Ed checked out the camera positioned in the far corner of the bedroom ceiling before speaking—no red light. “I was out for a run. Saw this, so I cut it short.” He thrust the newspaper into Pasha’s hands and then headed for the bathroom. “Barely had time to get a sweat on but thought you’d want to see this.”
That didn’t explain Ed’s casual ascent of the outside of the building, but Pasha set that thought aside when he saw the photo on the front page. By the time Ed left the bathroom, wiping the back of his neck with a small white hand towel, Pasha was back in bed and had the pages spread over his lap.
There, in grainy black-and-white, was an almost full-page photo of him. The hands splayed wide over his chest looked strong and possessive, and Pasha’s photographed grin was ecstatic, like he had everything he ever wanted. “That’s me.” Pasha touched the hands wrapped around him in the photo. “Us, I mean. On the tour bus yesterday.”
“No shit, Sherlock.” Ed knelt at the small fridge that management kept stocked in each room and took out a bottle of water. He downed it, throat working steadily as he kept his eyes fixed on Pasha, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Sometimes you’re not as stupid as you look.”
“You wish you looked this good,” Pasha muttered. “Some people prefer a lean look.”
“True, but I was talking about your bed head.”
“TrueBrit, actually.” Pasha smoothed out the front page when Ed sat on the far corner of the bed. “How about that for a headline?”
The “#TrueBrit?” couldn’t be missed. “They really liked your #TrueLove as well.”
“Tell me about it. I was minding my own business when I ran past a newsagent’s and saw it. Stopped so fast, I skidded. Then I didn’t have any money on me.”
Those form-fitting running shorts he wore were a little a skimpy for a wallet.
“Had to sign some autographs for the shop owner’s daughter before he’d give me a copy.”
Something in Ed’s tone was off.
Pasha met his eye. “And you’re embarrassed about that? That she wanted an autograph from you like you’re someone famous?” A smile tugged at his lips when the tips of Ed’s ears got pinker. “You’re ridiculous, you weirdo. Get used to it. You think it’s strange that people recognize you? Just wait until the weekend.”
Actually, just wait until later today was Pasha’s real opinion. This photo, and the ones inside that spread over several newsprint pages, tracked the progress of a love story that might be 100 percent pure fiction, but sure read like the real thing.
Ed flopped onto his back at the foot of the bed. “You copped a look at the other pics yet?”
“Oh, yeah. Hang on.” Pasha pulled his glasses to the end of his nose so he could focus on the small print. “Ed Britten and Pasha Trueman, contenders for the nation’s favorite singing contest top prize, might already be winners.” He looked over the top of the frames. Ed was a blurred outline. “Hear that? Winners, baby.”
“Don’t call me baby.”
Pasha didn’t even see what happened next. Somehow Ed went from lying on his back to straddling Pasha’s legs in less than the blink of an eye. He stole his glasses. “How come you have to pull them down to the end of your nose to read?” Ed asked, putting them on himself despite Pasha trying to grab them back.
Pasha didn’t know what was more annoying: Ed teasing him while looking surprisingly good wearing his black frames—“Jesus, you’re as blind as a bat!”—or the way he pinned Pasha so easily against his pillows with one hand.
“Be careful, you big bully.” Pasha tried again to reach them. “I don’t have a spare pair.”
“Maybe you should take better care of these, then.” Ed settled next to him with his back against the pillows and used the corner of a sheet to wipe the lenses free of smears.
Pasha reached for them again.
“Patience.” Ed closely studied the hinges. A frown creased his forehead. “These could do with tightening.”
Pasha finally snagged them back. “They’re fine.” His wages didn’t exactly stretch to decent frames as well as singing lessons. He pushed them on and picked up from where he’d been reading. “Anonymous sources suggest the pair have become inseparable, and photos that surfaced last night seem to confirm the rumor.”
Ed pulled the newspaper toward him. “There’s a timeline.” He looked up, one hand pressed to his chest and a smile playing at the edge of his lips. “#TrueBrit: a #TrueLove story brought to life by music.”
Pasha’s laugh was an involuntary hoot that set Ed off as well, his laughter shaking the bed.
Had Ed always been this funny?
Pasha paid more attention as Ed mused over some key points, tracking the timeline with a finger that smudged the inky newsprint. The reporters clearly had vivid imaginations.
“So, it says here that I asked you out for the first time during the auditions.”
“Interesting.” Pasha tilted his head to read the section of text Ed indicated. “Amazing too, considering I auditioned in Glasgow. I don’t recall seeing you there.”