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  “All right, Rhod,” he said, dropping down from the van. The house in question was a Victorian rectory that hadn’t seen a repair since the 1890s, was now falling apart around the owner’s ears, and was so far from health and safety regulations it was laughable. John wondered it had any electrics to fry in the first place.

  “Thought you were off with the family this mornin’!” Rhodri boomed, clapping John on the shoulder. A loud and amiable bloke, with a permanent inability to remember John’s last name properly, Rhodri was a somewhat typical labourer. That was to say, Rhodri was entirely under the thumb of his tiny wife, Amy.

  “I was,” John said. “Sunday dinner. Get one next week, doesn’t matter.”

  “Mine too. Breaking news to the in-laws. No bloody ta.”

  “Nothing bad?”

  “Havin’ a baby,” Rhodri said, and though his gruff voice didn’t change, his face lit up. John grinned, the smile infectious.

  “Congrats,” he said, punching Rhodri in the arm. “You know what it is yet?”

  “Not yet. Only ten weeks gone.” Rhodri sounded rightly pleased. He’d been married to Amy for six years—John was his best man—but although they’d wanted kids, it hadn’t happened. “First one should be a boy, I say. Boy first, then a girl. One of each.”

  John snickered. “Don’t think it works like that, Rhod.”

  “M’just sayin’,” Rhodri rumbled. “Lasses need older brothers to look after ’em. I looked out fer my little sister, and any lad o’ mine will do th’same fer ’is.”

  John smiled faintly as they stomped down into the cellar, and the blackened wall and remains of the fuse box greeted them with a burnt stench. “You’re old-fashioned,” he said, and Rhodri laughed.

  “You’ll be th’same when you get a girl.” Rhodri’s rolling voice meant that get a girl came out closer to gerragirl.

  John’s smile didn’t even twitch. “White picket fence and babies? Not a chance, mate.” The façade didn’t flicker. He knew better than to let things slip. Like most of the men John had worked with since leaving school, Rhodri was the traditional type. One man, one woman. Blokes could shag around, but it made a girl a slag. A girl who refused advances was a lezzer; a bloke who showed weakness was a poufter. That type.

  John never bothered to challenge it much. It was a losing battle anyway. It made you out as an arsehole, or bent. And bent, in the building industry? Not the best of ideas. Oh, John wasn’t afraid of much—he was a big sod, not many would think about trying to physically do anything. But that wasn’t the only way to drive a queer out. Tools going missing, orders not coming in, work suddenly drying up. A reputation for badly done jobs. Tell the odd loyal customer not to bother with Halliday—he was a bit dodgy, bit of a nonce, know what they meant?

  So, he kept under the radar. Always had. And it was easy to do when there was no boss and he could go weeks without working with anybody else. He got into the habit. Luckily, most of the lads were either much younger, or older and married with kids, so didn’t see much of John outside of work. It had been easy to spin the lies. Jason had been Jess. Daniel had been Danielle. Switching pronouns was easy. Jokes about the missus were even easier. John’s lack of sharing stories, and the switch from ‘Chrissie’ to ