Sometime in the last decade in Berkeley, California, a man invented a kind of coffee drink called a latte. The coffee and the milk combined make this beautiful, milky brown colour, and that’s how his skin looks. His hair’s all a scruffy mess from my hands being in it, and I fight the urge to touch it while he sleeps. It’s brown, mostly, flecks of honey through it.
He has facial hair too—more than a five-o’clock shadow, less than a proper beard. More golden than the rest of his hair, and it runs along his immaculate jawline as though it’s been painted on. Two pronounced freckles. One on his right cheek, one to the left of his nose.
And his nose. I think I already told you that it’s the best one I’ve ever seen, but up close, it’s a work of art. Michelangelo himself couldn’t have sculpted it better. Light pink lips that are perfectly balanced, top to bottom, and still they part in the centre anyway, as though something’s weighing them down. Soon it will be me, I’ll weigh down his lips with my own, but for now they rest, parted anyway, and they feel like an invitation. My thumb traces over them without my consent, and Jamison’s eyes blink open.
The eyes. I said they remind me of the earth, which I mean as the highest of compliments, but somehow, it still undersells them. The calmest sea in the world, on the prettiest part of the planet. A tidal wave of blues, flecks of it that I’m sure come directly from those fabled Neverland deposits. They’re like gemstones. Sapphires are too obvious, and his eyes deserve more. Aventurine and lapis lazuli and chrysocolla and dark blue opal—how many kinds of blue is that? Too many. Calling them blue dishonours them. Though staring into them right now, I’ve not got a single clue what else to call them. Whatever colour they are, whatever it is I should be calling them, it’s a question you’d want to spend your whole life trying to answer.
Jamison smiles at me, tired. His eyes look over my face how I was just doing with his. They drift over my mouth, and then his eyes catch and he jerks up a bit.
“Did I get it?”
“What?” I frown.
“Yer kiss.” He stares at my mouth, wide-eyed.
“Oh!” My hand flies to my mouth. “You tell me. Can you see it?”
He squints at my mouth.
“Is it gone?” I press where it used to live.
He pulls back, looking at me all bewildered.
“I think it’s gone,” he says, barely keeping his smile in check.
My eyes go wide. “You got it?”
He nods, bright-eyed.
“Wow.” I laugh, shaking my head. “Congratulations.”
He stretches his arms up behind his head, looking pleased with himself, and I roll my eyes at him.
“I wonder where it went.” I look around for it.
“It must be somewhere around here.” He glances around too, then shrugs, nodding his head over at me. “How do ye feel?”
“I’m starving,” I tell him, and he starts laughing, pushes his hand through my hair.
“Aye, it’ll do that to ye.” He nods. “Briggs!” he calls out. When the house fairy doesn’t appear after a few seconds, he calls again. “Broonie!”
Briggs appears. “Sir?”
“Would ye mind getting us some breakfast, please?”
“Yes, sir.” He nods, backing away. “No baths this morning?”
Jamison points at him. “Watch it.”
Briggs nods once at me. “Apologies,” he says with absolutely no eye contact.
Jem looks back at me, squashing a smile. “God, he’s no’ yer biggest fan.”
I flop my head into his chest and start laughing.
He plays with my hair mindlessly.
“Hunger,” he says, tugging my hair back so I face him again. “Is that the prevailing feeling of the hour?”
I give him a look. “What would you prefer me to say?”
He gives me a gentle look. “You can say anything ye want t’ me.”
I press my lips together, watching him. “I like you more now than before we did that.”
He squashes a smile, nodding.
“You’re really good at that,” I tell him.
He nods confidently. “I am.”
“Why?” I ask delicately.
“Why am I good?”
“Yes.” I nod, then give him a little look. “Is it because…‘many, many’…”
Jamison pinches the bridge of his nose and squints over at me. “I d?nnae know how many girls you think I’ve bedded, but it’s nothin’ outrageous.”
“How many then?” I ask curiously, my chin in my hand on his chest.
“I d?nnae ken.” He shrugs. “Seven? Eight?”
“Including me?”
“Aye.”
Unconsciously, my lips pout as I think of him being like this with anyone but me.
He lifts me up, pulling me on top of him, and he holds my face with his hand. “Believe it or no’, before ye got here, no one else quite pissed me off so much that they drove me into the arms of another woman.”
I frown at him. “So you started having sex with other people because I arrived here?”
“Aye.” He nods.
I pull a face. “Is that a compliment?”
“I d?nnae know.” He laughs, pulling a face back. “But it’s a commentary on something, sure.”
“Are you good though, because of the practice?” I rephrase my question to be more delicate.
“That cannae hurt.” He shrugs. “But sex is better when ye do it with someone you care about.”
“So last night was terrible for you then?” I ask him with pinched eyes.
“No.” His thumb runs back and forth over my cheekbone. “Thon’s the best it’s ever been fer me.”
I stare over at him, eyes wide, cheeks pink, stomach all in knots for wanting him.
“Oh” is all I say.
Jamison sniffs a laugh and pulls me farther up him so we’re nose to nose, slips his hand to the back of my head, and then kisses me quickly.
Light and perfect, like a sea mist that graces you with its presence on a hot day.
Then he pulls back a bit, hand still behind my head. “Do ye still want me t’ take you back to England?”
“Mmm.” I purse my lips, pretending to think about it. “I think I’ve found a compelling reason to stay.”
“Sex?” he asks with a grin.
“Jamison.” I toss him a look and he laughs, rolling me over. Me under, him over.
“Stay,” he tells me, the top right corner of his mouth tugging away to be a smile. “Please stay an’ annoy me.”
“Annoy you!” I say back, wide-eyed and laughing.
“Sure, but aye.” He nods. “Stay and annoy me. Stay in my bed.” He shrugs. “Stay in my bath, I d?nnae care. Just stay.”
It feels as though there’s some gravity to what he’s saying that neither of us was anticipating, but suddenly the room sounds terribly quiet, and the tide switches to serious. None of it’s bad; all of it’s just weighted.
I swallow nervously and toss him a smile to break the tension. “Well, I don’t have anywhere to live so I might have to.”
He doesn’t smile back but nods once. “Fine by me.”
That old brownie is a real grump, but gee, can he cook a good breakfast.
The spread is incredible—croissants, Danish, muffins, berries (some I’ve never seen before), bacon, every style of egg, mushrooms…
I eat some of everything and then keep on picking still because I’ve never been so hungry in my whole entire life.
I pluck a strawberry and then get up from the table, looking around his cabin.
Jem follows after me, shirtless because I’m in his shirt. He tugs on it as he wraps his arms around me from behind.
And then these gold things catch my eyes on an otherwise empty shelf.
“What are these?”
I reach up and pluck one down, rolling it over in my hand.
It’s a trophy.