for one, and he scares me. Secondly, the guys I’ve seen you flirting with in here aren’t usually as hairy as me. I’m a bit of a bear, I’m told. Some guys don’t dig it.”

  I leaned forward and buried my face in his bristly neck, inhaling the raw, masculine scent of him. “I love bears,” I murmured. “They’re my favourite animal.”

  His slow smile promised me I wouldn’t regret it, and then his lips found mine again.

  ****

  Dan is still my cuddle bear, and next week we’ll have been together a year. He’s still running the gym, I’m still an urban planner and both of us love the life we have. It’s happy, filled with raunchy sex, and a lot of love. I got my ice cube kink itch scratched (many times) and Dan got his arse slapped, together with other things. I never thought he’d be into that kind of thing, but hey, that’s what love does. It’s all about negotiation.

  Oh, and one last thing. I can bench press a hella lot more than fifty pounds nowadays. #JustSayin.

  The End

  Dear Davey

  Dear Davey

  I’m sorry to be bothering you with this problem, but I guess you’re used to it. I love your column. You always seem to talk such sense.

  I bleated hysterically. The day Davey Turner-Beaumont spoke sense was the day Ru Paul came out as a bear and grew a beard.

  Sequestered in my tiny cubicle, I leaned forward in my typist chair and peered around at my colleagues in the office (all seven of them), in case anyone was getting up to make coffee. Sadly, everyone looked otherwise occupied and coffee could not be mooched.

  I huffed in annoyance and returned to reading the latest entreaty from Daisy, Confused Lesbian, from Winchester.

  I have a question. My girlfriend and I have been in a relationship for a year, and over the last few months, we’ve noticed our periods sync. Is this normal?

  I blinked. I had no fucking idea. Being one hundred percent homo and a bona fide card-carrying twink, I was a stranger to the vagaries of the female menstrual cycle. However, I knew that was simply not good enough. Dear Davey had to know these things. He was the trusted confidante of millions of people around the globe (well, okay a readership of seven thousand, about one percent of whom probably ever contacted the column), yet I dispensed advice like a barman serving cosmos in a gay club.

  The magazine I wrote for, Lucy Lush, prided itself on being the purveyor of quality entertainment news and wisdom to insightful questions. I know—that name sounds like it should belong to a porn star, right? That’s what I’d told my friend Lucy when she first started the publication two years ago. Her reply was to slap me on the side of the head with a chicken baguette. I had mayonnaise in my hair the whole day. My bestie, Becca, in the next cubicle over, had said it looked like creamed spunk.

  I backed up my chair and popped my lips, like Donkey in Shrek. Becca raised one eyebrow. She was a master at the art of the aloof, snarky look.

  “Another weird question you can’t answer?” she said with a roll of her heavily made-up, impossibly huge blue eyes. I stared, fascinated. Those eyelashes reminded me of a lady giraffe in drag makeup. If I’d been straight, I’d have been really into her. She was pretty as hell.

  I scowled. “Darling, I can answer anything. That’s why Google exists.”

  To prove myself correct, I typed, “do women’s menstrual cycles sync” into the search bar. I was instantly flooded with clinical reports, blog posts and more information about that time of the month than I’d ever wanted to know. Thank god I hadn’t clicked on the image section. I don’t think I could have coped.

  I read through the articles and posts, humming, making the required soft noises of agreement and surprise, stopping instantly when something flew across the divider and hit me on the nose.

  “Ow,” I exclaimed, shooting daggers at Becca. “What the hell was that for?”

  “You sound like you’re having an orgasm at your desk,” she hissed. “It’s most off-putting.”

  I pouted. “Gurl, when I’m having an orgasm, you’ll know all about it.” I preened. “I’ve been told I’m exceptionally vocal when I come.”

  The sound of spluttering from across the cubicle on the other side of the aisle told me I’d been overheard. That was often the case. I tended to be a bit loud and I had no filters.

  I looked over to see our burly and ever-so-gorgeous colleague, Gus, trying to clean up the Coke he’d obviously spat all over his desk.

