by Clare London
There was such a sparkling look in Alex’s eyes that Tate was momentarily silent. He wondered where Alex had learned so much about wine growing. When he got the chance, he was definitely going to dig a little deeper into Alex’s rather sparse resume. “Maybe next time—”
“—we go out?” Alex interrupted, returning to his raised eyebrows and eager grin.
“Next time I have a glass of wine,” Tate finished firmly. “I’ll take longer over the wine list.” Not that he ate very often at places with a wine list. His preferred family takeaways tended to ask if he wanted salt and vinegar with his fish and chips, rather than which vintage he’d drink it with. “Maybe I should ask Mr. Henri for a recommendation when he next comes around,” he added teasingly.
Alex started and pushed his chair back. “Where?”
Tate held up a hand to soothe him. “No, not here, you idjit! Calm down. He comes around the warehouse once a month or so, is that a problem?”
“Once a month?” Eyes wide, Alex was definitely shocked.
“Yeah. The staff really appreciates the way he shows interest in the day-to-day running of things, even if it’s only in passing. I mean, he’s grown up in the business, knows all the wines and their clients—” He didn’t know why Alex had such a strangled expression, but never mind. “Though it’s not just altruism. It’s a check on how well we’re performing. The whole organization has to run like one well-oiled machine.”
“What about Mr. Charles? I mean, what do they call him, the big boss.” Alex had settled back at the table, but when he moved his coffee mug, it rattled. Were his hands shaking?
“Yeah, he’s been known to visit too, though less often. He’s already been around this month, you just missed him.”
“I hadn’t thought,” Alex said ruefully. He seemed to have relaxed. “I never considered it.”
“Considered what?”
“Nothing.” And Alex wouldn’t be drawn any further on the topic.
Eventually, the café owner insisted he had to lock up if they all wanted his breakfasts to be served on time the next morning. Tate glanced at his watch, amazed it was already ten o’clock. Thank God Gran was on hand at home to look after the kids.
“Do you have any more time tonight?” Alex asked. “There’s a late-night showing of an art house sci-fi movie at the Everyman.”
“No, I have to get back,” Tate said, and realized his reluctance was genuine. “After all, this is what Gran calls a school night—you and I both have work tomorrow. Plus Gran’s had a busy day and I don’t want to overtire her. She’s just joined a new ladies’ barbershop quartet and they had a rehearsal this afternoon. It means she’ll be knackered tonight and will probably fall asleep on the sofa. Last time Louise and I went out for a drink, we came home to find Hattie had put a Post-it Note on the TV screen to say they’d taken themselves to bed, and they hoped Gran would keep the snoring down!”
It was good to see Alex laugh again, and even better to know that he, Tate, had caused it.
“Maybe see some music next week?” Alex said gently. He drew Tate under the small awning outside the café. The shutters rolled down behind them with a final clatter. The air was sharp with chill but not uncomfortable. There weren’t many people about this time of night on the industrial estate. “There’s an excellent jazz band at a place called the Old Duke that the music press has been raving about.”
“I know the pub, and I like gigs. That’d be great,” Tate said, and meant it. Something about being with Alex eased his usual caution, lifted his mood, offered opportunities he’d passed over before. “Hopefully Louise will babysit for me. But if you like live music, what about seeing a rock band later this week? I go to the Fleece now and then, and I confess I don’t know a bloody thing about jazz.”
Alex chuckled. “Excellent. We’ll teach each other new things. That’s just as I like it” He hugged Tate closer as if trying to keep him warm, because Alex always seemed to have internal heat. Now, as his face pressed against Tate’s, their noses rubbing together as they tilted and slotted together, his lips descending onto Tate’s, Tate felt warm in a way that had nothing to do with degrees centigrade.
He really liked the feeling.
Chapter Ten
“SO how are things going with you?” Louise asked as they drove into work two mornings later. “This is the second morning in a row you’ve called for a lift—though you know I never mind offering, in fact I like the company—but I reckon it means you’re, you know.”
