Page 7 of After the Rain
“No! Here,” he says, rummaging down his side and tossing the remote control to me. I catch it before it lands on Pax’s back. Rain smiles at me sheepishly, and I wink at him. “What were you going to watch?” he asks. I don’t know why I feel nervous about answering. Screw gender norms. A big, burly man can love baking and baking shows.
“Uhm –Bake Off?” I’m not sure why my answer comes out as a question. Rain’s sudden inhale grabs my attention away from the TV, where I’m lining up the next episode as I panic that he’s moved suddenly and hurt himself. “What? Are you OK?” I ask, panic evident in myvoice, and I squeeze his hand again, only now realising that I’m still holding it. I release his hand, and he giggles. Actually. Goddamn. Giggles. And that sound will now live rent-free in my brain for the rest of my life. This beautiful man should have a life filled with giggles, sighs, and moans of pleasure, not bruises, cracked ribs, and cries of pain. A hot poker of quiet rage does its best to set my gut on fire at the thought of what, or who, brought him to this state, but I swallow it down. I don’t want to scare him.
“I loveBake Off! What episode are you up to? I missed the last couple of weeks as I was working.”
I look at the screen and check the description for the next episode. “It’s pastry week.”
“Ohmigod, pies and pastry! Gimme all of that. You can’t beat a good sausage roll.” His smile is huge, and his eyes close in pleasure as he lays his head back on the back of the sofa and moans a deep moan that has my dick thickening in my joggers. Thank God these are loose-fitting.
“Everyone likes a good sausage roll. Surely?” I ask in an effort to distract myself from his mildly pornographic appreciation of pork wrapped in pastry. He smirks at me with that sparkle in his eyes again.
“Not everyone, I’m sure. But I love a nice homemade sausage roll, preferably with a sauce or something around the meat.”
“What kind of sauce?” I ask, determined to keep this conversation about food and not lean into the filthy innuendos that my brain is trying to force into my mind. Meat. Sauce. Sausage. Agh. Nope.
“Oooh, now you’re asking. I think cranberry is lush, but also apple sauce.” I chuckle as a movie reference from the nineties pops into my head, and before I can stop myself, I say, with my terrible effort at a Boston accent, “Apple sauce, bitch.”
To say I’m stunned when he says the exact same thing at the exact same moment is an understatement. He turns to me in slow motion as though he can’t believe I just said that either, eyes wide, mouth agape in shock. “Oh. My. God. You likeJay and Silent Bob?” I scoff at his foolish words. Philistine.
“No. I like Kevin Smith.” He slaps my arm in disbelief.
“Me too!” he almost shouts, and Pax grumps as he wakes up with a start before jumping down and making his way over to his bed by the fire for some peace and quiet. “Favourite film?”
“Dogma. Without a shadow of a doubt.” Henods sagely as though I just told him something he knows to be true.
“Only ruined slightly by the fact that when Matt Damon is supposed to be dead near the end, you see his legs move in the shot.” I laugh loudly, and he joins me. We’re both just chuckling, grinning at each other over a shared appreciation of slightly niche nineties movies. “Worst one?”
“Jersey Girl,” we both say at the same time again before breaking out into more laughter. When our chuckles die down, I realise that we have both inched closer to each other since Pax’s exit, and we’re just staring at each other with knowing smiles before his expression changes suddenly and he looks down. I clear my throat before turning back to the TV and pressing play.
“Pastry week, here we come.” He looks back at me and smiles again before facing the TV, but not before he shares his blanket with me. And that’s how we stay as we watch pastry week, desserts week, and botanicals week. At seven o’clock, I switch the TV off and gently wrap the blanket around a softly snoring Rain. Being careful not to wake him, I pick him up off the sofa and take him back to his bed. The fact that his face nuzzles into my neck means nothing. He’s sleeping. It’s a natural position. The goosebumps on my skin disagree. The inner voice that tells me I should climb in behind him, hold his back to mychest, and protect him as he sleeps is difficult to ignore. But ignore it I do, as I gently brush some of his curls away from his forehead, and he hums at the sensation. Gritting my teeth, I force myself to turn away and leave the room, heading back to my own room for a very cold shower to start my day.
It’s been three days since Rain arrived, two since our impromptuBake Offviewing party, and he’s spent most of it either sleeping or reading on the sofa. Three days since I found him shivering on the side of the road, black and blue all over from the hands of his apparently now ex-boyfriend. Three days of my gut roiling with a rage so hot I’ve felt like I could spontaneously combust any moment. Three days since a protective streak a mile wide developed in me, the likes of which I hadn’t felt since Wren got bullied at school.
Three days. And today, I am going to stop hiding from Rain. I am. I am.I am.It may, in fact, be the only way I’ll get Pax back, as he seems to have adopted Rain as his. Or maybe he just senses that Rain needs comfort more than I do right now.
