by Clare London
“Of course. After I recited some Keats.”
“You…?” Tate was startled. It was becoming his default response to Alex Goodson. “As in John Keats, the poet?”
Alex shrugged easily. “She seemed to like it. I find ‘season of mists and mellow fruitfulness’ has a cadence that lends itself to sleep. I certainly drowsed through most of my English lessons at school. That’s one of the few poems where I can remember all the verses.”
Tate really, really wanted to let loose a proper laugh. “Dammit, Alex. You’re….”
Alex seemed to lean in more closely. “I’m what? Handsome? Irresistible? Just the kind of man you’ve been looking for to take you out and show you some fun?”
Alex’s scrutiny made Tate feel hot, which was very odd, standing on his own home landing on the rather worn carpet, hoping against hope that wasn’t a boner he was springing. “Astonishing. That’s all I’m prepared to say.” He pressed the pile of clothes into Alex’s arms and took a step away before he admitted something he regretted. “I must look in on the twins. If you’re okay to help out some more, perhaps you can dump this laundry in the basket in the bathroom on your way back downstairs?”
DESPITE his success with Amy, Alex was no help to the twins with their homework—his geography knowledge seemed to have skipped all mountain ranges and major lakes, concentrating only on the location of certain international airports—so Tate left him downstairs with Gran while he helped the H’s collect their books together for the morning and get ready for bed. Thank God his family home had enough space for them all, though there were times the house felt stuffed to the gills with humans and all their belongings. When he finally came back down to the living room, Freddie was back in his basket and Gran was awake. She was rather flushed, with a suspicious twinkle in her eyes. Tate saw she’d been watching an episode of Game of Thrones and he sighed inwardly. He usually kept her away from the whole series, though Alex wouldn’t have known that. She just got too lively after it, and Tate had his hands full at the best of times. It wasn’t so much the sex and violence—to say nothing of the dragons—but rather the bizarre meals some of the characters ate. He’d never forgotten the time Gran asked in the middle of Tesco’s for dried horse jerky.
Alex looked up at him and gave that smile again. Not the polite one he used at work or in front of Tate’s family, but the wide, hungry one, full of delight and temptation. But as his gaze flickered over Tate’s face, his eyes narrowed and his expression grew more serious.
He stood slowly. “I’d better be going. It’s getting late.”
“Never too late,” Gran said.
“Not for some things, Gran,” Alex said easily. “But maybe for young men during the working week. I’ll see you again soon, I hope.”
“Don’t forget that recipe for quails’ eggs.” Gran gave a peal of happy laughter.
Tate watched with an astonishment that was getting weary, as Alex bent over Gran’s hand and kissed it goodbye. After a farewell scratch to Freddie’s ears—when the dog shamelessly, cravenly whined for more—he accompanied Tate to the front door, where they paused.
Tate spoke in a lowered voice. “I doubt this was what you expected to happen tonight.”
“How?” Alex asked.
“How, what?”
“How do you know what I expected?”
“Alex, you made it pretty clear you were after a date, not a… a… Gran-and-pet-sitting-cum-child-education session.”
Alex laughed gently. “I wanted to spend some time with you. That’s all.”
“For God’s sake.”
“What’s your problem, Tate Somerton?” For the very first time, Alex seemed annoyed. “Are you calling me a liar? People appear to have an issue with my voice, and maybe I haven’t mastered the arcane rituals of warehouse life yet, and maybe I don’t always think before I speak, and I’m too damned provocative—”
Tate nodded. All of that.
“But I can’t be accused of not speaking the truth, however inconvenient. I mean every word I say.”
Tate hesitated. “Don’t tell me you weren’t just thinking of a quick tumble.”
“Would you believe me if I did? Of course I want to seduce you. I’m really attracted to you, you’re hot, and….”
“What?”
“Astonishing,” Alex said. A sly smile crept over his face as he turned Tate’s earlier words back on him. “That’s all I’m going to say.”
Tate laughed, but this time he heard the rare relief and ease in his voice. “You’re used to having things your way, aren’t you?”
