by Clare London
However, there wasn’t much rest in the Somerton household by day. Alex couldn’t ever remember being in such a busy scenario. Tate was up early to see to the kids, worked a long, busy day at the warehouse—and sometimes evening shifts—and then came home to another virtually full-time job as parent. For the first day, Alex found himself retreating into the role of fascinated observer, then he relaxed, finding himself alternately astonished and delighted by the family members.
Gran was a warm, enchanting soul, but when her arthritis was bad, she couldn’t do much apart from passive babysitting. But she told a wicked joke and knew everything that was happening in Love Island or Eastenders on TV, and she cooked a mean shepherd’s pie, Alex could attest to that. It was fast becoming his favorite meal. He’d even asked for her recipe.
“You can cook it tonight,” she announced gleefully, in trade. And although he’d meant to pass it on to the family housekeeper, he let himself be chivvied into the kitchen and he’d… good God, he’d cooked a family meal! He found he actually enjoyed the physicality of chopping vegetables and mashing potatoes, and Gran encouraged him to use his imagination with the herbs. He instinctively caught himself wondering what wine to serve with it, but discovered he was just as happy with a glass of what the family called fruit squash. And when the kids liked his food? How weird that he was so delighted!
But there was so much more to this family business. Alex remained astonished at how long it took to organize. The schedule started at godawful-o’clock when Amy and the twins had to be roused from sleep, dressed—and in the right clothes, not just any old pair of jeans, and Tate always insisted the socks matched—and fed breakfast. Then Gran had to be helped with her breakfast, Tate would sort out the selection of tablets she took, remind her if she had to collect the kids after school from the same neighbor, or if he could do it on his way home, then check Gran’s dog was let out into the garden to relieve itself, then fed and watered. Alex had never had a pet before. From the look on everyone’s faces, it was an irritating yet strangely rewarding commitment. Bizarrely conflicting, in his opinion.
Tate would then hustle the kids out to the bus stop across the road, where he’d wait with them until they caught the bus, or into a helpful neighbor’s care, if they were also going to the school. One morning, Tate’s friend Louise stopped by to take them in her car. Tate didn’t let her into the house, which was odd, and according to everyone’s chorus of disapproval, not the usual way of things. Alex had seen her grinning broadly and peering at him out of the car window when he went to see Tate off at the door. He made sure to send her a cheerful wave.
During the day, Alex slept, exercised carefully, and was co-opted into helping Gran with the laundry and other household chores, to the extent he might find himself at the kitchen table with her, snipping discount coupons out of the local newspaper. Coupons! And after work, it was the same routine but backward. The kids arrived at the house as a small hurricane of noise and activity. Coats and backpacks were discarded anywhere, until Gran reminded them to pick them up and change out of their uniforms in their separate rooms. Funnily enough, she seemed to have to say this every time: did children never learn, or were they deliberately challenging? Hattie and Hugo were learning to cook supper but Tate liked to be there to supervise, and mostly did it all himself until they rousted him out of the kitchen. They all needed lots of attention with their homework—the twins because they got distracted too easily, and Amy because she was shockingly bright and often needed adult input—yet none of them appeared to welcome it. The TV went on, as per the kids, as soon as Tate’s back was turned, then off again—per Tate, accompanied by dire threats of sending the equipment back to the store—several times. The persistence and single-mindedness of children was a revelation.
It was a unique situation for Alex, finding himself a spectator of other people’s lives. No one ignored him per se, but his was by no means the loudest voice. He began to realize how selfish his life had been before now, run purely to his own schedule. Now, at the Somerton house, he was learning to help out where he could, answer questions if directed at him, and in all other cases, try to keep out of the way. It was, at times, exhausting.
And yet….
He’d also noticed how suddenly the chaos and mayhem could ease. Everyone would dart in and out of the living room all evening, but for one moment they’d all be together. The whole atmosphere in the room would change, as abruptly to Alex as if a switch had been flipped, yet he had no idea where, how, or by whom. The discordant voices would settle into the same pitch, even some of the same words. Someone would laugh, and everyone would join in.
Then Hattie and Hugo would hug Tate, two similar blobs of affection clasped to his chest. Tate would laugh, too, his face cleared of the stress of work, looking suddenly younger, freer, more relaxed. Amy would snuggle up to Gran and they’d both sing along to adverts on the TV or tickle Freddie with their toes as he lay on the carpet at Gran’s feet.
They acted as if they were one being, one emotion, one love. Alex would watch it happen, unable to explain or analyze, hoping that no one took offense at the look of bemusement he was sure was on his face. Hoping that they would continue to tolerate him with them there, in their lives. That tolerance and welcome suddenly seemed very critical to him.
Was this the real meaning of family? It was odd. He felt inexplicably breathless.
And, he confessed to himself, lonely.
ON Wednesday morning, they all congregated at the kitchen table as usual. Gran had a cold and was wrapped up in her duvet on the living room sofa. Tate didn’t think she needed to see the doctor—or an expert on tropical viruses, as Amy suggested blithely—but he was reluctant to leave her without help all day.
Hattie said, “She’s not alone. There’s—”
“—Alex in the house,” Hugo finished.
“And I will not take offense,” Alex said rather primly, “that you don’t think I can look after her.”
Tate privately worried that Alex had never shown any aptitude for or experience of looking after anyone but himself—and maybe Tate—but he wasn’t going to argue. Just because a man had never changed a nappy, cleared up dog poo, or mashed up a tin of beans when his grandmother misplaced her teeth, didn’t mean he shouldn’t be given a chance.
“We need more bread, milk, and eggs. I don’t know where it all goes, but we’re constantly out of them.”
“Gran eats eggy fried bread for lunch every day when you’re at work.” Alex said bluntly. “It usually takes her a few attempts to get the consistency right.”
Tate blinked hard. He’d never known that. No wonder his frying pan was always so messy.
Alex continued, “And I can jog down to that bijou little store you have on the corner of your street and get more supplies. I’ve done that a few times already, although I’m appalled at how much extra they charge per item just for the convenience. I’ll wait until she drowses off in front of Ramsay’s Kitchen Nightmares USA.”
“Um. It’s also her day to pick up the kids from school, because I have a union meeting early evening, and Louise is busy at her mum’s after work—”
“I can do that too. It’s only a short walk away. However, I believe you need to let the school know it’ll be me accompanying them? One can’t be too careful with young people’s safety nowadays.”
“No,” Tate said, biting back a grin. “No, you can’t be.”
“Can we have the art lessons next weekend?” Hattie leaned toward Alex across the kitchen table, her best adoring-puppy smile in place.
“Art lessons?” Tate asked, puzzled.
“Well, I did a semester at the Slade in Paris, until they asked me to leave for disrupting the class,” Alex said blithely. “I promised the twins help in developing some basic sketching techniques, though maybe just in pencils to start with. I have recently learned that certain paints are virtually impossible to wash out of man-made fibers.”
“Back up a bit. You were disrupting…?�
�
“Personally, I believe an artist should be allowed to draw whatever he wishes, with full creative license.”
What the hell did he draw? No, Tate wasn’t going to ask; he didn’t dare.
“I also want to go through online grocery shopping with Gran when she’s better,” Alex continued. “I’m getting a good idea of what’s where in the store, Gran’s guided me toward the discount shelves, and they also offer a surprisingly wide selection of family meal recipe cards. Also, I’m researching the best deal for a new washing machine, yours is apparently—according to Amy’s vernacular—on its last legs. I will be negotiating the delivery charges downward, I can tell you.”
“I. Right. Okay.” Tate was stunned into almost silence by this new side to Alex.
“And then I’ll come back to work with you,” Alex finished firmly. “Will we do the bus journey again? I’ve been studying the local timetables. Though Louise called the house yesterday to offer her informal chauffeur services anytime, so I could call her back to see when her shifts coincide with ours. And neither of us knows why you’re embarrassed for her to see me here.”
Good God. Tate didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. The accident seemed to have opened the floodgates on Alex’s careless frankness. “You’ve had a serious work injury. The company medical officer will need to know you’re over that completely, but I don’t see why you shouldn’t return next Monday. And the embarrassment thing? I’ve been trying to protect both our reputations.”
Alex made a snort that sounded suspiciously like one of Percy’s.
The kids scrambled from the table and left the room, laughing, jostling, seeking the items they needed in their backpack for school. Tate was left momentarily alone with Alex. “Be honest,” he said. “How do you feel?”
“You mean, about how to continue our investigation—?”
“No,” Tate said firmly. “I mean, about your health.”
Alex sighed. “Still bruised, but I must go back to work.”
“Look, the investigation doesn’t need to concern you—”
“Tate, I can move, speak, and follow instructions. And of course it concerns me!”
Tate had a lightbulb moment: he could have kicked himself for being so insensitive. “Oh my God, what an idjit I am. You need the money.” Alex was at the end of the sickness period he could self-certify, and if he still wouldn’t see a doctor, his wages would stop.
Alex blinked hard. “Oh. Dammit. If that’s what you… yes. That.” His expression softened. “Thank you for caring.”
“Alex is much better now,” Amy said, suddenly appearing at Tate’s elbow, making both men start. “I love him here. He reads stories like he lives in them. But he should do some work too.”
Tate smiled and tried not to roll his eyes where she could see it. Amy was a bold but sensible soul. “I guess that’s okay then,” he said drily. “I mean, God forbid I, the warehouse manager, should try to run the place without consulting my seven-year-old sister.”
“Glad to hear it,” she said, missing the irony completely, but happily satisfied her point had been made. She rejoined the twins in the hallway, meeting Louise at the front door. Over the heads of the welcoming children, Louise winked at Tate and waved hello to Alex.
Tate nodded cheerfully at Lou. “You’re now fully introduced, I see.”
Alex smiled at him. It was a slow, gentle smile, nothing like his cheeky, arrogant smile that had been so evident when he joined the warehouse. Tate liked this smile much more. He’d seen a lot of it this week, at breakfast, in front of the TV, over the kitchen hob, laughing together while they made up the sofa for Alex’s sleep each night. And snatching kisses and touches that teased the libido to a way too painful level. Tate’s memory lingered again and again on that night in Alex’s hotel room, on the too-soft mattress, savoring cool, clean sheets he hadn’t had to iron himself….
Oh God, Tate thought, as he so often did nowadays. It wasn’t just thwarted lust that made him dread Alex going back to work. He was used to having Alex around. He’d still have Alex’s company at work, but obviously Alex would move out of Tate’s house. Get his own flat or check back into another hotel. A deep, ugly ache started in Tate’s chest at the thought of that. And the next step? Alex would move on completely. Tate knew that now. He’d lose another person he’d come to care for.
Don’t mince words, his internal voice told him. You mean, to love.
I am so screwed.
But all he said to Alex, the man whose eyes lit up when he saw him, whose determination Tate could only admire, whose body Tate remembered as clearly as if they’d slept together last night and not a frustrating week ago, was, “That’s fine. I’ll get Percy to put you back on next week’s shift schedule.”
Chapter Sixteen
THAT night, Alex woke suddenly with a shocked gasp. The living room was dark, and a quick glance at the TV showed it was around 2:00 a.m. His right arm had flopped off the sofa, banging his elbow on the low coffee table, and he was sliding off the edge of the seat. Swallowing hard, he grabbed the back of the sofa with his left hand and pulled himself to sitting. The cushion he’d been using as a pillow had already tumbled off, and the duvet was tangled up around him. His heart was racing and the back of his neck was sweaty. He slept in his T-shirt because of the kids, but now he peeled it off, grateful for the cooler air on his skin.
Hell of a dream! People dreamed about their whole life when they died—or so the books said, though Alex personally couldn’t imagine ever recalling everything he’d done and dammit, he hadn’t really been that assaulted—but the scenes in his mind had been extraordinarily vivid. There had been people around him all the time…. Papa, so stern, so businesslike, with Henri similarly dressed in a sober suit beside him. Then a blur of older, happier scenes, with Mama in the group. He’d heard music, felt the sway of plane travel, smelled the soft leather of limo seats. There’d been snatches of school days, where Alex sat at the back of a room full of desks, young men lounging in their seats, chatting and teasing. A sports field… a party with champagne. Snow… a beach. Fast cars. It was presumably a potted history of him—and his family.
But the last, most explicit visions before he woke had been of Tate Somerton. Laughing, frowning, scooping Amy up in his arms, running beside Freddie on the pavement outside the house on the way to the local shops, eating popcorn in front of a late TV movie, washing up after dinner, earnestly explaining the rights of his staff, the need for better school equipment for his siblings and others, the plight of local senior residents, how to treasure and maintain local parks….
“Alex?” Tate stood in the doorway, half in silhouette, dressed only in sleep shorts and yawning, rubbing a hand through his messy hair. “Are you okay?”
“Yes. Just a dream, I think.”
“Sounded like a nightmare.” Tate came into the room, quietly closing the door behind him. Light from a small lamp in the hallway shone underneath it, giving a shadowy illumination to the living room furniture. Tate sat down gently on the sofa at Alex’s feet. “You were calling out.”
“My God, was I?” He’d never been aware of sleep-talking before. “What did I say?”
Tate’s face was guarded, at least as much as Alex could make out in the dim light. “Nothing sensible. I… to your mother maybe. You said… Mama. Several times.”
Dammit. Alex ran his hand back through his hair.
“You miss her?” Tate was watching him closely. “Well, of course you do. You haven’t told me much about her—and there’s no need to, I know—but I’m here if you want to talk about anything.”
“I don’t want to.” Alex felt inexplicably tearful. How bloody embarrassing. A burst of rash honesty ambushed him. “I mean, I do. Maybe. And if it were to anyone, it’d be you.”
Tate’s flush was a darker gray on his cheeks. “Well, hopefully you can get back to sleep. There’s a school trip tomorrow, so they don’t have to be in as early as usual. I’ll try and keep the kids out of th
e room so you can sleep later.”
“No,” Alex said absentmindedly. He’d almost added he was used to kids in the house by now, but how weird was that? The important thing was Tate; being with Tate; trying to make sense of this overwhelming need for Tate. “It’s fine. Sorry I woke you.”
“That’s what I’m here for,” Tate said easily, quickly, though he flushed again as soon as the words left his mouth. “As a friend, I mean. If you’ve recovered from the nightmare, I’ll leave you be—”
As a friend? Alex reached out and grasped Tate’s hand on top of the duvet. “Stay. Please.”
Silence for a moment. Tate’s shoulders tightened but he didn’t move away.
Alex rushed on, “This thing about friends… I’m also sorry for what I said in the warehouse, after the accident. About us being boyfriends.” He knew Tate remembered: he turned his face farther into the shadows. Had Alex used the wrong term? Had he got the whole bloody situation wrong? Why was he angsting about all this, more than ever before?
“It’s not a problem, Alex. I just don’t think everyone needs to know my—our—business. And we’ve only just met. I’m not sure what we are, at the moment. You’re just… you’ve had a disturbed night. You may not be thinking straight.” He cleared his throat. “Didn’t we say, no strings?”
Ouch. “I know we did. But I could see my way to reviewing that. What do you say?” When Tate stilled, Alex tugged urgently at his arm. He was startled by the edge of desperation in his voice. “Tell me the truth, please. Don’t tease, don’t brush me off. And most of all… don’t say what you think you should.”
“Is that what I do?” Tate frowned.