  “Oops,” I smirked. “Sorry, Gus. Sometimes I say the first words that come into my head.”

  Gus was my secret man crush. Dark auburn hair, deep green eyes, hands like hams and a backside that filled out his customary chinos to perfection; the man was my idea of a wet dream. He was the quiet one in the office. He kept to himself, was always supportive of the office staff and was a bit of a softie. He never had a bad word to say about anyone. He was so unlike me, who did flouncy diva better than anyone within a fifty-mile radius.

  If drama queen were an Olympic sport, I’d win gold, no question.

  I thought Gus batted for my team, but I hadn’t managed to prove it yet, other than overheard conversations about going out where no women ever seemed to be involved.

  He often caught my eye when we were in the lunchroom. I guess, to be honest, it was when I was checking him out. He’d look away quickly, brows furrowed. After all the mishaps that seemed to occur when I was around him, I’d figured out he was trying to think of a way to dispose of my body without being caught.

  I’d go out with him in a heartbeat. Gentlemen were hard to find nowadays. Becca told me to take my own advice and ask the man out. All he could do was say no, or perhaps beat me up in a dark alley. I’d been thinking about it, but hadn’t summoned up the courage yet.

  Gus waved a Coke-smeared hand in a no-problem gesture while Becca glared over at me.

  “You,” she spluttered. “What the hell do you have against poor Gus?”

  My eyes widened innocently. “What on earth could you possibly mean?”

  “That poor man,” Becca hissed. “He always seems to bear the brunt of your antics.”

  “What antics?” I squawked. “He’s always in the wrong place at the wrong time, that’s all.”

  I picked up my multi-coloured penis stress doodah—it was surprisingly solid—and lobbed it at her. It went sailing past her head and cubicle, and ended up smacking poor Gus on the back of the head. He’d just taken a sip of his drink and I winced as the tin rattled against his teeth.

  Crap. I’d just proven her theory. Again. I’d never hear the end of it.

  Gus turned slowly, his eyes darting automatically in my direction. I waved at him feebly, mouthing “Sorry” once again. He turned around and stared once again at his computer screen.

  Once, I’d tripped him up when I stuck my foot out in the aisle doing my stealthy Tai Chi move. I’d been sitting for so long my arse was frozen to the chair and I needed to stretch my legs. Gus had given this unmanly squeak, fell over my size eights and face-planted straight at the booted feet of my fellow copywriter, Vivian. All that minx could do was giggle coyly and offer to help him up and brush him off. When I’d seen where her hand was heading, I’d snarled softly and she’d shot me a look of surprise. She’d kept her hands to herself after that.

  Becca raised an eyebrow. “See what I mean? Remember the feather incident?” she prompted softly, a gleam in her eye.

  My face flamed. “That really wasn’t my fault. I had no idea Hayley was going to turn on the industrial fan because she was gleaming. I mean, why doesn’t she just say ‘sweat’ like t
he rest of us and go outside for some air?”

  Backstory: I’d brought in the feathers that day to give to Mrs G (Georgia)—the unofficial mum of the office and Lucy’s right-hand lady—because she’d been wanting to re-stuff a pillow. My mate Rufe had a home decor shop that sold all sorts of stuffing materials and one of the items he stocked was duck feathers. I’d brought in the bag, opened it and was getting ready to call Mrs G over to show her the goods when Hayley had turned on the fan, and a piece of paper had flown in my face. I’d got a bit of a fright, tossed the open bag into the air and…you guessed it, poor Gus had been passing by at the time. He’d been covered with white fluffy duck stuff, while around him the whole office had burst into fits of laughter. Gus had given a whole new meaning to the phrase “spitting feathers.”

  There had been other incidents with Gus, like the feather debacle, and I truly believed the universe was trying to tell me something. What, I had no clue. As long as it didn’t end in violence to my person, I was okay with that.