Only Louise could articulate ironic speech marks with just her voice. “No, I don’t know,” Tate said, slumping back in the car seat. And yawning.
“A-ha! Proof indeed, members of the jury.” Louise snorted. “I mean dating. And you are, aren’t you? In the sense of being out late unusually often, drinking beer, finding a reluctance to leave said boyfriend, therefore missing sleep, subsequently oversleeping on a work day and needing the speedy vehicle of your dearest friend and trusty confidante Lou—”
“Lou, please. It’s too early for jokes.” Tate yawned again. “It’s not really dating.”
“Damned well is!” Louise said gleefully. “Every day after work? Looks it, sounds it, and definitely quacks like it, my BFF.”
“Jesus, are you stalking me?”
“Don’t need to.” Louise looked horribly smug. “I have my spies. And I’ve also offered to babysit the brood—that’s including Gran—while you go out with him again on Friday, to that Tyme and Tyde gig at the Fleece.”
“Him?”
“Don’t be coy, Tate. I know you’re seeing Alex. Why d’you have to be so secretive?”
“Because it’s… personal. Anyway, it’s not anything special. You’d think it was your love life we were discussing, you’re so damned excited.”
Louise wriggled in her seat and nearly swung the car onto the pavement. “Oh, it’s far more exciting than mine. I haven’t met a girl I’ve liked for longer than two hours since last year, though there is Penny, and she’s warming to me, I reckon….”
For one brief, wonderful, relief-filled moment, Tate thought he’d dodged the bullet of talking about his dates.
“And while we’re on that subject, Tate—”
He hadn’t, obviously. “We’re not.”
Lou ignored his protest. “Tell all! Have you done the deed? He’s such a cutie, and he’s so obviously hot for you. Inquiring minds want to know all the gory details.”
“Twisted, perverted minds, more like. And no, I’m not telling you anything about that.” He thought he’d shut her up pretty successfully until he saw her mouth hanging open and her eyes wide. “What’s that look for?”
“You’ve always told me in the past, Tatty.” It was serious when she used his family nickname. “All the updates on anyone you’ve been dating. I mean, maybe not all the gory details, but definitely how things are progressing in general in the, you know, bedroom department. Or couch, or car, or shower, or anywhere else.” Lou’s expression was mischievous, but was that the glisten of almost-tears in her eyes? “This must be serious, my dear BFF.”
“Oh, for God’s sake.”
But, was it serious? Tate felt uncomfortably shaken. Lou had only been teasing, but Tate hadn’t. For some reason, he wanted to hug the details of him and Alex to himself; to keep the chatting discreet, to savor the touches and kisses. Everything seemed very different from the usual hookups he’d had before—all the other hookups where “no strings” had been the implicit name of the game.
Not that there was much sexy detail to report to Lou. They hadn’t progressed much beyond kissing and cuddling. Tate wasn’t the sort of guy to rush at the best of times, but frustration was starting to bite. He reckoned it was the same for Alex too. Their make-out sessions were increasingly heated. It was only casual making out, of course… oh, please, who are you kidding? It was proper make-out, with proper sexual chemistry. Alex was obviously highly experienced—the places he found to lick and probe inside Tate’s mouth were a testa
ment to how well he knew how to excite his partner—but Tate had therefore assumed he’d get tired and move on to a new boyfriend soon enough. He’d been wary of going too far with Alex and making a fool of himself.
It hadn’t happened yet. And he was getting eager to make a wonderful, sexually satisfying fool of himself, indeed.
One of the problems was that Tate had nowhere to go. He was limited in the time he had the house to himself. When Gran’s joints were free of pain, she’d take the kids out for the day, being a firm believer in the restorative powers of open, green spaces, and Lou often took them to the cinema for the evening if there was something suitable on show. The kids had occasional sleepovers, but what were the chances of coordinating three of those so he could have a night of passion with a boyfriend? With previous guys, he usually went to their place. But Alex hadn’t suggested going back to his hotel room, and Tate was not going to mention it. He didn’t want to look uncontrollably horny with the need to see more of Alex—as in skin, not hours of the day—and wanting to jump him at the earliest opportunity.
