Page 67 of Gideon
The tea rooms are apparently the converted stables, and his friends have done a good job of renovating them. The ceiling is high, the beams have been sandblasted, and the place has a laid-back, rustic feel. Huge old pine tables dot the room with mismatched chairs drawn up to them.
The big room is full of people and noise, which comes as a bit of a shock after the last few days of it being just me and Gid in that small bedroom filled with the sound of just our laughter and groans as a breeze blows over our bodies and ruffles the curtains.
Waitresses zip about between tables, and the room rings with the sound of crockery and loud chatter. We wait at the entrance to be seated, and I lean against the waiter’s station, eying Gideon contemplatively as he looks around the room.
I know I said I was okay with keeping us secret, but I never realised how fucking difficult it would be to stand near him and not touch him. Especially after the last few days when we’ve been joined by my cock more times than I’ve had hot dinners. It isn’t that, though. I don’t want to maul him. I just want to hold his hand, to touch him and have him look at me the way he does in private when there are no secrets. But I can’t, and even though that makes me sad, I’m still going to wait this out, because he’s worth more to me than anyone I’ve ever met. Maybe in the end I’ll leave if he forces me into a small, private box, but not yet. For now I’m happy to be with him.
I feel a stroke on my hand and look down to see his finger twine with mine. It’s a small gesture hidden by our clothes and he isn’t looking at me at all, but it’s somehow more intimate than anything we’ve done so far.
The next second I jump as a small dark-haired man with sharp features comes up next to us. He’s dressed in tight jeans and aChi an Mornavy T-shirt with tattoos gleaming black on his arms.
“Well, if it isn’t our resident Oscar winner,” he says.
“I never won an Oscar,” Gideon says with a gleam of amusement alight in his eyes.
“Didn’t you? Oh no, Christian Bale beat you. Silly me. What a scatterbrain I am.”
“Yes, that’s just the word I was looking for to describe you,” Gideon drawls.
The small man laughs and says something else that makes Gideon snort, and I hear the Irish in his voice and realise that this is Oz, his friend’s husband. He’s not at all what I expected. He grins at me, and I’m helpless not to smile back. His face is fierce and beautiful, but what stands out most is the amusement lurking there and the kindness. Not at all what I was expecting, and I’m glad of it.
He reaches out to shake my hand. “Oz Ashworth,” he says. “I’m married to Silas, Gideon’s friend.”
“Have you got a title too?” I ask and Gideon laughs.
“Many, but none that are listed in Debretts.”
Oz laughs, but at that second a few things happen simultaneously. A woman shrieks. There’s a gasp and a thud and the shattering of crockery. I spin round just in time to see an older man topple off his chair like a doll.
I’m in movement before my brain realises what’s happening, striding over and kneeling next to the man.
“Sweetheart,” the older woman cries, racing round the table to the man’s side.
I bend over him, examining him intently. “What happened?” I ask, and she must hear the calmness and command in my voice because she stops the tears that are threatening.
“He said his chest hurt and his arm. Then he went a funny colour and collapsed.”
“Does he suffer from angina?” I ask.
“No,” she says, and I can hear the fear in her voice.
“It’s okay,” I say. “I’m a nurse. I need to help him.”
She breathes in to control herself. “No, he doesn’t have angina.”
“Okay, Mrs …?”
“Andrews.”
“Okay, Mrs Andrews. What’s your husband’s name?”
“Jack.”
“Jack, can you hear me?” I say to the man who is groaning under his breath and clutching his chest. His eyes flutter. “I know you’re hurting,” I say clearly, moving him onto his back and raising his knees. “Is it just your chest?”
“Jaw,” he mutters before groaning again.
Oz and Gideon race up next to me. “Have you got a defibrillator?” I ask Oz, pulling the man’s shirt apart. Sweat lies clammily on his chest.