Alex nodded. “Yes, I am. But you’d want me to be honest about that, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes.” Tate realized Alex was right—it was both refreshing and relaxing to find someone who apparently was exactly what he seemed. “Sorry. I might come across as a bit overcautious.” He gave a slightly bitter laugh. “It’s not been a good year for dating, for me.”
Alex’s touch on his arm was warm. “Can only get better, right?”
“I hope so,” Tate said, almost a comment to himself. When Alex braced his free arm on the doorframe and leaned in toward Tate, Tate didn’t veer away. Instead, he leaned in too.
“This is okay?” Alex whispered.
Tate nodded. Alex must know by now he was both gay and interested, and oh my God, he was so very eager, was that obvious to Alex too—?
The kiss was gentle but oh, so good. So good that Tate couldn’t remember ever experiencing such a wave of delight and need. Alex’s lips were full and warm, and the tip of his tongue teased at Tate’s. It was enough to set all Tate’s nerves a-jingle; he was very afraid he moaned aloud. Alex kissed with all of his mouth, not in a gross, sloppy way, but with a possessive desire that made Tate feel treasured. There was no tentativeness, that was obvious. No nervousness, no hesitation. But although Alex took with confidence, his touch was full of respect, so that Tate found himself very ready to give in return. As Alex had said, Tate felt he could set his own pace. He sighed softly and leaned into Alex, sliding his hand around Alex’s waist. Alex lifted a single hand and cupped Tate’s cheek as they deepened the kiss.
Tate felt himself molding to Alex, becoming part of a single unit. They were of a similar height and build, and it seemed both comfortable and natural to link his arm into Alex’s and press his legs against Alex’s thighs. They both had an evening bristle, but it brushed rather than scratched. Alex nuzzled at Tate’s ear, as Tate tried to resist the urge to lap gently at Alex’s throat. Desire grew slowly rather than as a lustful rush. His cock was stirring under his jeans, no doubt about it, but he was relaxed, savoring each second of delectable taste, of the smell of Alex’s skin, his quickening breath. Oh, but Alex knew his attractiveness, he knew his skills….
Tate knew with sudden, blinding certainty and a fast-beating heart that Alex Goodson would know how to treat a man well.
Finally, Alex sighed and gently pulled away. “Definitely,” he murmured. He sounded breathless.
“Definitely what?”
“Worth waiting for,” Alex whispered in Tate’s ear. “Thank you.”
Tate could still feel the press of Alex’s fingers, the warmth of his lips, the tease of his tongue. Who was thanking whom?
“No strings, okay?” Alex’s lips ghosted over Tate’s jaw. “I hear enough to understand that’s what you want. I can do that, no problem.”
“Yes,” Tate said. “No strings is good.” Exactly what he wanted. Maybe this wasn’t so lunatic a step, after all. He smiled and cleared his throat. “You’re… um… okay with where the bus stop is? The 94 will take you back toward the Crown.”
Alex was watching Tate’s mouth. “That’s fine. Thanks.”
“Or the 113.” All Tate could hear was his own gabbling.
Alex smiled, his gaze drifting up to meet Tate’s. He looked slightly drunk. “You want to come with me and show me the way?”
Yes. “No. I’ll see you at work tomorrow. Don’t be late.”
<
br /> “Or Tate Somerton may put me over his knee and chastise me,” Alex said blithely. “The big, bad manager.”
Ouch. Tate felt himself flush. “Jesus, if you’re just going to poke fun—”
“No!” Alex must have realized he’d overstepped, he looked horrified. “I’m sorry, that didn’t come out quite right. It’s not a joke at all.”
“No. Not at all.”
“However edgy my sense of humor may be—”
“Edgy doesn’t do you justice, Alex.”
And despite that hiccup, as they parted, they were still both smiling.
Chapter Eight
WHEN Tate wandered back into the living room, he was disappointed to see the twins were up again and cuddled up to Gran on the sofa. “It’s a school night, kids. You need to get to bed and asleep, smartish.”
“Just one last cuddle for Gran,” Hugo said, his eyes wide with pretended innocence.
“We were worried, Tate. We didn’t know where you’d gone,” Hattie added.
