Page 103 of Cream & Sugar
I blink stupidly at the red note flapping in my face. “Rory, there’s really no need—”
“I don’t want to discuss it further. Please just take it and don’t tell Freddie.”
I don’t want to take it, but I’m afraid of what will happen if I refuse.
“Thanks,” I take the fifty and pocket it. “I won’t tell.”
Rory makes a gruff sort of noise and turns his back, plodding back up the drive. He passes Freddie on the way, who looks just as confused as I am, but his brother walks straight past him and back into the house, slamming the door behind him.
Eyes wide, Freddie smiles awkwardly and gives me a wave. Bloody hell, he looks amazing. Aside from his old leather jacket, he’s in a textured navy shirt with the top button undone and jeans so black they pass for formal and so skinny, they’re practically spandex. A thin gold necklace draped around his neck catches the shimmer from the streetlamps, complimenting the golden tonesof his hair perfectly. I don’t think he’ll ever stop taking my breath away.
I hop out of the car and greet him with a tender kiss that quickly turns into a passionate, tonsil-deep, attempted-suffocation, kind of kiss.
“Whoa there, big boy,” Freddie chuckles, pulling away and patting me on the chest. “You missed me that much?”
“I guess I did.” Our shifts haven’t aligned the past couple of days and it’s not been the same at work without him. Tonight, however, is all ours.
I gesture towards the car, keenly remembering the bag I have stashed away in the boot. “Hungry?”
Freddie gives me a once-over, his eyes lingering over places that set my heart racing. He bites his bottom lip.
“Starving.”
There’s a table with our names on it at Fortuna, a small but reputable bistro nestled in a quiet lane two minutes from the esplanade. It’s always booked up weeks in advance, but the head chef is a friend of Andi’s and I called in a favour to get us a last-minute booking.
A wave of intoxicating aromas washes over us as we step inside. I pick out smoky chorizo, sizzled garlic, and the fruity scent of red wine among others.
“Welcome!” A hostess in a crisp white shirt greets us at the door. “Reservation name?”
“Two under Shaun Harrison,” I say, removing my coat.
Freddie leans into my ear as the hostess checks her tablet. “Two? Who else do you plan on having under you tonight?”
“Shh!” I say, kicking him in the shin as the hostess looks up.
“Right this way, Mr. Harrison.”
We follow her through a tight labyrinth of tables to a booth at the back. There’s a window on one side, facing out to a small, lantern-lit garden.
“How is this for you, gentlemen?” the hostess asks.
“It’s perfect,” I say.
“Some wine to start?”
“I’ll have some sparkling elderflower,” I say, having already memorised what I want from the menu online. “Freddie?”
He looks a little overwhelmed.
“Uh, do you have beer?” he asks.
The hostess rattles off a list of craft beers I’ve never even heard of. In the end, poor Freddie asks her to “surprise him.”
“Fancy place!” he exclaims once she leaves.
“Yeah,” I concur. “I haven’t been before, but the reviews are spectacular.”
Freddie flips over his menu and baulks. “Bloody hell. Not cheap, is it?”
