by Clare London
“Gran, that’s not—”
“It’s totes true, as the H’s would say. They want you to be happy too, Tate. We all do. You’re run ragged with everything else in life. Louise sees it too. We think it’s about time you took a break and had something for yourself. Something or someone that doesn’t need your protection or campaigning—something just for fun!”
Tate shifted uncomfortably on the sofa. They were ganging up against him. “Don’t play that card with me, Gran. I don’t have any choice. It’s only four years since the accident, remember?” That was clumsy, of course Gran remembered. He gentled his voice. “The kids need me.”
“Not all of you, Tatty. We can cope with much more than you think. And that unusual boy—”
“Don’t say any more,” Tate said, too sharply, he knew. “Isn’t there a Gordon Ramsay retrospective series on tonight?”
Gran grumbled, but was distracted, and the TV came back on. Tate was left with melancholy thoughts of his deceased parents, his adorable but needy family, and his ridiculous—yet undeniable—attraction to Alex Goodson. Could he really think about dating Alex for real?
Tate was used to handling decisions on his own, even when surrounded by people. Things had been that way ever since he was orphaned. Oh, he didn’t look for sympathy, because there were plenty of folk worse off. It had been a terrible, gut-wrenching time when his parents were first killed, but he’d just dug in and determined to carry on. The family had already brought Gran into their house to live, but Tate was only in his early twenties, working hard at his own job, and ill-prepared to take on primary care for all his siblings. However, he couldn’t bear the thought they might be fostered out to other homes—however well-meaning—or split up as a family. Luckily, he had good support from social services, was given sufficient compassionate time off from work to sort things out in those first few grief-stricken months, and his colleagues and friends had stepped in to help when they could. Louise, of course, was the best of them all.
Tate had dated before the accident—he now envisioned his life split that way, before and after—but there’d never been anyone special. And he still tried, now and then, not just because Gran and Louise nagged him. A guy needed comfort, right? He had fun, he had occasional sex, and he had such a lot going on in the rest of his life, he didn’t usually notice how few and far between his nights out were.
Gran might have been annoying, but Tate’s innate honesty made him face the fact she might also have been right. Had he messed up his private life by being so fierce about protecting his family? Was he out of the habit of dating or, worse still, giving out hostile vibes in the first place? If Gran was so right, where was he going so wrong?
The rest of the night didn’t lie easy for him.
AFTER waving goodbye to Tate on his doorstep and waiting for the front door to close behind him, Alex sneaked around the corner of Tate’s street and jogged for another couple of blocks before hailing a cab to take him back to the hotel. He slid quickly into the back seat and allowed himself to slump down and relax.
What had just happened? The evening had been astonishing and, as Tate himself had said, not at all what Alex had expected when he inveigled his way into Tate’s personal space. He’d met a whole adventure park full of kids and a rather slutty but cute dog, run the gamut of an old woman who was too perceptive for her own good, and kissed the most exciting man he’d met for a long, long time.
That kiss….
Alex imagined he could still taste Tate, even though he must have licked off all traces by now. What’s more, he could still smell Tate’s shampoo from where Tate’s head had rested against the crook of his neck and shoulder, still feel the press of Tate’s muscled thigh. Plus his heart was still racing, and he was hard and uncomfortable. And ecstatic!
Tate wasn’t like anyone he’d dated for years. Maybe ever. He was cross and tousled, and suspicious of Alex. He was gorgeous—the fire in those eyes!—and overworked, and so tightly wound he could explode any day. Yet he didn’t; he coped with the warehouse, with Percy and the other staff, with the senior Bonfils, with feeding and caring for a family that both adored and clung to him. Jesus, he coped with public transport!
If Alex had been back in his normal life, he would never have left without Tate’s mobile number and an arrangement to wine and dine him as soon as possible. Instead, he’d left with a tease of a kiss, Tate’s scowly smile, an unrelieved erection, and a purple plastic ring in his pocket that Amy had insisted he wear as reward for reading to her, at least while he was in the house.
