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Hope blossomed in Tristan’s chest. If anyone could find him something to wear, it was Jenny. And whatever it was, one thing was guaranteed. It would be an absolute show-stopper.
“You are an angel and a goddess,” he proclaimed, “and I trust you utterly.”
Miss O’Jenny tossed her hair back over her shoulders. “Of course I am, and of course you do. Now come with me and let me work my magic.”
Chapter Eighteen
The entrance to the Point Seymour Yacht Club wasn’t something as common as a car park. That was farther down the winding street. There was a valet service to drop cars off after their owners had cruised up the curving semi-circular drive where everyone standing on the balcony inside could see exactly how expensive their ride of choice was. The balcony, Leo knew from experience, wrapped around the entire building. On one side it overlooked the entrance and the city lights, and on the other, the harbour. It was a gorgeous old building, and Scarlett O’Hara wouldn’t have seemed out of place had she come sweeping dramatically down the wide marble staircase.
Leo arrived in an Uber and lurked at the entrance, trying to act casual. He checked his phone again. Tristan was late for…some reason? Some wardrobe emergency or something. He hadn’t been exactly forthcoming with the details. But the upshot was he was running late, and he’d meet Leo there instead of coming back to the flat first. So now Leo was here, and Tristan was—his phone buzzed with a new message—ten minutes away, apparently.
Leo exchanged an apologetic smile with the doorman for cluttering up the fancy entrance, then went and stood next to a potted palm tree to watch some other people arrive.
The men wore tuxedos, and the women wore gowns of various jewel tones. Leo hated black tie events. He hadn’t been to enough to ever feel comfortable dressed up like a penguin, and he was sure it showed, which made everything twice as awkward as it had to be. Story of his life, really. He envied Tris and the way he was so damned unapologetic about being himself. He didn’t just envy him, though. He was inspired by him.
Still, he reflected, at least he knew his hair looked good. Once he and Tristan had recovered from their sex session enough to function, Tris had fussed over Leo’s curls, primping and styling and applying a myriad of product, tutting under his breath until finally he’d stepped back, satisfied. When Leo had glanced in the mirror, it had been to find that his curls sat almost exactly like they had when he’d left Valli’s salon that morning. He’d been careful not to disturb his hair for the rest of the afternoon, aware that he’d never looked this good in his life. It was just another way Tristan was opening up Leo’s horizons.
Leo cast another glance at the man on the door, and wondered what Tristan was wearing and if it would make the doorman’s head explode or not.
A familiar silver Audi crunched to a stop on the gravel driveway and the valets darted forward to open the doors.
Mum emerged first, one hand hovering around her hair as though she was putting it in place using the power of telekinesis. “Leo!” she exclaimed. “What are you doing out here? Did you forget your tickets?”
“No.” He patted his breast pocket. “I’m waiting for my boyfriend. He’s running late.”
Mum’s disapproval was obvious, and Leo was glad that Tristan wasn’t trying to make a good impression. “Oh, Leo, is that?—?”
“It hasn’t even started yet,” he said.
Dad rounded the car, casting a worried glance at the valet climbing into the driver’s seat. “Ah, Leo. Good to see you. Where’s your boyfriend?”
“He’s late,” Mum said, and they exchanged a pointed look.
Leo’s phone buzzed again, and he checked his messages. “He said he’s almost here now.”
“Well, you can wait for him inside. It’s unseemly lingering on the footpath. It leaves a bad impression,” his mother said firmly. “Leave his ticket with the doorman.”
Leo opened his mouth to argue but then thought better of it.
The valet drove off in Dad’s Audi, and a white sedan slid smoothly into its place. At first Leo didn’t take any notice of the woman stepping out of the front seat, then he heard her say in a decidedly masculine tone, “Thanks, mate!”
Tristan.
Leo’s breath caught in his throat.
He was—he was in a satin dress and heels, and he was beautiful. It wasn’t drag, not exactly, though Leo couldn’t claim to be an expert. All he knew was that Tristan didn’t have Miss O’Jenny’s fake boobs and towering beehive hair. He didn’t have the theatrics. He was, quite simply, a man in a dress. The dress was scarlet, with thin spaghetti straps that showed off the very masculine width of his shoulders, and a gaping scoop neck that had no boobs to rest on but displayed his chest hair nicely. It was split up one side to the thigh, and Leo lost the ability to think when he saw a flash of garter keeping Tristan’s fishnet stockings in place.
Tris’ hair was styled in an updo, with artful strands framing his face, and he was wearing winged eyeliner that made him look like an Egyptian god—or possibly Amy Winehouse, or Amy Winehouse if she were an Egyptian goddess.
And, just in case anybody missed it from his flat, hairy chest, he hadn’t shaved. He had unmistakable stubble.
He was glorious.
“Who is that? What is that?” his mother hissed.
Leo struggled to keep from laughing at the sound of horror in her voice that clearly suggested she already suspected the worst. “Mum, Dad,” he said, and stepped forward to hold out his arm to Tristan, “this is Tristan, my boyfriend.”
“It’s so nice to meet you,” Tristan said with a brilliant smile.
