by JL Merrow
Trouble was . . . could he afford to move out? He still hadn’t had his first paycheque from the exhibition job, so his bank account was looking sorrier than ever. And the way things were going at work, could he really count on the job lasting?
Sam felt better about himself after spending Saturday afternoon working in the garden with Jory, Mal, and Gawen. They’d cleared a decent amount of the overgrown shrubs and bushes, including a huge tangle of self-seeded brambles, and could actually see the fence on the right-hand side now. Sam’s back was aching, his fingers were stained, and he was bleeding from dozens of encounters with thorns that hadn’t given up without a fight. Finally, he felt like he was earning his keep at least a little bit.
He didn’t check his phone until after they’d had dinner, and when he did, it wasn’t encouraging. More messages from the numbers he didn’t want to hear from, and another missed call from Mum. She’d left a message too. Sam gritted his teeth and dialled his voice mail. What if something had happened to one of his sisters? Or their kids? No—if that were the case, it wouldn’t just be Mum calling him. Still, he held his breath as he listened to the message.
All it said, in his mum’s lightly accented tones, was, “Alessandro, will you call me, please?”
Okay. This was bad. Mum only called him his full name when he was in trouble. Although in another way, it was good. If it were a family emergency, he’d have been Sam, and she’d have said to call her now.
Sod it. He probably should call now. She wasn’t going to get less pissed off about whatever it was for Sam putting it off.
Knowing he’d put it off indefinitely if he didn’t get on with it, he dialled the number.
He had to hang on for six or seven rings. She always left her phone on the table by her favourite armchair so she’d be able to reach it without getting up. But she was never in her armchair—at least, not until late in the evening, when she’d sit down to watch Coronation Street on catch-up and fall asleep in minutes. Seven rings meant she’d probably been in one of the bedrooms, maybe changing the sheets. She usually did that at the weekend.
“Sam?” She never trusted the phone to correctly tell her who was calling.
“Yeah, it’s me, Mum. You all right?”
“I’m fine. Is your new job going well? I was hoping to hear from you sooner.”
“Sorry. I’ve been really busy. Been helping Jory and Mal do up the house—got to pay them back for letting me stay here.”
“You shouldn’t impose on them too long.” Mum had strong views on the difference between friends and family, and what you could expect from each. “Will you be getting your own place soon?”
“Uh, soon, yeah.”
“Make sure you give me your address as soon as you do.” She paused. “I had a call from someone the other day who was trying to get in touch with you.”
“You didn’t tell them where I’m living now, did you?” Sam couldn’t keep the worry out of his voice. The last thing he needed was his problems following him here to harass his mates.
“No. I didn’t like the sound of him, so I just said I’d pass on the message. Sam, are you in some kind of trouble?”
“No, course not. It’s just . . . It’s probably something to do with my last job. Uh, in Edinburgh, I mean.”
“The man didn’t sound Scottish.”
“Yeah, but neither did I when I worked there.”
“I suppose not.” She gave him the name and number and, yeah, it wasn’t anyone he wanted to hear from right now.
“Thanks, Mum. I’ll give him a ring and sort it out.” Like hell he would. Why couldn’t they give him more time? He was going to pay it back, all of it. But he just didn’t have that kind of money right now.
And damn it, if he kept clashing with Bran, he might never have it.
“You know you can tell me if you’re in trouble,” Mum said, still sounding concerned.
“I’m fine!” He didn’t mean to snap—but no, he really couldn’t tell her. Mum was all about “Neither a borrower nor a lender be.” She was so proud of the fact that she’d never been in debt in her life, even after Sam’s dad had died and things had been really tough. How could he possibly tell her he’d run up debts in the thousands from playing stupid games online?
Everything was pressing in on him, suffocating him. “Sorry, Mum—think I heard Jory calling me. I’ve got to go. You look after yourself, all right?”
“You too.”
Sam hung up, and then pasted on a smile to go and join the others in the living room.