Tate rolled his eyes at them. They knew he wouldn’t fall for all this. They must have crept downstairs while he and Alex were on the doorstep. Tate was glad he’d pulled the door closely behind him.
In his basket asleep, Freddie snuffled and twitched his back leg.
“Your young man is handsome,” Gran said. “Knows a lot about those TV chefs, even says he’s met a couple. Promised me recipes, too. Handsome is as handsome does.”
“Gran, we say hot nowadays, not handsome. Hot, hot, hot!” Hugo hugged her, laughing.
“Ooooh, Tate and hot Alex, smooch-woochy!” Hattie squealed, and Hugo joined in with her giggles.
“He’s not my young man.” Tate tried to be heard about the whoops of laughter. Just sometimes, they all drove him mad. Just sometimes, like now, when he wanted a few minutes of his own, to think about Alex and his mysteries and his dancing eyes and flirting talk, and oh my God, the taste of his mouth…. “What bloody chance do I have of dating any young man,” he spat out, “when this chaos would chase them off at first base?”
The room fell unusually silent. Even the TV had slipped into a run of bland commercials. Hattie thumped Hugo surreptitiously on the arm, and he halfheartedly kicked her shin in return.
“Sorry, Tate,” they chorused, looking suitably sorrowful.
Gran looked apologetic too. “We’re your family, Tatty, that’s all. We care about you.”
It was the nickname that broke him, time and again. His mum had coined it; now Gran was the only one who used it. “I know. I didn’t mean it, not like it sounded.” He dropped into the armchair with a sigh. “And it’s not as if I’m looking for someone. But if I did… oh, never mind. I’m just bloody tired.”
“Tate said bloody,” Hattie whispered to her twin, but loud enough for everyone to hear. “Twice.”
“Another two pounds in the Christmas swear jar,” Hugo mouthed back, equally obviously.
“Off back to bed, the two of you,” Gran said gruffly. She hauled herself off the sofa, watched over the twins as they kissed Tate good night, then herded them upstairs to bed like an elderly sheepdog with her small flock. The H’s were unusually subdued, but did Tate care? No. The quiet was a rare treat. And to be honest, it was just what he needed at the moment.
Gran shuffled back in after fifteen minutes or so. She plumped down on the sofa and patted the cushion for him to join her there. “Tired, you say. Trouble at work, Tatty?”
“Some bits and pieces, Gran.” He couldn’t give her details, even the ones he had. It was important competitors didn’t learn about Bonfils’s plans, especially with a new launch on the horizon. And unlikely and daft as it might seem, who knew who Gran was line dancing with or challenging at indoor bowls during the days’ activities? She was a member of virtually every community club in the city. “There’s just a bad feeling in the warehouse at the moment.”
“Nothing to do with Prince Harry?”
“Oh, dear God. Did he tell you that’s his nickname?”
Gran smirked. “Doesn’t seem to bother him. Though he told me Harry isn’t as good-looking as him in real life.”
Tate raised his eyebrows. “Did he really say that?”
Gran nodded and started groping around on the sofa cushions for the remote control. “That’s what it sounded like to me. My hearing’s good enough, y’know? Funny thing, it was like he’d really met the royal family, and not just packaged on TV like the rest of us.”
“Bloody show-off,” Tate muttered. “Like we’d believe that kind of crap.” Gran must have been concentrating on her search, because she didn’t reply to that. “Anyway, what were you talking about?”
The remote had been found, and triumphantly, Gran turned the TV to a foodie channel. “Oh. This ’n’ that. Homework. Schools. Hairstyles. Morbillivirus.”
Tate smiled. She was a dear old lady, and he loved her sense of humor. “Not the kids, Gran. I meant with Alex.”
“Like I said.” Gran had a sneaky grin she used for when she caught him out or bested him in something. “We were talking about homework, schools, hairstyles—”
Tate laughed in surrender. “All right, all right.”
Gran snuggled back in the sofa, obviously settling in for the rest of the evening. “He may speak like a bloomin’ royal, but he can chat about anything you like. Good to find that in a young sprog like him. They don’t usually want to waste their time on the older generation. Though he talked about the kids like they’d come from another planet.”
“I think they had, from Alex’s point of view.”
