The Pairing(25)

We both fall apart in laughter, mine shot through with relief. The tension is gone, and that easy current from lunch gushes in like water in the fountain. As long as we can keep finding our way back here, we’ll be fine. We just need an endless supply of Florians.

Which gives me an idea.

“You know who else might have a chance?” I ask Kit.

“Who?”

“One of us.” Kit’s still half laughing, like he doesn’t think I mean it. “I’m serious! He was flirting with both of us. We have a head start.”

Kit shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

“Come on, I’ll prove it.”

“Theo, don’t—”

He grabs a handful of my sleeve to stop me. I raise my eyebrows, and he lets it go, pauses, then smooths it back into place.

“Why not?”

“I—I just mean—” His olive face has taken on a faint tinge of mauve. “If it’s going to be one of us, why not me?”

Oh. I recognize this approach. Back when we were friends, we used to occasionally compete for the same people. Occupational (bisexual) hazard.

“Is that a challenge, Fairfield?”

“Maybe,” Kit says. “But then, if Fabrizio could pull Florian, maybe the true challenge would be Fabrizio. By the transitive property.”

“Fabrizio’s more available, though. We’re always with him,” I say. “With Florian, there’s a finite window of opportunity. A Florian Fuck Window.”

“Sure, but let’s say one of us succeeds within the Florian Fuck Window,” Kit counters. “The other could just do the same with someone else in the next city. It wouldn’t be a meaningful victory.”

“What are you suggesting? A tournament bracket?”

“I’m not suggesting anything,” he says, though he doesn’t look disinterested, “but if I was, I think it would be a matter of seducing a local in the greatest number of individual cities.”

Huh. Now that’s an idea.

I touch my chin with two fingers, thinking. It started as a bit, but now I’m seeing the potential benefits of a friendly-but-horny rivalry. I like us like this. If having sex with other people will keep things with Kit stable enough to enjoy my trip, and we both get an outlet for any leftover sexual friction, then why not?

“A body-count competition,” I muse.

“You don’t have to phrase it like we’re murdering them, but yes, essentially.”

“We do both already have one, from Paris . . .” The more I think about it, the better it sounds. In fact, the longer I look at Kit, the more I want to have sex with someone.

“Wait,” Kit says. “You’re being serious? You actually want to compete?”

“It sounds fun. I’m down. Are you?”

When I look into Kit’s eyes, I can practically see the pleasure receptors in his brain crackling. He can’t say no, not a hedonist like him.

“Define hookup. Does that include making out, or over the clothes, or—?”

“At least one person has to come,” I say.

“Oh.” Kit blinks. “That’s easy, then.”

“Is it?”

“What, is it not easy for you?”

“No, it’s easy for me.”

“I personally do it all the time.”

“So do I,” I say. “That’s what makes it a competition. I’m like, the number one seed. Of fucking.”

Kit touches his chin. “Proud of you for resisting a seed joke.”

“Thank you, I’m very strong,” I say. “So, what do you think? A little sex wager between friends?”

For a long moment, Kit doesn’t say anything at all. He just looks at me, searching my face so intently that I feel his gaze like a touch.

Then, like he did on that cliff in Dover, he puts out his hand.

“Okay,” he says. “Let’s do it.”

I grin. “Let’s do it.”

When I take his hand, it’s smudged with ink from his sketchbook. His skin burns hot against my palm.

“One more thing, though,” Kit says. His thumb presses into the back of my hand. “Is that star of Fatal Attraction Glenn Close?”

I turn to look, and Kit takes off toward the bar.





“Ah, finally!” Fabrizio sings when I board the bus late the next morning. “Our little conquistadore!”

Orla shoves the clipboard at me.

“Go on, we haven’t got all day.”

“Be kind to my Theodora,” Fabrizio says. “It is not her fault. She is in love!”

“I’m not—”

“I am always so happy when my guests sample the local cuisine on their own,” Fabrizio says, winking lavishly. “And when it becomes love! Orla, do you remember the German girl two summers ago, who tried to tell us to leave her in Barcelona with the sailor? Ah, they are married now!”

I push on down the aisle, accepting a round of applause from the Calums and envious but not unfriendly looks from Dakota and Montana. At my seat, Kit is against the window wearing a patterned terry button-down and very small matching shorts.

I heave my pack into the overhead, grab the nearest small item from the outermost pocket, and chuck it at him.