  My Dear Davey inbox pinged with another message. I perked up. Two in one day? That was progress. By the time the publication went out in a few days’ time, I might even be up to three or four. Of course, this wasn’t all I did for the magazine. I was a damn good copywriter too. My agony column was just a distraction, something Lucy had thought would be fun.

  Dear Davey

  I’m in a bit of a conundrum. There’s this guy in my office I want to get to know outside work but I have no idea how to ask him out. I know he swings my way because…yeah, he’s pretty open about it. He’s funny, cute as hell, and has the sexiest laugh. I’m just not sure he’s interested in me. I’m not really his usual type. I think he might be someone special, though.

  What can I do to resolve this without making a fool of myself?

  G-Man

  PS I don’t want this in the magazine, but wondered whether you could respond to me via email and give me the advice? I’m not a fan of going public with my issues.

  Now, this was more like it. Dear Davey had an answer for this one, based on personal experience. Even though I wasn’t supposed to engage with people on a personal level, magazine liability, lawsuits, blah blah blah—boring—I hastily penned a reply to Daisy to be included with her question in the issue.

  Dear Daisy

  The Internet is a great place to look up these sorts of issues. I can tell you there’s a lot of opinions out there about your matter, some saying yes, women close together do tend to adopt the same menstrual cycle, and others saying it’s an urban legend. Why don’t you look at the links I found here and read further? I’m sure that might give you some answers. You understand I’m not an expert on this, being a guy, LOL, and my column can’t give any advice other than plain common sense :)

  Done. Now I could focus on G-Man’s question. I was never one to stand in the way of what could be true love. I know I’m sappy, but that’s the way I roll.

  Dear G-Man

  I’m not supposed to answer questions directly but you sound like you could do with some help. My advice to you is to woo him. Not the sing ballads under his window while playing a mandolin type of wooing, although, for some, that would work —I sighed dreamily—rather, figure out what he’s interested in and leave a little prezzie on his desk now and then, or perhaps a card from a secret admirer. Get him interested. Then, when he’s drawn in, pop the question. Would you like to get dinner sometime with me? Not just a drink. Asking someone for merely a drink smacks of I’m gonna get you drunk then plough your arse. Dinner shows a level of sophistication.

  A possibility, take him to a fancy Italian restaurant and feed him fettuccine alfredo. (That always works with me when someone wants to take me on a date. So maybe his kink is Italian food too.)

  Of course, this is all a pipedream unless the guy is single. NEVER come between a man and his significant other, if he has one. That’s a recipe for disaster.

  I still remembered Gavin with his dark blue eyes, broad shoulders and a husband at home. I’d kicked him to the kerb the minute I’d found out. Some things you didn’t mess with or karma would hunt you down and make you pay. Possibly in STDs.

  Now go get him, Tiger. Good luck. Let me know how you get on.

  I hit Send with a satisfied sigh and leaned back in my chair, nibbling at my nails. I stared at my collection of colourful toy dinosaurs, arranged along the top of my cubicle, held there with Blutack. I loved anything to do with the creatures, to the point of obsession. Did you know Nicholas Cage shares my fascination? He once outbid Leonardo DiCaprio in an auction for a dinosaur skull.

  My small flat was a cornucopia of dinosaur tack, and I loved it. Especially my green Tea-Rex teapot. That was my pride and joy.

  I left the office that day happy I’d done my job and brought some wisdom to my enquiring customers.

  I have to admit while I was popping my frozen cottage pie in the microwave, I craved some fettuccine alfredo with garlic bread and a glass of wine. Guys I met didn’t take me out to dinner that much. Something to do with the fact I chatted too much, apparently asked too many questions and my long limbs had an annoying habit of knocking stuff over, or ending up slapping someone in the face as I explained the theory of dinosaur extinction a little too enthusiastically.

  My mum told me one day I’d meet the right fella, who’d take me as I am because I was a young man anyone could be proud of. But Mums have to say that, it’s all part of being a parent, isn’t it?

  ****

  A week later I still hadn’t heard back from G-Man. I assumed he’d either got his man or been fobbed off to slink into a hole, never to emerge. I hoped it was the former. I loved happy endings.

