by Clare London
“It’s under my knitting box,” Gran interrupted. “I know.” She waved her hand as if brushing him away. “Go, I said. And my aches will have eased by tonight, so I’m in charge of supper, okay? I know you’ve got another meeting after work.”
Tate blew her a kiss and dashed quickly out of the door before the kids realized the latest meal plan. As it was, he’d probably hear the groan from miles away. Gran’s cooking was so very far from gourmet, it could be from Mars.
When Louise paused her Mini at the traffic lights at the end of the road, she murmured to Tate, “I thought you had a date tonight? That guy from the pet shop?”
Tate grimaced. “I told him I couldn’t make this week.”
“Tate, you idiot. That’s twice you’ve done that. He won’t ask again, you know.”
“So? Then it wasn’t meant to be.” He sounded defensive, he knew. But Louise was always trying to set him up when he could least pay attention to it. “I can get a date another time, when there isn’t all this trouble at work.”
“Yeah?” She raised her eyebrows. “That easy, you reckon?”
What the hell did she mean? “Why not?”
“Take that scowl off your face. I’m telling you this for your own good. You could cut your hair, for one. Dress more smartly.”
“I shower daily, don’t I? I’m over twenty-one, right? Run down your checklist. I’m employed, in my own house, single, free—”
Louise coughed.
“Well, almost. With a family like mine, we come as a package, you know that. But what more could the guy of my dreams want?”
Louise grinned, still keeping her attention on the road ahead. “I think a lot of them want you, Tate, honey. That’s not the problem. It’s whether you’re willing to open up sufficiently to give the poor buggers a chance.”
He paused a moment. No, that was crap. Surely? “It’s just a matter of finding the time. I have a lot of stuff going on in my life.”
“But you invite a lot of that, don’t you? Filling up the hours so you don’t have to risk inviting anyone else in.”
“I don’t—”
“Tate, you collect commitments like I collect pairs of Doc Martens!” She laughed a little sadly. “At work, there’s the Health and Safety committee, supervision of the intern program, and union representation on the annual pay rise negotiation. To say nothing of organizing repairs to the library car park, your ongoing membership of the PTA committee, running the local shelter Christmas appeal, and campaigning against the closure of the local independent grocer.” She sighed. “And that’s just this year. When are you going to allow time for your own causes, Tate Somerton?”
“Someone needs to take on these issues, Lou. Else we’re all taken advantage of.”
“Yes, Tate. Of course, Tate.”
Okay, so he was scowling again, but she really shouldn’t provoke him on this already hectic morning. “Look, I’m fine. And I date plenty.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Do so.”
Louise was still watching the road but she stuck out her tongue. “Don’t, so.”
He had to laugh. After all, Louise already knew. He’d told enough late-night, bittersweet stories to amuse them both. “Hey, get off my case. What about Mark? That lasted—”
“Bare weeks, Tate. You went to the movies. You had an evening at the pub. You wouldn’t return his calls.”
He shifted awkwardly in his seat. “Irreconcilable differences.”
Louise raised her eyebrows.
“Lou, he thought gay marriage wasn’t a cause worth fighting for.”
“And that tall guy…, Nigel, was it?”
“He thought what this country needs is another prime minister like Maggie Thatcher. He admitted he found her quite sexually stirring.” Tate winced. “No way.”
Louise chuckled. “And Owen?”
“He supported fox hunting.” They were both laughing by now, but Tate was grateful this was only a short car journey. “Anyway, we’ll talk about it another time. Tonight’s meeting is about the new forklift safety regulations. Can’t have the company shirking those, it’s our lives and limbs at risk. I’ll get the bus home, but we’ll probably have a swift pint at the Queens Head first, if you want to join us.”
Louise turned the car into the industrial estate. “Anyone interesting going to be there?”
“No cute gals for you, if that’s what you’re angling for,” he said. “But for me?” He grinned to himself when her shoulders straightened and her eyes widened with hopeful anticipation. “Jeff Miller from HR is joining us—”
“Married. With four kids,” Louise interrupted with disappointment.
