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  “I don’t need a bloody coffee. What I need is for you to get out of here so I can go to bed.”

  “Well, maybe I need a coffee, then. And you’re being a fucking terrible host, you realise. You haven’t even offered me a glass of water.”

  “For crying out loud.”

  Dare heard a cupboard door opening and sounds of scuffling around. “What do you want?” Grant demanded. “Cappuccino? Latte? Mocha?”

  “Just a black coffee will be fine. I don’t mind instant.”

  “Wouldn’t touch the stuff. And I don’t have any black either, so you’ll just have to have a cappuccino and put up with it.”

  Dare turned and leaned back against the countertop. Grant stood in front of him holding up two little wrapped packets and staring daggers. “You’re in my way.”

  “Are you always such an insufferable arsehole?”

  “I beg your pardon? You’re the one who’s just forced his way into my flat and started poking around in my kitchen.”

  “I’m also the one who drove you home.” Dare smiled and kept his pose casual, because it seemed to infuriate Grant more when he did that. And despite what Dare had said about not wanting to fuck, there was definitely something hot about Grant in a snit. Shame about the bloodshot eyes and hundred-proof breath, but under different circumstances, he’d be willing to bend Grant over and give him a good seeing to. The man clearly needed a good fucking to help him unwind.

  “Let me take those.” Dare reached out and snatched the two packets from Grant’s hands. “Coffee pods? Oh, okay, I’ve seen these things before. That must mean you’ve got some kind of machine behind me.” Since Grant’s minimalist approach to decor extended to the kitchen worktops, it wasn’t hard to figure out which bit of shiny chrome machinery was the coffeemaker. He flipped down the front and found a place to slot the pod. All he now had to figure out was where to pour in the water and to rustle up a mug or two to sit underneath. “Okay, I think I can figure this one out.”

  “I don’t want you breaking it.”

  “Chill, mate. I’m pretty bleedin’ handy. Never met a machine I couldn’t get the better of.” Dare unwrapped the pods—both cappuccino—and he must have been convincing enough for Grant to give up his protests, because the next thing he heard was a muttered “you’ll be paying for any breakages” and footsteps returning to the living room.

  Dare busied himself finding sugar and mugs, and after a few minutes had two steaming mugs of disgustingly frothy-looking coffee, but at least they smelled good. And with enough sugar, hopefully he wouldn’t notice the milk. “They do these pod things for just black coffee too?” he asked as he plonked Grant’s mug down on the coffee table in front of him.

  Grant glared at the mug and rooted around under the table, before returning with a couple of coasters. “Black? I think so. They do pretty much anything you can imagine.”

  “I wonder if they make a twelve-volt version,” Dare mused.

  “Why in God’s name would you want one of those?”

  “You know, for camping. Caravans, boats and campers all run on twelve-volt circuits.”

  “You have a boat?” Grant looked at him like he was some kind of exotic animal as Dare settled down into the overstuffed leather armchair opposite. “You don’t live on one of those rusty old barges, do you?” His nose crinkled in disgust.

  “No, but I’ve got a caravan. And I do up camper vans for a living, so I’m always looking for new gadgets for them. But even if they don’t come in twelve-volt versions, I could probably make an adaptor. Maybe I’ll get one for the Airstream and try it out. But only if they do the pods in black.” He took a slurp and grimaced. Too much milk and sugar wasn’t his favourite combination, but perhaps it was better for this time of night. It kind of reminded him of the hot milk and honey his mum used to do for him and Jase. One of the few comforting memories of his childhood, back before everything went to shit.

  Sodding hell, why’d he have to start thinking about his mum of all people? That was a one-way street to feeling really fucking lonely. But a bit of company could generally cheer him up. Dare eyed Grant across the coffee table. The bloke was currently wrestling out of his tie and looking increasingly dishevelled. Funny, Dare had never really considered suits sexy, but all rumpled like that...

  No, he wasn’t going there. The man was an arse, and he was far too drunk anyway. He’d probably be Dare’s for the taking, but that would be way too easy. If Dare ever did seduce the arrogant bastard, he’d want it to be when Grant was sober and fighting his better judgement.

  But that didn’t change Dare’s desire for a long, hard shag to take his mind off things.

  Fuck it. He’d glug the rest of his coffee, get out of here and head on out to a club. It was only quarter past eleven. Plenty of time to pick someone up at one of the Friday-night meat markets. He didn’t need to feel guilty. This Grant bloke could look after himself. He was drunk, but not completely paralytic.

  Mind made up, he downed his coffee and stood. “Cheers, mate. I’ll be off. Reckon you’re all right to look after yourself now.”

  “I thought you were going to tuck me in and kiss me good night,” Grant snipped, but Dare swore he could hear a thread of longing under his acerbic tone.

  “Sorry to disappoint, but just because I’m gay, doesn’t mean I want to snog you.”

  “What’s wrong with me?” Grant glowered. He clearly wasn’t used to being rejected.

  “Asides from the fact your breath stinks of booze? Well, let’s see. You’re an arrogant wanker, which is sometimes a bit of a turn-on, but I’m just not in the mood for fighting for the top right now. I’m going to find some cute young thing who’s eager for my nine inches up his arse.” Dare cupped his groin, making sure Grant could see the outline of his dick through the thick cotton of his combats.

  Grant’s eyes darkened, but all he said was “Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”

  “Lovely to meet you too.”

  Dare took pleasure in slamming the door behind him.

  Chapter Two

  Six months later.

  Grant pulled into the driveway of his house—for what might well be the very last time. He parked in his usual spot under the cherry tree and stared up at the million pounds worth of farmhouse. He didn’t want to leave the place, but it had always been more Harriet’s project than his. She’d made a show of discussing her interior decorating plans with him, but had tactfully ignored all his suggestions and gone her own way, as always.

  He should have asserted himself more, perhaps. Insisted on at least one of the downstairs rooms being done out to his taste, but he’d given way out of guilt. He’d known he’d never be the husband she deserved, so at least he could let her have part of the Country Living fantasy.

  Grant sighed and got out of the car. He hoped he could keep his wheels, but he knew from other divorced friends just how cripplingly expensive the whole process could be. And maybe he’d need a more practical family car in the future, depending on how often Harriet let him see the girls. He’d have to take them out on dates like other absentee dads did. Win their love by treating them to the cinema and too much pizza and fizzy drinks. The kind of junk food Harriet abhorred.

  But maybe he was getting ahead of himself. Maybe they’d be able to work something out where he could stay here. Keep up appearances. For the neighbours’ sake.

  Grant shuddered. No, it was time to be honest at long last. Not just honest with his wife but with the world as a whole. Living this lie was eating him up from the inside. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d laughed. Not the laughs he faked at work, but a genuine belly-chuckle.

  It had probably been with Mas.

  Grant shut his briefcase into the car. No point taking it inside if he’d likely as not be turfed out once he’d said his piece. He mentally ran through his belongings back at the house. Was there anything he couldn’t stand to lose? Betrayed spouses had a way of destroying their exes’ possessions, so he
’d heard.

  No, he already had everything of importance at the Bristol flat, and he wasn’t particularly sentimental about stuff. Clothing and so on could always be replaced, and Harriet was welcome to the mementos of their sixteen years of married life.

  Sixteen years! He’d tried to make a go of things. No one could accuse him of failing to stick it out and give the whole straight married life thing a good try. And although he’d been tempted many a time, he hadn’t cheated until a year ago, when he’d run into Mas in that fancy department store he used to work in. Well, Grant wasn’t one to argue with fate. The electricity between him and Mas had been off the scale, making the desire he’d felt for Harriet seem like a pale imitation of the real thing.

  It was just a shame fate hadn’t forced him to confront his own sexuality until he was already married. But he’d only been twenty back when he and Harriet tied the knot, and it was easy to dismiss any stray man-on-man fantasies as nothing serious. Even with Mas, he’d told himself it was just a phase. Yeah, a phase. Trouble was, he’d been fantasising about men for the last decade. No, longer than that. If he was brutally honest, those thoughts had begun disturbing him in his teens. He’d just pushed them down and out of the way. Being gay was most definitely not acceptable in the Matravers household, and he’d done his best to be a good son, following the path set out for him by his parents.

