Romancing the Ugly Duckling

by Clare London

  Perry started. “What was that?”

  So that was where Rory had got to. “It’s Rory, my dog. He’ll be fine with you staying. He’ll have heard my voice with yours.”

  “I…. Dog?” Perry looked slightly nauseated.

  Jesus. That’d be all Greg needed, a city type who was allergic to pets. “Here we are.” He pushed open the door of his small spare room. Thankfully, the bed was made and the floor clean. Dougie had stayed over a couple of weeks ago, after a late-night drinking session, and Greg had changed the bed after his visit.

  Perry sidled in past him, as if afraid of touching any part of Greg. Greg watched him take nimble footsteps over to the bed in Greg’s borrowed socks and surreptitiously test the mattress. His narrow shoulders relaxed a little.

  “You’ll be okay?” Greg thought he ought to ask.

  “I’ll have to be, won’t I?” There was that spark of spirit again, the one that both intrigued and startled Greg. Perry hitched up the sweatpants and wrinkled his nose as if sniffing the air in the room. “I know I’ll feel a lot more civilized when I can get all the rain out of my ears. And I hope to God you have a decent dry cleaners on the island, because those were some of my best clothes.”

  Ah. Greg barely hid his scowl as he turned and left, pulling the bedroom door closed behind him with more of a slam than he’d planned. There was the London arrogance he’d been expecting.

  It had just been temporarily underwater.

  Chapter Five

  PERRY woke up to a blinding beam of light in his eyes and a hot, suffocating panic.

  Fuck!

  He barely bit back a scream before realizing the light was crack-of-dawn sunlight. He lay in a strange room, in an unfamiliar bed, wrapped in a thick, freshly laundered duvet—and there were no curtains at the window.

  But the suffocation was something else. A weight lay on his chest, pressing on his heart, warm, solid, and—alive? It moved gently but rhythmically, up and down. Steamy, rich-smelling breath gusted against his cheek. Keep calm! He tensed, his heart thumping hard. Where the hell am I? What’s happening? The events of the previous day rushed back into the forefront of his memory. The nightmare journey to the Western Isles: the brutal rain, the mocking Dougie, and the hostile Greg Ventura. Tentatively he wriggled, but the heavy weight barely shifted.

  It growled instead.

  “Help!” With a loud shriek, Perry wrenched himself free and rolled out of the bed, hitting the floor with a painful thump. He was dressed only in a long, oversized tee shirt, originally black, he guessed, but now worn gray from many washes. His bare white limbs sprawled from underneath the hem and sleeves like the splayed appendages of an alien sea creature. This morning look was truly shocking. And, oh God, but he hated gray.

  There was no time to wallow in fashion distress. The monster launched itself off the bed after him, a blur of hair, teeth, and panting breath. Perry shrieked again and threw his hands over his head. On the other side of the room, he heard the bedroom door burst open and heavy footsteps cross to where Perry lay on the floor.

  “What the fuck’s going on?” Greg shouted over Perry’s yells.

  “I’ve been attacked!”

  Greg grabbed the dog—for Perry now saw the monster for what it really was—by its collar and held it to his side. He was wearing pajamas this morning, the top unmatched to the bottom, and his hair was squashed flat on one side of his head. “You stupid arse, it’s only Rory. He lives here. It’s his room when he’s not sleeping with me.”

  “His room? He’s a dog!”

  “Aye. Well spotted.” Rory strained in Greg’s grip to get back to Perry, his tongue hanging out of his mouth, his eyes bright, and ears pricked up. “He just wants to play. You have to appreciate that, if you’re sharing with him.”

  “Sharing with him?”

  Greg gave a loud, pained sigh. “I have him safe.”

  Perry peered hard, checking the dog was held tightly. “Yes, I can see that.”

  Greg bit his lip. Was he trying not to laugh? “So… um. You can get back up now.”

  To his horror, Perry realized he was still lying on the floor with his legs akimbo, showing everything from his ankles to his upper thighs, and probably all the private bits in between. He hadn’t asked for the loan of a pair of briefs when he went to bed, thinking his own trunks would be dry by morning. He couldn’t wear another man’s underwear, could he? But now he dearly wished he had. Tugging the tee shirt between his legs, he scrambled up to his feet, hot with embarrassment.

  Rory finally wriggled out of Greg’s grasp and bounded up to Perry, tail wagging. Perry stood his ground as best he could. He even managed to reach down and pet the dog gingerly on his furry head. Rory gave a doggy gasp of pure bliss.

  Greg shook his head. “He likes you. Fuck knows why.”

  “Charmed, I’m sure.”

  Greg gave a short, mirthless laugh. He called Rory back to his side, and the dog spun happily on his back legs, torn between the two people he wanted to engage with.

  Perry braced himself for more of his host’s brusqueness, but Greg was silent now. His gaze settled somewhere around Perry’s bare knees, drifted slowly up over his hips and belly, then darted back up to Perry’s face. Greg Ventura looked flushed, and something more than angry.

  What’s the matter with him now? Perry resisted pulling the tee shirt down farther. After all, he was decent enough now. If he offended his reluctant landlord, that was Greg’s hard luck. But he took the opportunity of a return look at the man in the flesh. There hadn’t been much time for an appraisal the previous night.

  Greg was tall, broad, and ungainly. That much was obvious from first impressions. His steps had been heavy up the stairs, his movements clumsy as he grabbed the dog. Last night he’d been parading about in his underwear, and this morning he was dressed in mismatched pajamas, barefooted, and with his hair uncombed. He had a scrappy beard and an appalling haircut—did he do it himself with kitchen scissors?—a laborer’s hands, and the dress sense of a scarecrow. And even though he was the same age as Perry, he was huge, or so it seemed in comparison to Perry’s compact five foot eight.

  But Perry was an honest man, and he realized with some surprise that Greg Ventura was far from—what had Gerry Ventura called his brother?—an ugly duckling. His eyes were beautifully shaped and his slightly crooked nose striking. The lopsided twist to his mouth when he smiled—which admittedly hadn’t been much in evidence—was quirky. And where had that teenage acne gone? His skin, though weather-beaten, was wonderfully unmarked.

  And his body… well, it may have been huge, but he was built, no one could deny that. Even hidden by the pajamas, Perry could imagine strength in those muscles and a well-defined six-pack. Perry felt surprisingly warm, considering this cottage didn’t appear to have any bloody central heating. Surely he couldn’t be attracted to Greg Ventura? He wasn’t usually drawn to such a muscular bear type. He preferred more elegant men with smooth manners and careful grooming.

  Like Henry?

  Yes, indeed. There’d never been two men less alike than Greg and Perry’s ex, Henry Mortimer, at least as far as looks. If he’d been asked, Perry would have protested he didn’t judge people purely on their looks, but he couldn’t deny his bias up to date. His ex had been a handsome, slick, highly fashion-conscious salesman, who turned heads when they were out together.

  And a thief. Well, yes, there was that.

  Whereas Greg Ventura…? Greg was a raw, ill-mannered, big hulk of a man, with little to no cultivation, and fuck-off-ness radiating from every pore. But underneath all that show, he had the potential to look gorgeous, though in a very different way from his brothers. They had designer suits and a social charm that was prized in the city—but Perry had to admit men like that were plentiful in media. In contrast, Greg was far out of the ordinary.

  It was something about his direct and uncompromising gaze. Honesty. Perry was sure wit and intelligence must also lurk beneath the frowns. And despite
his clumsy size, Greg seemed comfortable in his body in a totally instinctive way, toned and buffed by manual labor and coping with nature’s elements.

  Perry’s fingertips itched. He wanted to cut that hair away from Greg’s face to showcase the wide jaw and strong features. He wanted to rip away those shabby pajamas and dress him in a shirt that would skim his abs and flat belly, tailored trousers that molded to his thighs, and a jacket that would sit perfectly on those magnificent shoulders….

  Perry’s head swam. He seemed to have got derailed at the “rip away” thought, and what Greg would look like without any clothes at all. Good grief. Perry blamed yesterday’s traumatic journey for his sudden and bizarre fixation on a straight man. Which Greg was. Wasn’t he? Perry’s gaydar was obviously one of the things still waterlogged. Antony would be ashamed of him.

  Greg cleared his throat. He was looking down now at the wriggling Rory as if he didn’t dare look up at Perry again. “The kettle’s on. You better come downstairs to the kitchen for some breakfast.”

  He dragged Rory out of the room, catching his hip on the door handle and cursing under his breath. And the bedroom door slammed shut behind the man and his dog.

  Chapter Six

  PERRY was on his second mug of tea and third round of thickly cut toast and marmalade when a loud knocking at the front door roused them both. Greg scowled. Perry didn’t make any comment, but he reckoned Greg Ventura scowled so often, he’d end up with permanent furrows that no amount of moisturizer would redeem.

  “I haven’t had this much harassment for weeks,” Greg muttered, pushing back his chair.

  Perry jumped up from his own chair and followed him out of the kitchen. Before coming to breakfast, he’d thrown on the clothes Greg lent him the night before, and now he had to remember not to trip over the too-long trousers. Despite his embarrassment at how badly things were going so far, he needed to stay in touch with his mission as best he could. He’d received at least ten text messages already from Candace and Antony, asking what was happening. It was a relief that the mobile coverage was good out here, and the Wi-Fi appeared strong. He didn’t want to miss any contact from Eddy with details of the makeover team’s arrival.

  Two girls stood on Greg’s doorstep—one dark-haired, outdoorsy type, and a curvier girl with bleached blonde hair. As Perry watched curiously, they marched past Greg and into the cottage.

  “Don’t bother asking to come in, Bridie,” Greg said to the dark-haired girl. “My house is your house. Oh, but wait a minute—it’s not, is it?”

  “Shut up, you miserable old git.” She walked over to Perry and held out her hand. “Bridie McKennagh, I’m Dougie’s sister. And this is my friend Lisa.”

  Lisa grunted and nodded. Perry suspected Bridie did the talking for all her friends. She reminded him of Candace.

  “We thought you’d need some guidance in your new place,” Bridie continued gleefully. “Where to go, what to see, what to do. Oh, and the right clothes to wear. Especially walking boots.” She brandished two large laundry bags like she’d won an Oscar. Lisa had a messenger bag slung over her arm, presumably bulging with other goodies. “We’ve got the whole morning to spare.”

  “No,” Greg said. It was almost a growl. “You’re not staying. Say what you have to say and leave me in peace.”

  Perry bridled. What a rude arse he was! Bridie was obviously used to Greg’s antisocial ways because she just ignored him. But Perry made a point of shaking Bridie’s hand politely. He could understand and appreciate proper manners. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  “What a bonny young man you are!” Bridie’s gaze roamed over him appreciatively. “You’ll be such a treat to dress.”

  Perry felt his spirits lift. A woman after his own heart! He could only hope her ideas of style matched his own, because she seemed like a breath of fresh air among her canvas-draped menfolk. He plucked apologetically at the sagging hem of the blue fleece. “I have to admit this is far from my usual look—”

  “He’s not a bloody doll, Bridie,” Greg interrupted sharply. “It won’t be long before his own clothes are dry. He doesn’t want a useless set of country clobber cluttering up his city wardrobe. He’ll only have to carry it all back when he leaves.”

  “Which—” Perry started to say.

  “—won’t be for a while,” Bridie finished.

  “—is any time now!” Greg announced at the same time.

  Greg and Bridie glared at each other. Lisa plucked at Perry’s sleeve. “You gotta room tae change’n?” she asked.

  Her Scottish accent was much stronger than Bridie’s, and Perry struggled to understand it. At least he recognized the word “room.” “I’m in the bedroom at the back,” he said.

  “Rory’s room?” Bridie poked her finger in Greg’s chest. “Was that your or Dougie’s idea? Rory won’t have been pleased.”

  “He wasn’t.” Perry interrupted before Greg’s next protest got going. “He sat on my chest this morning and scared the shit out of me.”

  Bridie’s eyes grew wide, and then she laughed. To Perry’s surprise, he found himself laughing with her. And, even more amazing, Greg joined in. He had a loud, hearty laugh that rang out in the small cottage. He sounded genuinely happy, as if he’d expelled all his troubles with his laughter.

  It was enchanting and another astonishing side to the man.

  Lisa tugged Perry’s sleeve again. “Gae oopstairs?” he thought she said, and he nodded back.

  “We’ll keep you posted,” Bridie said to Greg. There was apparently no room for maneuver.

  Greg sighed heavily and turned away. As Perry made his way back up the stairs in Bridie and Lisa’s wake, he couldn’t resist looking over his shoulder to watch Greg’s lumbering stride back into the kitchen.

  PERRY was disappointed there was no fine linen in the selection of clothes the girls had brought him, and no bright colors. It was all in a palette that could only be called country lifestyle. But he had to admit he felt more comfortable—and warmer—in the moleskin trousers and casual shirt and sweater they’d found. He gave a mini catwalk show in the spare bedroom, while the girls sat on the bed and clapped happily. It made them all smile, and for the first time since he left London, he felt relaxed.

  “We weren’t sure of your size,” Bridie explained. “Because Dougie’s about as sensitive as a peat bog to that kind o’ thing, but he described you in a vague way, in relation to Greg.” She glanced at Lisa, and they definitely smirked at each other. “And we’re very limited on what we carry at the shop. This was the best we could do at short notice.”

  “I’ll pay you back for them, of course.”

  “Ach, no trouble. Mebbe you can advise me on stocking up the styles for summer. You obviously wear only the best, a rich city man like yourself.”

  Perry needed to shift that topic of conversation quickly, but Bridie’s next comment was a startling choice.

  “You’re gay, aren’t you, Perry?”

  “Um. Yes.” Where was this conversation going? Perry knew it wasn’t much of an issue in London, but here in these odd rural lands… wasn’t this one of the areas of the United Kingdom that still refused to marry same-sex couples? Heavens, he’d heard they still closed shops on Sundays!

  “Good,” she continued. “You can tell Greg all about it.”

  “I… sorry?” Perry caught Lisa’s gaze. She rolled her eyes ruefully in Bridie’s direction, as if very used to Bridie’s boldness. “I’m not sure what you mean, Bridie,” he said. He didn’t run training courses in it, for God’s sake.

  “He hides away here on the island, and he doesn’t get out enough. He needs to see that gay men can have fun as well.”

  “Um.” Perry felt a bit like Alice must have done, falling down the rabbit hole. “Greg is gay?”

  “Ach, yes, though you’d never know it. He never acts it.”

  What does she expect? Perry wondered if gay islanders were meant to wear pink wellies.

  “He never goes out w
ith a man, though of course there are precious few options on this island. Never orders gay porn movies from the shop. He won’t even join a dating site. He needs to be more like men on the mainland, like you.”

  Lisa coughed exaggeratedly. “Bridie, ma love—”

  Bridie flushed bright red. “Oh my good God, I’m so sorry! I’ve only just met you and I’m making all these assumptions. You’ll hate me.”

  Perry had to laugh. “It’s okay. Lots of gay men have a full social life, it’s true. But there’s absolutely no similarity between my and Greg’s lifestyle, so if all we have in common is being gay, I don’t think comparisons are valuable. And how do you know he hasn’t joined a dating site?”

  Bridie turned even deeper red. “Dougie does laptop repairs at the shop as well. He made some joke last time he repaired Greg’s that he didn’t find any porn or chat rooms.”

  Or Greg knew enough to clear his browser history, Perry thought. For a brief moment, he felt affinity with the man.

  “Ignore ma gal,” Lisa said, but she was smiling at Bridie all the time.

  “I’m not a clever talker, I know.” Bridie was still flushed but spoke with determination. “But there’s nothing wrong with wanting him to be happy. He kept it secret for a long time—well, he thought he did, but of course we knew straight away.”

  “I can imagine,” Perry said drily.

  “Because he wouldnae take ye to the ceilidh,” Lisa murmured in Bridie’s ear.

  “I don’t have much time for those stupid dances, Lisa, and you know that. But I’m always happy to go with Greg for company. I reckon he needs to let his hair down. Needs to feel free to be himself.”

  “Aye. We all need tha’,” Lisa said.

  Perry couldn’t help noticing a strange edge to her tone. And privately, he thought if Greg Ventura let his hair down any further, he’d resemble an Old English sheepdog, but he deemed it wise to keep that to himself. “So you say he’s hiding out here? Is that what he says?”