“And Penny from Packaging.”
Louise blushed, rather suspiciously. “A busty, gay blonde is not your demographic, Tate!”
“And that unmarried, male hunk—”
“Yes?” Louise sucked in a breath with excitement.
“—from Accounts Payable.”
Louise snorted so loudly, Tate jumped on his seat. “The only person who meets that description,” she said, “is Archie and he’s three months off retirement.”
“Don’t knock maturity and experience!”
They were in fits of laughter by the time Louise pulled the car into one of the vacant spaces behind the warehouse. “Okay, I’ll back off,” she said. “But I’m just saying. You need to let go sometimes, have some fun rather than always trying to set the world to rights. Not everyone is out for all they can get, you know. You have to trust someone, some time.”
“It’s not just that.” Tate hadn’t meant to share, but it just slipped out.
Louise nodded, quiet for a moment. “They don’t all leave, either,” she said softly.
Tate swallowed hard. “I know.” He didn’t want to talk about this, he really didn’t. Yet if he didn’t trust Lou with it, who else did he have?
She patted him gently on the hand. “It was a horrible accident. You lost your mum and dad.”
Tate shook his head. His damned eyes still pricked when he thought of it. “It was so unfair.”
Louise nodded. “No one can argue with that. But thank God you have the kids.”
“Bloody kids,” he said, but with a grin.
“You love ’em.” Louise thumped him on the arm, so hard he winced. “And Gran helps out around the house, doesn’t she?”
Tate loved his gran, and she was devoted to them all. She was a godsend: if he didn’t have her love and support, he’d never have been able to keep a steady job. But when her arthritis flared up, the help she could give was very limited. He hated seeing her suffering, too.
Louise was still talking. “… and now they’re at the age you can take some time for yourself. Like I said.”
“Like you keep saying, you old nag.”
She stuck out her tongue at him again. “Less of the old, young Jedi. Romance just needs a little compromise.”
Compromise? Tate couldn’t remember a day when he didn’t live that word. But yeah, he’d really like someone special. He just couldn’t… well, it wasn’t top of his To-Do list, that was all. “We need to get inside before we’re really late.”
“Sure.” Louise had twisted in her seat and was looking at him fondly. “As soon as you tell me about the troubles.”
“Huh?”
“You said, you’d date when there isn’t all this trouble at work.”
Jeez, Lou was sharp. She worked in Accounts, so she probably hadn’t heard about the latest upset in the warehouse. He should watch his mouth, though he knew he could trust her not to spread gossip. “Some berk accidentally spilled hot liquid over a whole pallet full of bottles, ruining the labels. We’ll have to send for replacements from the vineyard.”
“Who the hell did that?”
“No idea.” Tate shrugged. “It happened either late at night or very early morning. I just came into work to find it that way. And no one’s fessed up so far.”
Louise frowned. “Remember last mo
nth? I told you how an invoice from a major supplier got lost, and they put our deliveries on stop for two weeks. Caused all sorts of hassle with the inventory system. But it was an odd thing to happen, because I can say with total conviction, we’ve never lost any of their paperwork before. We were trying to get things straight in the office, in readiness for the rush of customer orders after the Awards, and I was sure I’d seen that invoice when it arrived. But we turned the place upside down, and no sign of it.”
Tate frowned too. There’d been a noticeable spate of accidents in the last six months, and Louise’s experience was only confirming his own suspicions. “Too much going on to be coincidence, I’d say.”
“What are you saying? You mean, it may be deliberate sabotage?”
For a moment, they just sat there, staring wide-eyed at each other. Tate wondered if his expression matched the worry on Lou’s face.
“What should we do?” she asked quietly.
“What can we do? Except keep an eye out for any more trouble. At least, that’s what I’m going to do.”
Louise grimaced. “Another cause for Tate Somerton?”