What the hell was up with him? He couldn’t stop thinking of Tate….
No! he told himself sternly. No distraction. No strings, remember? He’d had plenty of practice with that kind of relationship, it was his default mode after all. Sexy fun with a gorgeous man, just in passing.
Yes, tomorrow he had to get back on track. He had to start his investigation in earnest.
Chapter Nine
IT had been a weird week for Tate. It took several days to get the confiscated shipment released and, back in the warehouse, the damaged labels on existing stock had to be replaced. This was far more than just printing something off themselves—they had to reapply to the French producer who determined the appellation on the wine.
Tate’s concern about these random, yet potentially damaging, interferences grew by the day. He found himself watching his staff with suspicion rather than supervision, yet no one seemed to act oddly. Well, more oddly than usual. Jamie still trotted everywhere with Stuart like a puppy, Percy seemed even more growly, Penny in Packaging added a new piercing to her lip, and the married couple who organized the warehouse refreshments had been persuaded by someone to offer homemade cakes at the afternoon break. Tate had a pretty good idea that persuasive person was Alex Goodson.
Yes, indeed. Alex. Tate had conflicting reactions to that.
The main reason was because Tate had been seeing Alex. Socially, that was. Well, he wasn’t sure he’d call it actual dating—just a few times they’d gone somewhere after work. That was all, right? Grow a pair, Somerton, he imagined in a voice that sounded remarkably like Louise’s. Okay, they’d definitely been dates, he couldn’t deny it. He wasn’t entirely sure why he kept trying to, except from some kind of self-preservation instinct.
Yet it had been such a lot of fun.
After that astonishing shopping evening, they fell into the habit of having coffee after work at the small café on the edge of the industrial estate. Tate wasn’t keen on being seen, and then mercilessly teased, by other staff members, but at the end of the working day, most of them had already gone home. If Tate was in charge of locking up, or preparing for the night shift, Alex would wait around until he was free, then meet Tate at a small table at the back of the cozy café.
Despite having been in the same warehouse every day, they always seemed to find more than enough to talk about. What on earth did they talk about? Movies and books; the latest dramas in Tate’s child-ridden household; cars; wine. Tate had been intrigued by Alex’s knowledge of matching wines to food, and in return, he knew he’d surprised Alex more than once with his own knowledge. He might only work in the warehouse, but his interest in the job extended to knowing about the product as well. In fact, he’d already rashly applied for the sommelier internship, but no one needed to know about that yet, did they? At least, not until they got back to him with yes or—more likely—no. In the meantime, he’d discovered that Alex was startlingly easy to talk to: he made Tate laugh. Such a silly thing, but Tate realized how little he did of it recently.
Alex’s latest story had been how he dropped his pass under the forklift tracks that morning. Now it was mangled so badly—
“—I look like the Hunchback of Notre Dame’s younger brother,” he announced plaintively. “If there were a prime suspects lineup—”
“Your own mother wouldn’t recognize you?” Tate realized he’d miscalculated the joke, as Alex’s expression went suddenly blank. He hurried
on, trying to recover the moment. “So do you think this job is really for you?”
“What do you mean? Are you here to fire me?”
“No. You think I’d do that on my own time?” Tate laughed. “But you must realize you’re not the usual type of intern we get. At least, not of the ones who stay. You’ve obviously been very well educated, you’re not lacking in assertiveness, and I for one can’t reconcile you working on the shop floor.”
“That’s what an internship is, right? It’s important I see all aspects of the business.”
“Yeah. But I’d expect you to have been fast-tracked to one of the specialist training programs. Sommelier, marketing. That kind of thing.”
Alex didn’t laugh back, but looked serious.
“You’re intelligent, too, Tate. Nor are you lacking in confidence. You could go for the fast track, too. Why is it different for me?”
Tate didn’t know what to say. He struggled for a convincing shutdown on the topic. “Oh, I’m not the same kind of guy. I mean, maybe I’ve never had the urge to go further. I like my job as warehouse manager, and I love this part of the country.” He loved Bristol, had always lived here, and had no desire to work in London, for example. The West Country was buzzing with activity if you wanted it, but also close to the most wonderful countryside. And the people were friendly and neighborly.
Alex didn’t look convinced. “There isn’t more you want to do with your life?”
Let it go! “I have a lot to juggle, you know that. This job fits with my life, which I appreciate. When would I have time or resources to do further training?”
“That’s not an actual answer,” Alex said gently.
No way. Tate wasn’t going to confess his secret plans, his hopes of rising through the ranks, not if they never came to anything, despite his late-night studying and his regular, surreptitious analysis of other jobs available at Bonfils.
“It’s enough for me.” He nodded firmly. End of.
Alex sipped his coffee, quiet for a moment. “But there are things you’d change if you were in charge?”
“Hell, yeah. Better conditions for the staff,” Tate said promptly. He so rarely talked about himself, it was a heady feeling to let loose. “Our facilities are always the last to be renovated. More flexible shifts, better pay. We’re loyal, but that shouldn’t be assumed, and people should never be seen as a cheap resource. Most of us have families to support. More input to the management agenda—”
“Hear, hear,” Alex murmured.
“And the chance to suggest improvements. We’re the ones who work with the system—we’re the ones who often know what could make it run more smoothly. We’re all invested in the Bonfils reputation, as much as Mr. Charles and his team.”
Alex’s gaze was locked on his coffee cup for once. “I guess there are a lot of opinions in the warehouse.”
“That’s unusually diplomatic of you,” Tate said with a grin. When had that extra slice of cake appeared in front of him? He hadn’t seen Alex gesture to the counter, but now they both had a fresh, generous slice of chocolate fudge cake. Apparently, talking made them both hungry. “Yeah. Many of us aren’t backward in coming forward when we see—”
“Things going wrong?”
Tate was a little startled. “Sorry? I mean, yes, but… that wasn’t what I was talking about.”
“Ignore me,” Alex said quickly. “I just heard some gossip, that’s all. That there have been problems at the warehouse. I thought it would be best to get the real story from you.”
Tate wondered why Alex was so interested. Alex was cheeky, definitely, but he’d never seemed particularly malicious or a gossipmonger. Yet this wasn’t the first time he’d asked Tate about recent events. Apparently, according to Percy, Alex had been talking to some of the other staff too. “Yes, I admit there have been some issues. But you have to expect ups and downs at such a busy enterprise.”
“Do you know why?”
“Why these things happen? Too much activity, too tight deadlines, too few resources. Probably all the usual reasons. Plus we’re all human, and make mistakes.”
“Even Tate Somerton?” Alex asked slyly, his smile taking the sting out of the tease.
“Yeah. Even me.” Tate sighed. “And I don’t know everything that’s going on. Bonfils is a successful company, much envied for its quality wines. And it’s no secret we’re planning to launch a new one at the UK Heritage Wines Awards. The pressure’s on us all to do well with it. Mr. Charles has been working for several years to develop something very exclusive.”
“Very British.” It sounded more of a statement than a question. Maybe Alex had done more research on his new job than Percy had accused him of.
“Yes.” Tate was proud of the homegrown products they already had, but Angel’s Breath would be a market leader if it launched well.
“Very expensive?”
Tate laughed. “Inevitably. Out of the range of our pockets, anyway.” Alex seemed to be concentrating again on his coffee, so Tate was also quiet for a moment, using a mouthful of cake as a valid excuse. When he’d finished, he leaned back in his seat, happily filled with sponge and sugar. Lucky that Gran was cooking for the kids tonight. Tate reckoned he’d eaten enough now not to worry about an evening meal.
