Free Stuff (The Bristol Collection) by Josephine Myles

turned with a smile. “You’re a man after my own heart, you know that? I mean, this is like the best, biggest, most well-coordinated wardrobe I’ve ever set foot in. Not that I’ve ever set foot in a wardrobe before. Well, not since I was little and trying to hide so I didn’t have to go to church. Never bloody worked, though, did it? And I can’t believe you’ve got a tiny little kitchen like that and a great big dressing room. You’ve definitely got your priorities straight. You sure you’re not gay? Because this room suggests otherwise.”
    Mas stepped forward, and Perry jerked back, tea slopping over the tops of the mugs. “Blast!”
    “Hey, you okay? Not scalded or nothing?” Mas reached out to take the teas and placed them down on the floor before grabbing hold of Perry’s hand. “Nah, you’re fine. Water wasn’t hot enough.” He glanced down at the mugs. “Thought you didn’t have any milk?”
    “I might have lied.” Perry pulled his hand out of Mas’s grasp, but not with anything like disgust. More like confusion, if Mas was any judge. And he was normally pretty hot at figuring out those little signs of interest from otherwise “straight” men.
    “You, telling a fib?” Mas tutted. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep it quiet. I’ve been known to tell the odd tall story myself.”
    “I don’t believe you,” Perry said, totally straightfaced. It took a moment for Mas to detect the glimmer in his eye.
    “Good one.” He chuckled. “We’ll have you lying like a pro before you know it. Trust me, you’re in the hands of a master. Nothing nasty, though. Just, you know, little white lies like telling your friends their new clothes look totally hot on them and they’ll definitely pull. And over-the-top anecdotes when I’m trying to impress people. That’s the good kind of lying. That’s free entertainment, making up stories on the spot.”
    “So you’re a raconteur?”
    “Something like that. More of a gobshite, probably, but hey, it sounds better in French. Everything sounds better in French, doesn’t it? Menage a trois, la petite mort, French kissing. Oh, mon amour! Mon cheri!” Mas pulled what he hoped was an orgasmic expression, his eyes almost shut, but just wide enough to clock Perry’s reaction.
    Perry licked his lips, and his pupils dilated.
    Bingo.
    But Mas would have to wait until Perry was ready to pounce. In the meantime, if he tried anything too suggestive, the poor bloke would probably get spooked and run a mile.
    So instead of pushing his point, Mas leaned down to pick up the mugs, handing one over to Perry. “Oops, there’s a tea stain on the floor now.”
    Perry peered down at it with a disapproving frown. “I should get a cloth.”
    Mas watched him stalk over to the kitchenette, grab a cloth from the sink and then head back. Perry was still moving like clockwork. There was something stiff about him—and not in the good kind of way. He looked like a man who needed his joints oiling.
    He also looked like someone who needed a good laugh, but it looked like he was too tightly wound to do that in front of anyone he wasn’t close to. And was he close to anyone at all? It didn’t sound that way, if Mas was the first person to come up here.
    Okay, so project one. Get Perry to laugh. Anything that came after that would be a bonus.
    Mas eyed Perry over the top of his mug as a plan began to form.

Chapter Eight
    Mas seemed thoughtful as Perry led him back down to the shop again. Perry would have thought he was sad if it weren’t for the way he kept smiling to himself. Like there was a rapid-fire conversation going on inside his head, and it was all entertaining. What would it be like to have a mind like that? The days must whip past so much faster.
    Perhaps they could even be fun.
    Because despite the fear of showing Mas his living quarters, Perry had to admit he hadn’t been bored for one second. No, spending time with Mas was…exciting. Exciting for Perry, anyway. No