Page 13 of Viking Ink

Simon shook his head, which made his red curls bounce. “Not really. The pub once a week with the lads, and I take a trip to Newcastle once a month to visit friends.”

“Never been to Newcastle.” I laughed softly. “Heck, before I left home, I’d hardly been outside of the Cotswolds, barring the two trips with my Nan.”

“Is that where you’re from?” Simon sat back as Lottie came back and took our empty plates away.

I took a sip of my hot chocolate, savouring the taste. “Yeah, Grandad had a small farm. We lived there until I was twelve, then Dad moved us into town. I liked the farm.” It was true. I did love my grandad’s farm. Grandad didn’t hold with my dad’s religious leanings. The man was too practical to put much stock in a judgmental god. He’d fought to keep me on the farm with him and not move to town with Dad and my stepmother. I sighed, remembering the look on Grandad’s face as we’d pulled away from the farm, my face still stinging from the hard slap delivered by my dad for making a fuss before we left.

Simon gazed at me, his expression worried. “You went somewhere again. Bad memories?”

For a moment I was tempted to lie, to gloss over the painful memories, but looking at Simon I found I didn’t want to lie. He deserved to know some of the baggage I carried, even if it was just the cliff notes. Fiddling nervously with the hem of my sweater, I wished I had Ted in my arms. I always felt calmer when I was holding him.

Another memory slammed into me. My dad, holding Ted and threatening to burn him in the fireplace, his face screwed up in rage as he swung Ted back and forth, ranting about how it was time to put childish things aside—to be a man.

I was six years old.

Taking another big gulp of my hot chocolate and calming my thoughts, I spoke softly. “Living at the farm was my happiest time. We left around the same time Dad stopped me going to stay with my Nan. Dad had gotten involved with a church group in the neighbouring village, and the station he was posted to was there. So I mean, it made sense he wanted to move to the village, since the farm was miles from anything.” I stopped, taking another sip only to find my mug was empty. After gazing wistfully at the bottom, I put it down.

“Give us a minute, lad.” Simon’s voice was a soft, burring rumble. It was strange how such a simple thing gave me comfort. Just hearing him was like—not to sound too corny—a big fluffy blanket. He called Lottie over. “Hey, can I get another mug of tea and another cocoa when you get the chance?”

Lottie smiled, nodding. “Give me five, love, and I’ll have them right over.”

How did he know what I wanted without me saying anything? He’d done that last night, and again this morning, offering comfort before I even knew I needed it. He had to be a mind reader, or like Deanna Troi.

“No, I’m not Deanna. I don’t have the legs for those jumpsuits she used to wear.”

Shit. I’d spoken aloud.

“Now, don’t go ducking and hiding your face.”

I bloody well would. When had my filter gotten so broken? The knocks to my head must have shaken something loose. It was embarrassing.

“Rhys? Eyes up please.” Simon’s voice had an edge to it, a bossy tone that I found myself wanting to obey. But it wasn’t like my dad’s hard tone that meant only bad things. Simon’s tone carried warmth, but also an expectation of being obeyed.

I lifted my gaze to meet Simon’s and saw his smiling face, his amber eyes crinkled in the corners.

“That’s better. Now I can see those pretty eyes.”

My stomach did a funny flip at him calling my eyes pretty. Lottie came back carrying our drinks. I thanked her enthusiastically and blew over the top of my steaming mug, the rich smell of chocolate heaven calming my nerves.

“You were saying it made sense for your dad to uproot you from your Grandad’s farm,” Simon prompted, sipping from his mug.

“Yeah. He’d just remarried, and my stepmother hated the farm—and, to be honest, my grandad. She didn’t like his honesty, or the way he stood up for me. She pushed for me to go to the church school, and be made to attend church every Sunday, which Grandad didn’t approve of. He said if a person wanted to find religion, they could come to it themselves and it shouldn’t be forced on them.”

Simon gave an approving nod. “He sounds like a smart man.”

I smiled fondly, thinking of Grandad. He always smelt of fresh ploughed fields and lanolin, always ready for a hug or to share a cup of tea while sitting in that old tractor of his. Sometimes he’d let me sit in his lap and drive while we were out in the fields. He’d loved my mum, and could never understand why a sweet girl like her would settle for an old curmudgeon like his son.

“He was the best. He used to keep a bag of humbugs hidden in his workshop that he would share with me, and he made the best suet pudding.” Those thoughts gave me warm feelings. They really had been the best years of my life—well, until now. Until finally meeting Simon. Although, the circumstances were not ideal. I would have rather gotten to know Simon without the beating from those rugby thugs. As a reminder, my bruised ribs made me wince as I shifted in the booth.

“I would feel better if you let the Doc look you over, lad.” Simon’s face was etched with honest concern. “He won’t report it or pressure you to, lad. The doc is a good man.”

I took a deep breath, trying to think, and that awakened more pain in my ribs. Simon leaned forward, his brow creased. I really didn’t want to worry him any more than I had, and truth be told, my ribs were hurting. “Okay,” I said, and Simon’s face lit up in relief. “But one condition.”

“Name it, lad.”

I chewed my lip nervously.

Simon frowned. “You’ll chew that lip raw if you keep doing that,” he tutted.

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