  Well, fuck what they thought. Grant was definitely gay. Hadn’t been able to kid himself on that front for a while now. But he’d still tried to be a good husband. To provide for Harriet and his girls in the ways that he could manage. And he’d even kept his dick firmly in his pants for the last six months since things ended with Mas, but the ache wasn’t going away.

  Just today, he’d very nearly propositioned a client. Not the kind of man he was usually attracted to, but after six months of celibacy, he was ready to shag just about anyone.

  Anyone male, that was. Poor Harriet. Grant groaned and sank against the wall out of sight of any of the windows. Last night she’d tiptoed into their bedroom in some ridiculous new underwear—all bows and lace—and made a clumsy pass at him. He’d faked a headache. Lousy excuse, and she’d been hurt, he could tell. Then he really had had a headache. Guilt and remorse crowding into his head until he wanted to scream out into the night.

  He’d been putting off telling her for months now, always hoping he’d be able to somehow make things work. To find a way to be happy with his life. But it wasn’t working.

  It was time to own up to the truth. He owed it to Harriet, and he owed it to himself.

  Grant let himself in the front door and was immediately almost bowled over by an enthusiastic Mabel. He petted the Golden Retriever behind her ears, painfully aware it might be the last time he was greeted like this. Oh, what the hell. He got down on his knees and submitted to a proper face licking. “I’ll miss you, sweetheart,” he muttered, pulling her close. Eventually she’d had enough of him, though, and when she trotted off towards the kitchen, Grant followed. Harriet would be there, working on dinner while the girls were at their riding lesson. Thursdays were the same every week. Time for a cosy family dinner before he headed off for his stint at the Bristol office on Friday.

  Harriet was leaning over their oak kitchen table, peering at an open recipe book before she began carefully slicing some apples. He watched her for a moment, trying to memorise everything since it might be the last time he was allowed to stand here like this.

  “Oh, you’re home early.” Harriet wiped some blonde strands of hair off her forehead. “I’m rather in the middle of things here. I don’t suppose you could fetch the puff pastry from the freezer, could you? Thought I’d try something different for dessert.”

  Grant couldn’t unstick his feet or his lips. He stood there, helpless. How could he destroy everything he and Harriet had built up together? Their facsimile of a perfect happy family.

  “Darling? Is something the matter?” She put down the knife she’d been holding. Good. Best not risk sharp objects in her hands when he gave her the news. Grant almost laughed.

  “What is it? That headache still bothering you?” She gave a wry smile. “I thought you were just making excuses, but you really do look ill today.”

  “Harriet. I need to tell you something.” Grant leaned against the counter for support. He couldn’t meet her eyes.

  “What is it? Oh my God, it’s not your job, is it? Please tell me they haven’t laid you off.”

  He clamped his lips fast and shook his head. Maybe they could play twenty questions and then he wouldn’t have to force the words out himself. Words that would gut her and rip the heart out of their family.

  “Is it someone we know? Has someone been hurt? Killed? Oh God!” Harriet gripped the edge of the table, and all the colour drained from her face. “It’s not one of the girls, is it?”

  “No, God, no. Of course not. Nothing like that.”

  “Grant? You’re making me worried.”

  She was standing right in front of him now, and she’d taken hold of his hand. He didn’t deserve her kind touch, but he squeezed her hand back, knowing it was the last time ever he’d be able to do so.

  “It’s about me. Hats, there’s something you don’t know. Something I’ve kept from you. I...” He swallowed deeply and squeezed his eyes shut. “I’m gay.”

  Chapter Three

  Three months later.

  “Stupid buggering bastard!” Dare hit the offending wheel nut with his wrench, but it still refused to budge. The problem with working outdoors in January—even on a clear, sunny day—wasn’t just the way it made your fingers clumsy. It was the way even metal refused to cooperate. Sticking together with the cold.