He snuck a glance at Alex, who was playing idly with the froth left in his coffee cup. He really was gorgeous: what they called sculpted features, and a body that wasn’t pumped up or anything, but skin that seemed to glow with the health that only came with good care and attention. Tate knew he often looked dog-tired, plus he didn’t have time to go to the gym anymore or play football with his mates after work. Maybe when the H’s were older, he could get involved with the school sports matches. There was always a shortage of adult assistants with any after-school activity. He treated himself to another self-indulgent ogle of Alex. It wasn’t just his looks, though Tate really liked the full lips, the breadth of Alex’s shoulders, the way his skinny jeans clung around his thighs. His eyes were almost always alert, always searching; he’d never asked for his glasses back since the day he left them at Tate’s. No, it wasn’t just his looks, but the way he carried himself. So confident, so certain of himself…. Then Alex looked up and caught his eye.
“Tate,” he said softly, his eyes gray pools of fascination. “Oh. That look on your face.”
“What about it?”
Alex’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t jump down my throat like that, you’ll spill the cappuccino. Hasn’t anyone ever told you how good you look? Can’t a man compliment you?”
Not often. Not at all. It made Tate itch with embarrassment. “You just surprised me, that’s all. I thought you were going to say I had frosting on my lip, or something.” Bad choice of phrase—Alex’s gaze dropped immediately to Tate’s lips. Tate’s jeans tightened noticeably across his crotch. “Anyway, this started with my question, not yours. Why you applied for the intern job in the first place.”
“Applied…? Oh. I see.” Alex had that sly smile again; he had a whole portfolio of them. Tate found himself enjoying trying to guess which would come next. “Let’s call it fate. It’s a good company, I think I’m demonstrating that I can do the work, and I needed a job.”
“You?” Tate couldn’t help the exclamation.
Alex flushed. “Yes, difficult though that seems for you to believe. I lost my last… position and decided to seek a useful role elsewhere.”
“Jeez, Alex. You’d have done better to look at Head Office in London—”
“No!”
Tate was startled at Alex’s cry. “Shit. I’m sorry. Though I’m not exactly sure why.”
Alex grabbed his hand across the tabletop. “No, I’m the one who’s sorry. You touched a nerve, but there’s no way you could have known that. And no,” he continued as Tate opened his mouth to protest, “I don’t want to talk about that tonight.”
“Okay.” Tate had shied away from showing vulnerability, only moments ago. He could show Alex the same latitude
. “Enough warehouse talk, okay? I have plenty of it during the day.”
Alex chuckled, and the tension eased. “So let’s talk about the product. Do you drink a lot of wine? What’s your favorite vintage?”
Tate wasn’t going to get into that, either. He knew his place. “Red.”
Alex blinked hard. “Sorry?”
“I don’t drink much,” Tate hedged. “House red is usually good enough.”
Alex actually blanched. “There’s so much to enjoy! Surely you must be tempted, working at Bonfils? How can you bear transporting the stuff to clients all over the world and not tasting it yourself?”
Tate felt a prickle of shame at the nape of his neck, and his reply was instinctively cool. “Bonfils’s wine isn’t the kind of thing I can afford on a weekly basis.”
For the first time, Alex looked discomfited. “Well. I mean, I’d rather have a single glass of a good quality wine than a bottle of the inferior.”
“And I agree with you. But, to be honest, I don’t drink that much of it anyway.” That was also true. Tate’s knowledge of good wine was growing by the day, but his natural caution kept him from boasting about it, and his bank balance kept him from indulging it. “I’m impressed with the English vintages, though.”
“They’re enchanting!” Alex’s enthusiasm was so attractive. “You should visit the vineyards, too, see the grapes in situ. When they get close to harvest, they’re heavy and plump on the vine. There’s nothing like the southern English soil for producing grapes that lush. It’s to do with the right pH balance, then a mix of loam and sand, plus added charcoal. It’s glorious to see in spring, when the berries start to swell, though that’s when they need to be thinned. And they’re always hungry plants, so they need to be fed regularly with a liquid feed, like seaweed.”