He shrugged but didn’t deny it. It was worth his time, wasn’t it? He was proud of his work, proud of the company’s reputation. That didn’t mean he’d let them take advantage of the workers—after all, everyone knew that management couldn’t always be trusted when profits were in the mix—but it had been a good career for him so far. He’d left school at sixteen with only basic exam results, but a contact at Bonfils had recommended Tate for a job in the warehouse. Every employee was expected to work their hardest, and Mr. Charles Bonfils was a fierce old bird when he walked the shop floor. No one dared be caught shirking. But if you were seen to be loyal and determined, as Tate had been, you were rewarded. Tate had been made a supervisor by the time he was twenty, and manager a couple of years after that. Yeah, he reckoned he had both duty and incentive to save the company from trouble.
Louise pushed open the car door. “Anyway, come on. You’re the one worried about being late.”
As Tate followed her out, his phone rang with a call from Percy Grove, one of the warehouse supervisors who reported directly to Tate. “Percy? I’ve just arrived—”
“Get here as fast as y’ can, Tate.”
“What’s up?”
Percy swore colorfully. He never minced his words, in front of fellow workers and management alike. “The shipment of the new Merlot has been seized at the bonded warehouse in Calais.”
“What the hell?” Tate caught Louise’s worried look over the roof of the car, but waved her into the building ahead of him. He leaned against the car, the breeze lifting his unevenly cropped curls, the noise of distant traffic in his ears. “Percy, we need that for the Awards event program.” The run-up to the Awards was full of social and marketing events, where Bonfils provided the liquid refreshment from their own ranges.
“You’re telling me. Some shit about the wrong paperwork. It’s just another fuckup.” Percy’s grizzled old voice almost growled. “Feels like someone’s out to get us, boy.” His voice dropped as if he didn’t want to be overheard. “Y’ know what’s even bloody worse?”
What could be? “Tell me.”
“The new intern has arrived, some uppity young kid. On time, admittedly, but if he had the sense he was born with, he’d still be in the negative. Better get here soon before I lose him in bay twelve.” Which, as Tate well knew, was where the giant refuse bins were.
Tate shook his head, smiling grimly. “On my way,” he said, and sighed to himself.
Looked like it was going to be one of those days.
Chapter Three
ARRIVING in the warehouse at ten past nine, Tate took up position just outside his office, watching through the open door as Percy interviewed the new intern inside. Or, at least, that’s how it was meant to go. The company had regular intern programs, in several disciplines, and a few weeks in the warehouse was a critical part of every schedule.
Percy glanced at the paper in front of him. “So. Goodson.”
“You may call me Alex.”
Percy pointedly ignored that.
“Excuse me, but is this the right place? They told me I had to report in to the manager, Mr. Somerton, for training.” The guy in the chair peered at Percy’s name tag. “Mr. Grove, is it?”
“I’m doin’ the interview, boy.”
Alex Goodson raised his eyebrows. “Ah. Okay. As you wish.”
Tate could see it took Percy a lot of effort not to roll his eyes. He didn’t suffer fools gladly. This was possibly why Tate did many of the interviews and was official liaison for the interns. But no one could better Percy in sizing up a new guy within a matter of minutes, and he’d rarely been proved wrong.
At the moment, the new kid was concentrating on Percy and unaware of Tate’s scrutiny. Well, he was no kid really, which was the first surprise. They usually got school leavers or university graduates, whereas this man looked a similar age to Tate. Maybe he was making a career change or coming back into the workplace after a break. Watching the way Alex Goodson twirled the temporary security pass on its lanyard like a novelty toy he’d never seen before, Tate reckoned it was the latter.
And, shit, but he was good-looking. Tate could see enough of the guy’s face from his angled viewpoint and couldn’t resist taking a longer look than his role as training supervisor merited. Alex had lovely gray eyes, a strong jaw, and fine mahogany-brown hair with a slight curl. It was ridiculously shiny, like those heads on hair product adverts, and so evenly shaded Tate wondered for a random moment if he dyed it. Even more randomly, Tate’s fingers all but itched to run through it. What the hell? He shoved his hands into his pockets to try to redirect his attention. He hadn’t felt such an immediate, physical response to someone for a long time.