  Dare contemplated moving the van into the workshop to warm it up a bit before having another try at the last wheel nut, but that would require moving out one of the camper vans he was working on, and since neither vehicle had a full complement of wheels right now—the very reason he was trying to remove this one—that was a load of hassle he could do without. Screw the sodding wheels. He could sort those out another day. There was interior stuff he could be working on. Both vans had seen better days, but they were highly sought after first generation, Splitscreen VW campers, so after Dare had fixed them up, they’d be sure to fetch a pretty penny—upwards of £30k each—and he had a potential buyer lined up for one of them already. There was still plenty of time to finish them both. The used camper van trade didn’t really pick up till the weather improved and the city folks began to pine for the great outdoors.

  Dare picked up his power wrench and headed back through the maze of trashed vehicles to his workshop. These days he only took in campers—often vintage VWs he imported from California—but there were still plenty of old cars left from when his dad ran the place. His route took him past the front gates, and he picked up the post from his box there. Just a pile of anonymous white and brown envelopes with those plastic windows. Invoices and official bollocks. That must have been what he’d heard Solly barking about earlier. Poor postie. He wasn’t to know the Rottweiler was more bark than bite. The whole point of a good guard dog was to intimidate people into not even trying to cross the threshold. Not until Dare had got her to stand down, anyway.

  As he headed down the central track towards his workshop, Dare whistled. Moments later, Solly came trotting round from the back of Matilda. She bounded up to him and bounced around, sticking her cold wet nose into his pockets. “Get out of there, you greedy girl. I haven’t got anything for you.” Dare scratched behind her ears instead and made a mental note to head down the Chinese later. They usually saved him a bag of bones and scraps when he asked them to, and Solly definitely deserved something nice after a few days of dry biscuits.

  Dare’s stomach rumbled. Come to think of it, he deserved something nice too. He checked his watch. Yeah, it was time for elevenses. Instead of heading into the workshop, he strode over to Matilda instead.

  Matilda the Airstream was his pride and joy. And she w
as also his home. Not that the council knew that. As far as anyone else was concerned, the caravan was just a break room and office. That excused having a fully stocked kitchen here, as well as a laptop sitting on the dining table. And his bedroom? Well, sometimes a busy small business owner needed a nap after lunch, didn’t he?

  Dare threw the letters onto the table. Coffee first. He loaded up his machine—it hadn’t been hard to rig a pod machine into the twelve-volt system—and dug around in the cupboards for something to eat. Eventually he found a bag of cinnamon and raisin bread that was only a little bit mouldy around the edges, so he cut the manky crusts off and toasted it under the grill. He topped up Solly’s water and biscuits, using up the last of the packet. Solly wagged her tail enthusiastically as she started gobbling them down. “Whoa, slow down, sweetheart. That’s got to last you till I get down the shops.” Solly just whined and continued stuffing her face.

  Toast and coffee in hand, Dare sat down on the dinette seat and riffled through his letters. “Boring, boring, boring—what’s this?” On closer inspection, one of the envelopes was much better quality than the others. And instead of the standard clear plastic window, his name had been printed onto a label stuck on the front. Dare tore it open, accidentally ripping some of the equally high-quality paper inside. “Oops. Okay, Solly. Let’s see what they have to say for themselves. Dear Mr. Nelson, blah, blah, blah, blah. £500,000!” Dare rubbed his eyes and started paying closer attention. Okay, so it wasn’t a bill. That was a relief. No, it turned out from some property development company—Montague-Worthington, they were called. Never heard of the buggers.

  It appeared the buggers wanted to pay him half a million quid for his yard, though, so they could build more overpriced flats for young professionals.

  For a moment, Dare entertained the idea of being a demi-millionaire. He could go travelling for a few years. See the world. But it wasn’t that simple, was it? He’d need a dog-sitter, and somewhere to come back to eventually, and there was no way he was moving back into his “official” home address with Jase. He’d end up committing fratricide before a week was out.