Page 34 of The Unlikely Pair

I try to adjust to the reality of having Harry Matheson’s body pressed against me, his heat seeping through the layers of our clothing, his soft breath tickling the fine hairs on my neck.

We’re both lying so stiffly that a pair of cryogenically frozen lab rats could sub in for us.

But it turns out there is one thing about Harry Matheson that I do like.

His warmth. It envelops me, chasing away the chill that had settled deep in my bones. It’s like being spooned by a giant, sentient hot water bottle, except this one has a posh accent and a superiority complex.

Harry’s arm settles across my waist tentatively, with the hesitancy of a man reaching into a lion’s cage, half expecting to pull back a stump instead of a hand.

“Is this all right?” he asks. His voice is low, a rumble I feel more than hear, his lips barely grazing the shell of my ear.

Somehow, him whispering into my ear reminds me of previous times when I’ve had someone so close asking me if what they were doing was all right. Times with hookups or lovers, when mutual touches of pleasure were being exchanged. Times of tangled limbs and heated whispers.

I really don’t want to associate any of those experiences with Harry Matheson. I’m going to seriously need disinfectant to bleach that thought from my mind.

I will my body to not respond to his touch because that will be the ultimate humiliation, to get an erection while I’m in the arms of the straight leader of the Conservative Party. I focus on the roughness of the ground beneath the survival blanket, where I fancy I can feel every pebble and pine needle, anything to distract from the warmth of his body and the rhythm of his breathing.

“Yes, it’s all right.” I match his tone in a whisper.

“Go to sleep,” he instructs.

As much as I don’t want to obey Harry Matheson, I can’t deny his idea holds appeal. If only because it gives me a chance to escape this current reality.

And so I end the most bizarre day of my life in a place I never, ever thought I’d find myself.

Harry Matheson’s arms.

Chapter Ten

Harry

It’s the pale light of early morning.

Toby is still asleep. It’s his second turn at sleeping. I was meant to wake him at four a.m. for his next turn as watch guard, but he was sleeping so peacefully that I couldn’t bring myself to disturb his slumber.

He turned in his sleep about half an hour ago, and now he’s facing me, his head resting on my chest, nestled into the cocoon of warmth we’ve created under the survival blanket.

I can see the curve of his face angling down to the edge of his wide, generous mouth. And I remember the feeling I had when I first saw Toby across the room in the ski chalet, his face illuminated by a smile.

I’d been transfixed, unable to drag my eyes anywhere else.

Despite our history of animosity, I am still capable of acknowledging his physical allure from an objective standpoint.

I’ve never been this close to Toby before, and now, in the early light, I find myself cataloging the smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose, the few that cascade down onto his cheek. His curls, which I’ve always assumed were uniformly dark, actually have a few dark auburn strands interspersed within them.

My father’s words reverberate in my head.

“If you want to be a politician, you need to be married to a woman. There is no other option, Harry.”

He’d said it to me when I was sixteen. I’d invited my friend Cedric home to our country estate while his parents were abroad. Upon reflection, I’d been less circumspect than I should have been about letting my gaze linger on Cedric’s body when we were swimming.

I’d been rendered speechless when my father said that to me, struggling to control my emotions.

“Do you understand what I’m saying, Harry?”he’d asked when it became evident he’d left me at a loss for words.

I’d swallowed the substantial lump in my throat.

“Yes, Father. I understand.”