“Talked about you—”
“Me?” Why was his throat suddenly dry? I mustn’t ask, I won’t ask—
He didn’t need to, Gran was going to tell him anyway. “—what you did at work, how long you’d been working at the warehouse, what your job included, if you ever talked about how the company was doing.”
“Well. I suppose I do.” Bonfils Bibendum was an important part of his life; had been for three generations of his family’s working life. But he never shared anything confidential, even with his family.
Gran nudged him in the ribs. “Keep your hair on. I told him you were no kind of decent gossip.”
“Oh yeah?” He nudged her back, though not as hard, and she chuckled.
“He left his specs behind too,” she said, pointing to Alex’s glasses on top of the TV. She shrugged. “Didn’t seem to be bothered without them.”
For a few moments, they were silent, Gran’s gaze back on the TV and a bizarre omelet challenge. Then, “You know what?” she said. “He just talks as he wants, doesn’t stop to think about what’s right to say to an old bird.”
“I know, he’s an arrogant—”
“And thank God for that!” she broke in gleefully. “It really pisses me off when people stop swearing in front of me, or don’t mention hospitals, or think I don’t understand how bloody Instagram works.”
“Gran, please.” Tate had a shocked thought. “I don’t do that, do I?”
“I wouldn’t let you, Tatty.” She leaned into him and kissed his cheek, a dry but loving brush of the lips. “No, I just liked the boy. Fairly up his own arse, but genuine.”
“Sounds schizophrenic to me.”
“You’re a case in point, yourself. Coiled up tighter ’n a spring with all your control freakery, but a flood of easy pleasure when you let loose.”
Control…? And a flood of what? He wasn’t entirely sure what she meant—or whether he liked the implication. What had possessed Gran this evening? “Control’s important,” he said, a bit tightly. Why wasn’t she engrossed as usual in the cooking? She loved all those mature Italian chefs.
“You think I don’t know that, but I do,” Gran said. “Just as I know I can afford to ignore it now I’m old and have got you lot to look after me. And I know you can’t.”
He relaxed and grinned. “But in compensation, my knees are better, right?”
“Too bloomin’ right.” She thumped him on
the arm and they both laughed.
Things were quiet for another few minutes while Gran flicked between the omelet challenge and the Bake-Off semifinals. Tate was feeling drowsy again, but in a very different way than his usual weariness after work. Had it really been so long since he relaxed properly, enjoying a selfish, self-centered delight just for himself? This was a sensual kind of ease, seeping through his body, warming and relaxing him, like easing himself into a hot bath. That first contact of tired muscles with the soothing water was one of the best sensations in life, he reckoned. Well, apart from Alex Goodson’s kiss….
“So, when are you going on another date?” asked Gran.
“Another? Gran, this wasn’t a date. Dammit, if it had been, he’d be running for the hills after this family baptism of fire.”
Gran’s laugh was mischievous. “Didn’t see any dust around his heels. In fact, you were an interesting time on the doorstep, saying good night to him.”
Tate closed his eyes briefly. “’Nuff said, Gran. It’s just a casual thing, it’s not like it’s going anywhere. We’re completely different guys, after all. No strings, we’ve agreed.” When she patted him on the hand, he opened his eyes.
“He wondered what your ambitions were,” she said. “You know, I do too.”
Ambitions? “Just to keep the roof over our heads, Gran. Food on the table, the kids’ schooling uninterrupted. They need stability and lots of love. The warehouse job is full-on, but also gives me some flexibility.”
“Not just the job, love.”
Oh gawd, was this dating advice?
“Give Alex a chance, Tatty, love. He’s unusual. That’s what you need.”
Tate couldn’t have articulated the shiver of sensuality that ran through him if his life had depended on it. “You mean weird?”
“If I did, I would have said it, boy. I said unusual. He stands out from the crowd.”
“Okay, I get the point.”
“No, you don’t,” she said, more sharply. To Tate’s alarm, she clicked off the TV altogether and turned abruptly to face him. Her expression was fierce. “Do you think your parents would want you to be alone? Yet I’ve seen the mess you’ve made with the boys who occasionally pin you down to a date. You’re running away from it.”