It’s not that I’m avoiding Rain, per se, but more that I’m fully aware of both how shit I am at small talk, and that I should avoid puttingus through that embarrassment at all costs, but also how I wanted to crawl into bed with him approximately seven hours after meeting him, and I don’t want to become a creeper. But the main reason, and the one that I’m finding truly difficult, is that I don’t want to accidentally start interrogating him over the prick who almost killed him until he gives me enough information to go, find, and actually kill that fucker in return.
I’m not sure what it is about Rain, but the idea of someone putting their hands on him to cause pain makes me see red. He’s just so…small. Not in a patronising way. He is strong, both physically and emotionally, judging not only by the tight muscles that I catch glimpses of every now and then, when the borrowed clothes of mine that he’s wearing slip off his shoulders or down his hips, but also by the fact that after only three days, and with his bruises only just starting to go a little yellow at the edges, Rain has a smile on his face every day. At least, it looks like a smile when I see him through the windows when I glance up only once every few hours – OK, minutes – as I hide out in the Dream Boats boatshed, freezing my tits off with the doors wide open just so I can keep him in my line of sight. It was certainly a smile when he found the sausage rolls with apple sauce I asked my friend Poppy to make especially for him in the fridge with a note with his name on it. In return, I got a note of my own. Left unobtrusively on top of my favourite mug, a very simple note:
Thank you, R x.
That was all he said. It made me feel…something. Something big. But returning to my musings, I think about how he fits in my arms when I carry him to bed, or when he stands next to me before I can make my escape each morning. Physically, he is small. Or, short? I don’t know. But there is a clear measure of around eight inches difference in our heights, making him about five feet eight inches or so, and while muscular, his build is trim and tight, like a swimmer. I just want to wrap myself around his smaller frame and protect him from the world. He’s delicate. He has a soft grace and gentle precision in every move he makes. Not that I’ve been watching him move. Of course not.
I look sideways at Pax, who is lying down in the corner of the workshop on his bed, the first time he’s come out with me since Rain arrived, and I swear to God, he raises an eyebrow at me as if to say,‘nobody’s buying what you’re selling, buddy’.
“Whatever,” I grumble in his direction and get back to planing the ash wood bowsprit for Red Admiral, the thirty-five-foot-long third addition to our fleet that I’m currently building. I wasfortunate to find this land that stretches almost the entire length of a small offshoot of the river that runs parallel to and joins the Black Horse Broad. It had a dilapidated boathouse on it when I bought it, which my brothers and I rebuilt and converted into the home that I now live in. It also had a second huge boatshed that we fixed up, which is now the main base of operations for Dream Boats. There is a third, smaller shed that sits behind my house, full of random old tools, gardening stuff, and ancient tents at the moment. I haven’t decided if I want to do anything with it or not.
The workshop takes up a good ten thousand square feet, and we each have our own workspace and tool bench. In the top corner, closest to the driveway off the road that leads into Fenside Common village, is the office. We built a small wooden cabin inside the shed when we were ready to take bookings, and it is in a complete and utter state of shambles and chaos. The thought that we really need to hire someone yet again enters my head. I know Rain mentioned that he needs a job, and I make a mental note to ask if it’s something he might be interested in when I go in for lunch. I ignore the plainly obvious fact that I have no earthly idea what he does, what his skills are or anything else about him – except that he likes Kevin Smith films – and get back to what I doknow:building boats.
A quiet knock grabs my attention. I look up to see Rain poking his head in the open shed doors, a steaming mug in each hand. Pax is up and by his side almost immediately and sticks to the side of Rain’s leg like they’re two opposing pieces of Velcro. His bruises are fading to a greenish-yellow colour after a few days here, and he’s moving a bit better, although still carefully, given his bruised ribs. Nash confirmed there were, surprisingly, no breaks in his ribs, something that brought the most beautiful smile to Rain’s face. He had asked how long the bruising would take to heal, and Nash thinks the ribs will take between three and six weeks, but the rest of the bruising should pretty much be gone within a fortnight.
“Come in,” I call out to him while I grab the stool out from under my workbench. “Come and sit down. Is everything OK? Do you need something?” He looks up at me from under his long lashes as he passes me, giving me a quick glimpse of his startlingly blue-green eyes, before placing the mugs down on the bench and clambering up onto the high stool. Pax makes his way back over to his bed, happy that from there he can keep Rain in his line of sight. The protective animal has adopted Rain as much as I know, deep down, that I have.
“I’m good, thanks,” he huffs out as he sits. “Ithought you might like a cuppa. I don’t know how you take it, so I just put a bit of milk in. Is that OK? I can go and get you some sugar?” He makes a move to stand up, but I drop a hand on his shoulder, stopping him.
“Just milk is perfect. Thank you.” A shy smile crosses his lips, and I can’t help myself from, yet again, noticing just how beautiful he is underneath all those bruises. I need to stop noticing him. There’s no way he’d be interested in me. He told me yesterday that he’s been living in London, so there is literally nothing here in the Norfolk countryside that can compare to the busy city lifestyle he’s no doubt used to.
I catch his gaze, and he giggles shyly. The sound guts me. He is too precious for this world.