The second surprise was how confident Alex looked: no sign of the usual nervous desire to make a good impression common to most interns. He wore a pair of dark-rimmed spectacles, which he awkwardly pushed back up his nose a couple of times, but his gaze was bright and fixed steadily on Percy as if he were his equal. Not that Tate didn’t believe in equality for all, at heart, but there was a certain respect you were expected to show your supervisor. And definitely toward Percy, who had a whole bunch of opinions about how anyone younger than him—which included almost all the warehouse and probably Mr. Charles himself—should behave toward their elders.
Tate bit back a smile. He could see Percy was resisting glancing at Tate over Alex’s shoulder. Well, if that was Percy’s game, to ignore Tate’s presence for the moment, this could turn into quite an entertainment.
“Thank God,” Alex said cheerfully, with a nod at Percy’s chest.
“I’m sorry?” Percy’s tone was at its deepest, most no-nonsense best.
“No ghastly nylon overalls,” Alex said. “You’re wearing a branded polo shirt. I assume they do it in slim fit as well?”
Tate blinked, trying desperately not to laugh. Percy’s shirt strained over his broad chest and ever-increasing stomach. Percy’s favorite snack was donuts, and even he knew that was beginning to show.
Percy cleared his throat in what Tate knew—but this poor sap Goodson had no idea—was a menacing way. “Where’s y’ employee manual?”
“Sorry?”
Percy gestured dismissively at Alex’s empty hands, resting casually in his lap. “Y’ pick it up in HR before y’ start. Plenty of youngsters have already read through it before I meet them.” The disapproval was strongly implied. “Y’ don’t think y’ need to swot up on it, boy?”
Alex stared at him as if something hadn’t yet connected mentally. “What’s that word you keep calling me? Bye? Oh….” He nodded, as if praising himself for being so perceptive. “You mean boy. Is that a true Bristolian accent? That lilt at the end of a sentence—”
“Manual!” Percy snapped. “Y’ hear me?”
Alex seemed at last to pick up on the seriousness of Percy’s tone. “Sorry. I mean,
yes, I have one. I picked it up before the weekend and have already perused it fully.”
“Perooosed it, have y’?”
Alex raised one rather well-groomed eyebrow. “I signed all the necessary forms, too. Did HR’s confirmation get lost in transit?” He glanced quickly over the messy pile of papers on the desk—filing was going to have been Tate’s first job this morning—and for a moment, his lips pursed. Then he glanced up again and caught the look in Percy’s eye. He had the grace to color slightly. “Never mind. I’m sure you have it all in hand.”
Percy’s raised eyebrows spoke far more eloquently than his words. “So now we’ve cleared that up to y’r satisfaction, y’ can get on with the work. Y’ll shadow Jamie today, under my close supervision.”
Tate knew that look of Percy’s. It was the one that made new staff feel twelve years old, caught with an illicit smoke behind the bike shed. Alex Goodson, intriguingly, just smiled. Was he brave, or genuinely clueless?
“And when will I meet Mr. Somerton?” he asked.
Percy stood, straightening his shoulders. “Mr. Somerton is busy elsewhere.”
I am? Tate assumed this was another of Percy’s games. It seemed Alex Goodson had really rubbed the old man up the wrong way.
Alex stood as well. He looked a bit bemused. Percy leaned forward on the desk and spoke more slowly to him. “They told y’ about the trainin’ program, right?”
“Right. Training. Of course. Is that before or after lunch?”
Percy’s swallow of disgust was audible. “The program will extend over several weeks. Mr. Somerton insists on it.”
“He does?”
“He does. Jamie’s only a new boy himself, but I can’t spare anyone else to keep an eye on y’ today. We’re expecting deliveries. I suppose if y’ pick up any bad habits today…” Percy’s resigned expression showed just how very certain he was of that. “… Mr. Somerton’ll have to retrain y’, however inconvenient that’ll be for him.”
“Mr. Somerton sounds a pain in the arse, right?” Alex grinned.
Tate bit his lower lip, the chuckle inside him begging to be let out.