On Sunday, Sam, Mal, and Jory went over to the Sea Bell for lunch. Mal was friends with one of the barmaids there, Tasha, and Sam found her fun and easy to talk to. They’d been chatting for ages before he found out she was actually sort of family for Jory and Bran—she and Dev Thompson were foster siblings. Which made her Bran’s niece, in a sense, what with Dev being Bea’s biological son.
Sam wondered if Bran would see it that way, and if they’d ever met—but no, they couldn’t have, could they? From what he’d heard, Bea Roscarrock wanted nothing to do with Dev, so Bran probably never saw him either. And apparently the Sea Bell’s landlord had some sort of grudge against Bran, so it wasn’t likely he ever drank here.
Sam was introduced to Tasha’s dreadlocked girlfriend, Ceri, who called the landlord Uncle Jago but apparently wasn’t exactly related. There seemed to be a lot of that about. She had clear white skin, a bunch of piercings, and the scariest resting bitch-face Sam had ever seen, and turned out to be just visiting from Newquay, where she was at college doing something to do with catering.
Ceri hung around through lunchtime and then kissed Tasha goodbye right there in the public bar. And not just a peck on the cheek, either. It was a full-on clinch and ended with lingering looks on both sides. None of the old men propping up the bar batted an eyelid, although a lad so fresh-faced he must have been in here to celebrate his eighteenth birthday pursed his lips like he was about to wolf-whistle and then thought better of it. Sam followed the kid’s red-faced gaze to the landlord’s granite stare.
“Never thought they’d be so tolerant round here,” Sam said in a low voice to Jory.
It was Mal who answered. “What, cos we’re in the back of beyond, where men are men and sheep don’t go nowhere without half a dozen mates and a can of pepper spray? Nah, this lot are all right. And they seen it all before. Ceri comes over most weekends.”
Sam grinned. “So they’d be all right with it if you and Jory ever had a snog in here? Or is it different for blokes?”
“I don’t want to push my luck.” Jory gave him a wry look. “They seem to have forgiven me for being a Roscarrock, but grudges run deep in these parts.”
“Yeah, but Jago lurves me,” Mal said smugly.
Sam raised an eyebrow. “Does Jory need to be jealous?”
“Nah, but I used to live here, didn’t I? When I first came to Porthkennack.” Mal ran a hand through his hair. “Bit of a shit time, that. Uh, nothing to do with Jago. That was other stuff. Course, then I met Jory.” He beamed, his eyes soft, and Sam felt achingly envious of him and Jory all over again.
With his worries over his debts, his living situation, and his job—for which, read Bran bloody Roscarrock—what Sam wouldn’t have given for someone to just hold him and tell him everything would be okay.
He thought about it later, when he was lying in bed hoping for sleep to come. Maybe he couldn’t do anything about the first two problems until he got paid. One source of stress, though, he could do something about.
He had to find a way to get on better with Bran Roscarrock.
Sam put his plan into action the very next day. It’d been the best part of a week since their last argument, which Sam was calling The Battle of Limoges in his head, so hopefully tempers had cooled all round. And he’d come up with an idea that might just help.
Bran arrived at the exhibition centre as Sam was checking the installation of the movie room. It was a small, enclosed area, with be
nch seating for around twenty, which would show a video presentation about the battle of Crécy starring a sixteen-year-old Edward of Woodstock—yet to be dubbed the Black Prince—in his brutal initiation into the art of warfare. The prince had been beaten unconscious but then emerged, badly concussed, to be covered in glory when the English army literally crushed the heart out of the French by funnelling their attack into too small a space.
At least there was nothing Bran could complain about in this exhibit. It was about war, tactics, and teenage courage, pure and simple. Okay, so maybe Sam had added in a few lines emphasising the prince’s youth and how his dad had just left him to get on with it, even after messengers were sent to inform the king of all the mortal peril flying around. There was nothing like encouraging modern teenagers to reflect on how different their own lives were.
Still, it seemed as good a setting as Sam was likely to get for making his proposition.
He nodded to Bran. “Morning.”
Bran nodded back. Apparently that was all the greeting Sam was getting—or maybe Bran didn’t trust himself not to start shouting again if he opened his mouth.
