Page 4 of The Question of Us
NowthatI could understand. But he wasn’t getting off so lightly. “Look at me. Please.” I waited until he faced me. “You can work on anything you want for as long as you want, but we’re going to talk first.”
He groaned. “Do we have to? I know everything you’re going to say before you say it. That it wasn’t my fault. That I couldn’t have known the truth about Ben... Tobin... whoever the hell he was. And maybe you’re right. But it doesn’t change how I feel.”
“I know. But humour me, please.” I tugged him toward the dining table. “Sit.”
Gazza grumbled something under his breath but sat as directed. He turned toward the sound of the shower running in my en suite and frowned. “He’s still here then, huh?”
I followed his gaze, nodding. “Yep. He’s still here.”
Gazza regarded me thoughtfully. “That’s almost three weeks.”
“You don’t say.” I sent him a pointed look. “A fact you’d have known if you actually took the time to have a conversation with me every time I called, instead of trying to get me off the phone in record time.”
Gazza’s ears pinked. “Yeah, I’m sorry. I admit I’ve been a bit MIA.” He took in my general disarray. “It’s really serious between you two then?”
I shrugged. “It’s . . . complicated.”
Gazza snorted. “No surprise there.” He dropped the satchel he’d been clutching to his chest and then waited, looking pretty fucking miserable about it in the process. “You want to talk?”
“In a moment. Now, don’t you dare move.” I left to make both of us coffee, adding a cheese and pickle sandwich for Gazza made from his favourite million grain bread that he kept stashed in my freezer. I returned to the table and slid both under his nose. “Eat. You look like a scarecrow, albeit a gorgeous one, and even I know that’s not good for your brittle diabetes.”
Gazza stared at the sandwich. “I don’t want?—”
“I wasn’t asking. Now eat,” I answered snippily. “You look like shit, so I know you haven’t been taking care of yourself.” When he wouldn’t meet my eyes, I huffed. “Yeah. I thought so.”
Gazza picked up the sandwich, inspecting it before taking a bite.
“Good. You can eat while I talk.”
Gazza grumbled around a mouthful of bread. “Jesus. When did you become so bossy?”
“And here I was thinking it was just me.” Nick crossed the lounge looking far too sexy for his own good.
“Looking good there, Nick.” Gazza eyed Nick appreciatively and I kicked him under the table. “And very comfortable in these surroundings, I must say.”
Nick laughed and flipped him off, shooting me a wink as he headed for the coffee machine. I swivelled in my seat to track his progress, that glorious arse looking quite frankly edible in freshly washed jeans, water droplets dangling precariously from his still damp hair. He smelled of my citrus shampoo and everything I’d ever dreamed of in a man since I was about sixteen years old and writing excruciatingly long lists about what I wanted in Mister Right.
Don’t ask. The folly of youth and its naïve notions about love and romance had long been relegated to the trash. Or I thought they had. Although I don’t rememberexasperatingandstubbornfeaturing anywhere on those lists.
I turned back to find Gazza watching me with a knowing grin and my cheeks flared. “Oh, shut up.”
He laughed and the unexpectedly welcome sound went a long way toward calming my fears about the young man. “Come on.” He made hurry-up circles with his hand. “You said you wanted to talk, so talk. I have a backlog of work sitting on my workbench.”
I glanced once more at the noises coming from the pantry, then turned my attention back to Gazza. “Okay. First off, you need to stop beating yourself up about what happened.”
His lips pursed in a thin line. “I’m not?—”
“Yes, you are,” I countered before he could finish. “And I know this because I feel exactly the same way.”
“You?” Gazza shot me a disbelieving scowl and took another bite of his sandwich.
“Don’t give me that look,” I chided gently. “You’re not so special, you know. Weallfeel guilty to some degree. I’ve hardly slept since I handed Lee Shepherd’s name over to those arseholes and finding out he was being sent back to the man who likely abused him. So don’t talk to me about guilt. But it’s not helping anyone, least of all you.”
Gazza frowned. “You think this Lee guy is gay?”
“An educated guess, nothing more.” Nick sounded dubious as he wandered across to take a seat next to Gazza, coffee in one hand and one of my homemade carob chip cookies in the other.
I eyeballed the frustrating man. “The breakfast of champions, I see.”