Which, unfortunately, he was.
ALEX was deeply concerned—with himself. He’d seen Tate Somerton for over a week, every day at work and most evenings on a date, and he was eager for more. Or rather, still eager for more.
He couldn’t remember the last guy he’d dated where he was quite so keen to keep things rolling. He loved men’s company, some of his exes had been really hot—and dammit, he liked sex as much as, and usually more than, the next man—but he really could take or leave the relationship side of things. Tina had been right when she accused him of avoiding monogamy. But now? Now, unexpectedly, he’d discovered a man who fired up all of Alex’s hot buttons, even when they’d barely started on the physical side of things, and Alex just got more and more fascinated. It was as if he’d taken on a whole new persona, not just a new name, when he’d launched himself as Alex Goodson. Maybe it was because he couldn’t move on to something new that kept him in Tate’s zone—or maybe he didn’t want to.
God, it was a trial. He hadn’t expected this kind of soul-searching when he went undercover. As far as the TV programs went, the boss was usually in and out within the week, with a camera crew to stop him straying into inappropriate territory. Pity the program had never mentioned the critical logistical issues, like the mystery of income tax, timekeeping, and rabid coffee vending machines. What with trying to keep his identity secret, and training as fast as he could in the actual job so he didn’t get thrown out, Alex also hadn’t found it as easy as he’d thought to discover details about the potential sabotage.
And he definitely hadn’t intended to fall for one of the staff.
Tate was good-looking—the unruly hair, the sharp, dark, eyes, the wiry strength in his body—but it was so much more than that. Tate didn’t know who Alex was, so he couldn’t be suspected of playing up to the rich heir. He obviously fancied Alex, but wasn’t giving in submissively, like Alex’s previous lovers almost always had. Tate had a lot going on in his life, and Alex was gradually finding out how he, Alex, was only one, single part of that—and not necessarily the most important one.
Alex wasn’t insulted by that; he wasn’t in a petulant sulk. He was just trying to get used to it, and decide what he could do to change it. He was a naïve, unpracticed stranger in the strange land of relationships, he guessed. How ironic. It would give Tina a good belly laugh, if only he could tell her.
In the meantime, he had to grit his teeth, get on with his prescribed job, and fulfill his secret mission. Then he would return to the Bonfils boardroom, beaming with success and proof of his worth. As soon as possible. Really. And if that meant leaving Bristol—and Tate—behind?
He wasn’t going to think about that just yet.
THE rock gig that Tate suggested for Thursday night after work turned out to be dire. Both of them thought so, not just the gig-virginal Alex, who might have dated rock stars but had rarely put himself out to go to their events. In fact, he’d really enjoyed the evening with Tate, despite drinking warm beer and being jostled by sweaty, overexcited people who stumbled across the venue floor in groups like confused lemmings. It had been good to see Tate’s eyes shining, to try to make out his shouted words over the noise, to soak up the undeniable enthusiasm of the band’s musicians.
But they both agreed that Tyme and Tyde were a crap group. The singer was out of tune, the drummer wasn’t strong enough to control the beat, and it was really only the tight trousers that made the young female fans squeal every time the lead guitarist struck a chord. Alex and Tate weaved to the back of the room during one of the lulls in music and left the building.
“Bloody dreadful.” Tate sighed. “If that lead guy ran his hand through his hair one more time, I’d have leapt up on stage and cut it off.”
“The hair, or—?”
“Both, the gurt vain spanner he was.”
“Love that Bristol talk,” Alex said with a smile. “That means idiot, right?”
Tate laughed and took Alex’s arm quite naturally. “What did you think of the support group? The couple with the guitar and keyboard.”
“They were very good,” Alex said truthfully. He was keeping his arm as still as he could, so Tate wouldn’t be tempted to let go. “I thought the lyrics were very original.”
“And that from a man who prefers instrumental playing with a sax.” Tate grinned. The good mood from the gig still shone in his eyes. “The man is local, you know. One of Lou’s distant cousins, actually.”