“I’m glad you’re here.” It wasn’t totally a lie. “Look, what Jennifer said—she wasn’t wrong, you know. This . . . animosity between us—it’s affecting everyone.” Sam drew in a sharp breath at the way a muscle in Bran’s jaw tightened, but for once the bloke didn’t say anything, so he carried on. “I’ve had an idea. How about you and me go out for a meal? Not to talk about the exhibition. Forget about the Black Prince for a night. Just you and me, having dinner.”
From the suspicious look in Bran’s eye, you’d have thought Sam had asked him to go for a clifftop walk in the pitch-dark with banana skins strapped to his feet. “Why?”
“Because every time I see you at work, it seems like, we have a row. I thought . . . maybe if we knew each other better, we’d each know where the other was coming from?”
“And you think we should go out to a restaurant for this?”
Sam could have said, Well, yeah, because throughout history and across cultures, right from when the first amoeba slithered out of the primordial ooze, pointed its pseudopod at a half-eaten bit of bacteria, and said Oi, mate, you going to finish that? sharing a meal has always conferred social obligations. Or in words of one syllable: if you eat with a bloke, it makes it that much harder to be such a pigheaded git to him. But he didn’t. No matter how much he was tempted. “Neutral ground. Well away from the castle, the exhibition centre, and all.” It wouldn’t help his credit card situation, but sod it. One meal was a drop in the ocean.
And chances were Bran would come over all old-fashioned—correction: more old-fashioned—and insist on paying anyhow because he was older and richer. And stubborner. Which, normally, Sam would have had a problem with, but seeing as how it was Bran being such a stubborn git that’d made this meal out necessary, Sam was quite happy to let him pay for it.
“Where did you have in mind?” Maybe not so stubborn after all, seeing as how he’d clearly been won over by Sam’s argument. Result.
“Not a clue. You’re the local—where would you like to go?”
Bran gave him a considering look. Probably trying to decide if Sam could be trusted to know his fish knife from his spork. “Do you like Chinese food?” he asked in the end.
“Yeah, love it.” Also, it probably wouldn’t be ultraexpensive, which would be handy if Sam did end up having to pay.
“There’s a place I know in St. Mawgan. I could make a reservation. When?”
Sam shrugged. “I’m free tonight, if we can get a table.” Might as well strike when the iron was hot. And before he had a chance to get cold feet about the whole plan.
Bran pulled out his phone, scrolled through his contacts, and dialled the number. His voice was back to his usual commanding tone as he booked a table for two. Sam wondered if Roscarrock was the magic word. Then again, it was Monday night. He ended the call and gave Sam a nod. “Eight o’clock,” he said curtly, as if Sam hadn’t just heard every word he’d said on the phone. “Would you like me to pick you up?”
Sam nearly made a joke of it, like it was a date or something, but he stopped himself in time. If Bran had ever had a sense of humour, he’d since had it surgically removed. Possibly to make room for that stick up his arse.
Struggling to keep his face straight, Sam said, “Yeah, ta, that’d be great. What time?” He wasn’t all that sure where St. Mawgan was.
“Seven forty-five. I’ll see you at Jory’s.”
“Looking forward to it,” Sam lied, and gave Bran a smile as he left.
Quarter to eight. That’d give him plenty of time after work to get back to Jory’s, have a wash, change his clothes, and make a decent start on regretting he’d ever suggested all this.
Sam was already showered, changed, and working a final bit of product through his hair when he glanced in the mirror and realised he’d dressed for a date: his favourite dark shirt and jeans blokes always said gave him more than a hint of the bad-boy look. His five-o’clock shadow completed the image. For a moment, he considered changing into something more casual and having a shave—then he thought to hell with it.
If nothing else, maybe he’d find out for certain if Bran was into him.
Sam studied his own expression in the mirror. Did he want Bran to be into him? And if so, was it just a matter of having an advantage over the bloke? Or was Sam, maybe, just a little bit into Bran?
His eyes widened in alarm, and Sam turned away with a laugh. Christ, what was he even thinking? Bran wasn’t bad looking, okay, and he had the sort of intensity about him Sam had always gone for—who wouldn’t want that kind of focus, that passion, turned on them in bed?—but he was a total git. And uptight, and closeted, and his boss, kind of. Sam had sworn he wouldn’t do that to himself again. He’d promised himself he’d never again go out with a bloke who cared more about what other people thought of him than about Sam. Or anyone who had power over him.