  Becca and I went off to the pub that day at lunchtime and returned giggling after consuming a glass of wine each. Both of us were lightweights when it came to afternoon booze.

  “Ooh, Davey, look at that,” Becca squealed when she spotted the brightly wrapped box on my desk. “Are you expecting anything?”

  I shook my head doubtfully. “Nope. My new dildo doesn’t arrive ’til next week, so it can’t be that.” I picked up the parcel and shook it. It made no noise. “It’s addressed to me, so it’s definitely for me. Interesting…”

  “Well, open it, you idiot,” Becca snapped. “I want to see what it is.”

  I sat down with her hovering over me like a hummingbird, and then carefully I peeled the paper away. I hated ruining wrapping paper, especially when it was as pretty as this. It had dinosaurs on it in all shapes and colours.

  Revealed under the wrapping was a long, plain cardboard box.

  Intrigued, I ripped it open.

  My squeal of delight must have been heard as far away as Timbuktu. Nestled inside the box, in wreaths of soft, green tissue paper were the dinosaur cup and saucer set I’d had my eye on for a couple of months. My finances didn’t stretch to buying them so I’d stared starry-eyed at them on the Internet when I needed some cheering up.

  There were four of them made of delicate bone china, pale green with images of different dinosaurs on them, stunningly rendered and hand-painted.

  I picked one cup out and lovingly traced the intricate leaf pattern on the side. Becca’s eyes were as big as spaceships.

  “Oh wow,” she gasped, peering into the box. “Someone really likes you—someone who knew you’d give your left nut for these.”

  I winced. “No nuts of mine were given in the receipt of this gift,” I declared loftily, still filled with insane happiness. “Whoever it was must be in the office, because this is the only place I’ve drooled over these beauties.” I eyed my fellow workers, who were also good friends. You had to be when you worked in a small office like this one.

  “Oi, you lot, ‘fess up. Who deserves my undying love and perhaps a kiss with a bit of tongue?”

  Mrs G, Eddy, Adam and Lucy all shook their heads. Adam looked rather intrigued and I thought perhaps it was the tongue thing that had got him all stirred up. He’d been trying to get me on a date for a while
but while he seemed to be an okay guy, he really wasn’t my type.

  Lucy peered at me over the edge of her glasses. “Not guilty,” she announced. “But you might want to ask that big lug standing behind you.”

  I turned, about to object at Lucy calling Becca a big lug. Yes, she was big-boobed but lug was not a word I’d use. I saw Gus, barely two feet away, an uncertain smile on his face. Beside him, Becca was grinning like a fool.

  I swear my heart was going to take flight.

  “You bought me this? Why?” I stuttered. “Oh. My. God.” The penny dropped. “You’re G-Man!”

  Gus nodded bashfully. “You like them then?” His face was pink. “I’ve seen you looking at them, and thought, what better gift to give someone you want to ask on a date.” He grinned then to a barrage of hoots and catcalls from everyone in the office. “I had a bit of help.” He smiled at Becca, who, as my lying, secretive tart of a friend, had the grace to look both guilty and magnanimous. I narrowed my eyes at her in an I’ll-deal-with-you-later glare. Truthfully, I was going to hug her to bits then buy her more gin and ginger beers that she could ever imbibe.

  Gus was still talking. “Some agony aunt I know said it might be the best way to a man’s heart. Along with taking him for fettuccine alfredo at Pasta Pizza. Perhaps tomorrow night, around eight p.m.? I know you like to take your time to get ready after work.”

  I was so going to marry this man. He was perfect. Sneaky but perfect.

  “And maybe after dinner, you can give me that thing you promised.” Gus blushed like crazy.

  I frowned. What had I promised? Oh yeah. Undying love and a kiss with tongue.

  I finally found my voice. “Tomorrow night sounds like a plan, G-Man. I’m yours. As for the other stuff—the kiss is a definite, the other one—we’ll have to wait and see.”