Read The Best Man: Part Two for Free Online Page A

of her bright pink, sky-high heels. She snarls at him and spits venom before stomping off, Noah and Patrick watching her go with their eyebrows raised.
    Funny, really, how oblivious he is to other people whenever he’s looking at Patrick.
    Funnier still that Patrick didn’t notice her approach.
    The interlude has filled Noah with a bit of his previously dwindling confidence, and he steps up to Patrick again, adopts a slow half-smile. “What if I begged?” he asks, dropping his voice. Patrick’s eyes narrow for him, twinkling. “You know Connor better than me. You must’ve had tons of Christmases with him. You know what he eats and drinks and everything.”
    “You don’t know this stuff?”
    “I’ve never spent Christmas with him before.”
    “Right,” says Patrick, tilting his head to the side. “Because you’ve only known him for six months. And you’re marrying him.”
    “You really need to get over that.”
    “I think you’re both idiots.”
    “I’m aware.” He smiles again, and he pinches the front of Patrick’s shirt in his fingers, pulls on it. “Are you coming then?”
    Patrick blows out a huffing breath, rubs his forehead. “Fine,” he grumps, hand coming up to Noah’s forearm where he’s holding his shirt, curls his fingers around the bones of his wrist. “But you’ll owe me.”
    Noah grins, heart lifting high in his chest. “Yep, sure, forever in your debt.”
    “Don’t think I won’t cash in, Noah,” Patrick says, smirking, and he takes the first step forward as Noah pulls on his shirt.
    Noah leads him along by his shirt, walking backwards, grinning up into the expression of soft amusement on Patrick’s face. “Just tell me when,” he croons, Patrick’s eyes flashing in response. And then he catches sight of Ron watching him funnily through the window of the shop, and he suddenly realises what he’s doing, how this must look.
    He lets go and turns, Patrick eyeing him curiously at the abruptness of it.
    * * * * *
    Food shopping with Patrick is an experience. He pushes the trolley along like he’s heading for the gallows, scowling at everything, sighing obscenely loudly whenever Noah takes just a bit too long to choose an item. Noah’s endlessly amused by it, takes the piss out of him, calls him Grandpa and Grumpy and Princess, gets filthy looks and pokes in the ribs for his trouble. He doesn’t brighten until they reach the cake aisle, and Noah ends up with a trolley full of diabetes, shakes his head and rolls his eyes each time Patrick drops another dose of sugar in there.
    They have a minor scuffle at the checkout when packing, Noah trying to create some kind of order while Patrick throws everything in haphazardly. He plants his hands flat on Patrick’s chest and pushes him back and tells him to stay put and keep his hands off, and Patrick’s eyes are dancing for him, amused and darkened and making Noah’s heart skip.
    They get home and Patrick helps him unpack and they edge around each other in the kitchen, knocking together and sliding past, Patrick’s hand gliding over his hip as he reaches around him to put the milk away, fingertips slipping under the hem of his t-shirt.
    Afterwards he makes Patrick wash his hands and then sets him up with a bowl of mince and flour and onions and herbs, shuffles in next to him in the corner and shows him how to make a meatball.
    “Once you’ve squashed it into a meatball shape,” he says, demonstrating, “just roll the ball in your hands until it’s nice and tight.”
    Patrick smirks and Noah looks up at him, face warming, breathing a laugh.
    “Why does everything I do with you sound like innuendo?”
    “Guess I just have that effect on you,” Patrick murmurs.
    “Hello, people,” Connor says, coming in. Noah didn’t even hear the door open. He steps away from Patrick. “This smells good , Jesus. Patrick—are you actually cooking right now?”
    “I’m making meatballs,” he says, holding up a lump of mince.