On the other hand, at least Bran wasn’t married . . .
Christ. Sam ran a hand through his hair, mussing it up and not caring. He was being an idiot. This wasn’t a date, and nothing was ever going to happen between him and Bran.
Maybe he’d better go easy on the alcohol tonight, though. Just to be on the safe side.
Bran should never have accepted Sam’s invitation. He was damned either way—if the evening went badly, it would only worsen their working relationship, and if it went well . . . Bran sighed. It would hardly help him get over the attraction he couldn’t help feeling for the infuriating man.
But he’d been right, damn him. Or rather, Jennifer had been right. Things couldn’t go on the way they had been. Perhaps seeing Sam outside the context of his work would help him understand the man better.
You have to learn what’s important to a man before you can know how to deal with him, his father’s voice sounded in his mind. Bran flushed at the decades-old memory. He’d read too much into it, had naively blurted out a shocked query as to whether Father had been talking about blackmail, and had been treated to a lengthy tirade on keeping to the absolute letter of the law lest he bring down shame upon all Roscarrocks living or dead.
Father hadn’t been an easy man to read, either. Or maybe it was simply Bran who’d failed at the task. He would have to do better with Sam.
Bran dressed carefully after his shower, in a dark-grey single-breasted suit and a deep-burgundy shirt. After consideration, he left his collar unbuttoned and forewent a tie. Sam had expressed a wish for them to relax and get to know one another. Appearing dressed for the boardroom would hardly show willing.
The taxi driver this time, Bran saw to his relief, was a middle-aged woman who’d driven him before. She always drove carefully and never tried to force him into conversation.
As he sat in the back seat, Bran found himself perversely wishing she would be a little more talkative. His nerves increased the nearer they got to Jory’s house, and with their r
oute so familiar he could have described it with his eyes shut, he was left with nothing to distract himself with but the pattern in the weave of her marshmallow-pink hijab.
Finally, the taxi pulled up in front of Jory’s cottage, and the driver turned to speak her first words of the journey. “Would you like me to call at the door?”
“No, don’t get out, thank you. I’ll go.” As Bran prepared to heave himself out of the car and knock on Jory’s front door, it opened and Sam emerged.
He’d changed since this afternoon, and was wearing a pair of faded black jeans that fit him like a glove, teamed with a black long-sleeved shirt open at the collar. He might have stepped straight from the cover of a magazine, with his tousled hair, wary smile, and lean, good looks.
Bran must look impossibly staid and boring in his business suit, its formality softened only by the removal of his tie. He’d left the house satisfied he was armoured for battle, but now felt more like a rusty knight facing down a modern soldier swathed in Kevlar and armed with an AK-47.
He leaned across to open the car door, stifling a grunt of pain as his ribs protested.
“Taxi?” Sam raised an eyebrow and climbed in.
Bran flushed. “I still find driving uncomfortable.” Plus he had a feeling he might be in need of a drink before the evening was out, medication be damned. Sitting in the car next to him, on their way to a restaurant together, Sam seemed somehow far more physically present than he ever had during the working day, and distractingly close. Bran darted a glance over to where the dark denim stretched taut over Sam’s thighs, and looked away hurriedly.
“Oh, right. The ribs, yeah?” Now Sam seemed embarrassed as he fumbled with his seat belt. “That must have been rough. Getting mugged in your hometown. Have they got the bastard who did it?”
“No.” Bran kept his answer curt, hoping to discourage further enquiry. He needed to compose himself.
But when had Sam Ferreira ever done what Bran wanted him to? “No excuse for that sort of thing. Jory said you got, uh, retrograde amnesia? Must be weird, missing part of your life. Especially something like being attacked on the street. It’d have me jumping at shadows. Not knowing who was a threat.” He made a surprisingly sympathetic face. “Uh, sorry. Don’t suppose I’m telling you anything you don’t already know. Are the police still working on it?”
