Page 40 of The Missing Ingredient

“Can I go back and play with Gemma and Ewan again?” asked Charlotte.

“Yes, off you go,” said Tom to her departing back. “But no running and annoying the other guests. Any of you.”

With the two of them alone, they gave each other a furtive grin. Marcus quickly brought Tom up to speed.

“Can’t believe your mother’s trying to hook me up!” said Marcus, taking the tongs from Tom, nudging him out of the way with his hip, and pressing a couple of burgers to see if they were cooked. Beside him, Tom tugged on a beer but said nothing.

“Although from what he said,” continued Marcus, “I think he only wants free advice about setting up a business over here. Wants to take me out for a drink and grill me. In the nonbarbecue sense.”

After Marcus chuckled alone and turned a few pork-and-herb sausages, he turned to Tom, who had a sad, pensive expression on his face.

“Are you okay?”

“You know what, Marcus? If you want to see people, I have absolutely no right to ask you—”

“For fuck’s sake, Tom. Reel it in, will you? Not only did I have the most amazing time just being with you last night, I also had the best sex of my entire life. So if you think I’m going to risk losing that for Link the Twink, then you must be delusional.”

“Yeah?” asked Tom, beaming down at the barbecue.

“Big-time,” said Marcus, leaning over and bumping shoulders. “When are you free for another round?”

The speed at which Tom’s eyes met his and the molten look that settled in them said everything.

All that afternoon, Tom kept finding ways to get close to Marcus, to squeeze past as Marcus washed dishes, brushing against his arse; to reach for something in a high cupboard, which brought his face close to Marcus’s ear; or to walk past and purposely smooth the back of his hand against Marcus’s groin.

No matter how much Marcus thrilled at these intimate gestures, eventually he had to find a quiet moment to tell Tom to stop before someone noticed.

ONLYsix of them sat around the dying embers of the barbecue as the Saturday afternoon sun bled from the sky. Poor little Charlotte had finally succumbed, her exhaustion finally getting the better of her. Stubborn to the end, though, she demanded to be placed in an old pushchair in the sunshine so that she could still be close to everyone. Katie sat at the picnic table, leaning against Moira, reading her book.

“So what did you make of young Lincoln?” asked Moira, straight-faced.

Marcus felt Tom’s foot nudge his own under the table and couldn’t resist the smirk that twitched his lips. “Seems like a nice kid. Good sense of humor. And he’s clearly been around the block.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“He’s young, but he knows what he’s talking about. He doesn’t talk—” Marcus wanted to use the wordbullshitbut thought better of it. “He talks sense.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“Oh, come on, Marcus. Is he your type or not?”

“Mum!” said Tom.

“For God’s sake, woman,” said John at the same time.

“Moira, I’m shocked,” said Marcus, holding a hand to his chest in mock horror. “Were you trying to set me up? With a complete stranger? He could be a serial killer, for all you know….”

“Don’t be ridiculous. His father’s a clergyman.”

Around the table, the men burst into loud laughter until Tom noticed Charlotte moving in her chair, and shushed them. John took the reins from there, probably to change the subject.

“Manage to get to any games lately, Marcus?”

“Don’t get the time, Mr. B. Spend practically all my waking hours either in the restaurants, with my manager, Tina, or with Tom’s brood.”

Just then Marcus’s phone rang. When he pulled the device out, Tina’s name appeared on the display.

---