“So you mix with the famous,” Alex joked. When he slid his arm around Tate’s waist, Tate leaned into him. “I’m honored to know you.”
“Stupid arse,” Tate said, almost fondly. He was a little tipsy from the beer, though neither of them had felt brave enough to battle to the bar inside the small venue more than twice. “I’m starving.”
Alex checked his watch. “What’s still open?” It wasn’t terribly late, as they’d left the gig early, but many places would already be filled until closing time.
“All the fast food venues,” Tate said helpfully, then laughed at Alex’s instinctive grimace.
Alex had accepted Tate’s education in fast food menus, but the going was tough. Alex had quite enjoyed fried chicken, and had now developed a guilty hankering for a decent kebab, but his allegiance still lay with “proper” restaurant food. Yet he knew Tate couldn’t afford to eat out very often.
“There’s a French place.” He pointed to it, tucked down a narrow turning off the main road. “Let me treat you.”
“We share the bill,” Tate said firmly, though Alex was happy enough to have fooled him into agreeing to go there in the first place.
It was a small restaurant, with only six tables, decorated in the usual bright white tablecloths and wine bottles ranged on a high shelf around the room. Four of the other tables were occupied, so they were shown to one of the two remaining at the back of the room. A basket of fresh, warm-smelling bread arrived promptly, along with a bowl of plump olives and a dip of fragrant oil and vinegar. The aromas coming from the kitchen were marvelous, full of garlic and tomato. Alex had a really good feeling about this place, despite its size. When he opened the menu, he found a modest but imaginative menu of traditional dishes.
He glanced over to see Tate had just picked up the wine menu. Alex quickly swapped with him before Tate even had a chance to open it. “House red?” he asked with a smile.
“Are you mocking me?” Tate smiled too, not taking offense. The light from the candle inside a glass on their table flickered in his pupils.
“No. But I’d like to order for us, if you don’t mind.” Alex was excited to see that the wine list was as imaginative as the menu. He was torn between a bottle of Bordeaux and the featured special for this week, a Cabernet Sauvignon. Of course, it depended what Tate ordered for food.
“Alex….” Tate looked wary.
He was too late to complain, because Alex had already lifted a hand to order. The waiter
darted across and nodded enthusiastically at Alex’s choice of the Cabernet. Tate sat in silence while the bottle was fetched uncorked and left to breathe on their table.
Alex decided to address the elephant in the room before Tate had a chance to. “I know you worry about the money, Tate. Just let me have my head this time. I… came into a small win today.”
“You gamble?” Tate frowned.
Damn, Alex had chosen a wrong cover story. “No. I mean, it was like… like a Premium Bond win. I want to spend it on our evening. Let me get the wine. Here, try a taste. It’s full-bodied, you may even find a blackcurrant note. The grapes originated in France, though they’re grown all over the world nowadays.” He poured into their glasses quickly, before Tate could refuse. Would he? Alex still found it tricky to gauge the effect of Tate’s pride.
Tate sighed with resignation, then took an aimless sip. Then another. He looked up at Alex, his pupils dilating slightly. “A good choice. Yes, the blackcurrant is there, but also notes of black olive and cherry. Rich, but not heavy.”
There was a sudden, pregnant silence.
“I see,” Alex said slowly. “You’ve been fooling me all along, haven’t you? You know plenty about wine.”
Tate had the grace to look ashamed. “I’m sorry… I couldn’t resist. Usually, I don’t give away so much about myself.”
Alex was startled by the sudden twist of anguish inside him, but he spoke quickly over it. “You don’t have to apologize to me, Tate, for anything, and certainly not for protecting yourself.” If anyone knew about living with the pressures and restrictions of family and social expectations, it was Alex himself. “But I’m not sure what from. I’m not going to laugh at you or argue with you for that matter. It’s a treat to find someone who can talk about a subject I love.” He took his own sip, letting the wine settle gently on his tongue before swallowing. It would be perfect with their meal. It was a lesser quality than many of the Bonfils wines, he admitted, but delicious regardless. What a find! “Tell me more about how it tastes.”
