Page 7 of Written in Scars

Chapter Three

Logan got home a little after eight. High Nest Cottage sat on a hill above the village of Lower Nest. It was already dark when he pulled onto the gravel drive. During the day, the property boasted the most enviable views in the area; the village to one side and on the other, a mile away at the edge of a limestone cliff, the open vista of the North Sea. The location, more than anything had drawn him to the cottage. Formerly a blacksmith forge, the Grade II listed building was nothing more than a shell when he bought it six years ago. Logan had spent the last five years, all his savings and a lot of hard graft, turning the interior into the home he’d always wanted.

Perfect in every way but one: his only companion up on the hill was a ginger tom-cat called Hunter.

Hunter was waiting at the kitchen door when Logan returned, meowing loudly for his overdue dinner. The cat patrolled the fields and outbuildings for mice and rats but still expected a serving of juicy cat food promptly at six each evening. He brushed impatiently against Logan’s legs while he retrieved a bowl and food pouch from the cupboard.

“Give me a minute. I haven’t taken my coat off yet.”

The cat gave a touchy yelp and nutted his leg more insistently.

Logan spooned beef and jelly into the bowl, setting it down on the floor. Finally satisfied, Hunter stuck his face into the overdue dinner and snaffled it without a pause.

Logan laughed. “I don’t know where you put it all big boy.”

He went around the ground floor, switching on lamps in the hall and living room. The benefit of living alone was the chance to decorate the cottage to his own taste, and indulge his passion for Tiffany lamps and lighting, picking them up in antique stores and auctions. The beautiful coloured glass brought a sensual warmth to the rooms.

He went upstairs to hang his jacket and take off his shoes.

The interview had been a success. The final stop on a triumphant book tour. Now he could relax, his promotional obligations fulfilled, spend time at home and start work on his next novel. He already had a folder full of notes and character sketches, he knew where the book was heading; now he needed to sit down and write it. But not tonight.

He couldn’t stop thinking about Sam.

He’d thought about him all the way here, driving on auto-pilot while he remembered their brief encounter in the green room. The connection between them seemed instant and strong, crazily so. No one had affected him as powerfully before. Not that quickly. Logan was set to ask him out until he saw the ring. Thank God. How embarrassing it would have been if he’d bulldozed ahead.

Of course Sam was taken. Why wouldn’t he be? It would be mad if he wasn’t. Handsome, intelligent, soulful; a man like that would never be alone for long.

His husband was the luckiest bastard in the world.

Logan had no luck. Not with men. He didn’t accept his sexuality until his mid-twenties. Until then he’d convinced himself he was bisexual, that he was really into women with just a passing interest in men. A complete delusion. He was never into women, despite tying the knot and starting a family. It wasn’t enough because all he ever wanted was to be with another man.

If he’d been honest and true to himself, maybe he would be married a man like Sam instead of living here alone.

“Shoudla, woulda, coulda,” he sighed and headed back downstairs.

Hunter had finished his dinner and sat in the kitchen cleaning his whiskers. Logan searched the fridge, wondering what he would eat. There was an uncooked chicken breast and some peppers. Maybe he should griddle them for a sandwich. Not a bad idea. Easy too. He took the griddle pan from the cupboard and set it to heat while he chopped the peppers.

His mobile phone rang. Logan glanced at the screen and didn’t recognize the caller. He thought of ignoring it, but a sixth sense told him to answer. As a journalist and writer, he’d learned not to ignore those instincts. The best opportunities usually came when he least expected them.

“Hello, Logan Crawford speaking.”

A moment’s pause before an uncertain voice spoke. “Logan, hi. It’s, er, Sam. From the TV studio.”

Logan’s heart jumped, and a smile spread instantly across his face. “Sam. Hello. How are you doing? Did you forget something?”

“No, I didn’t forget anything. I was just, er, thinking … wondering …”

Logan caught a shaky, nervous quality in his voice. This was not the same young man who spoke so confidently about knife crime. “Is everything all right?”

A sigh. “Not really. Are you free? Now, I mean. Would you like to get a drink? Are you still in the city? I can meet you.”

“I just got home.”

“Oh.” So much disappointment in a single word.

“It’s not a big deal. I can be there in twenty minutes. Half an hour tops.”

“No, it’s okay. I shouldn’t have called.”

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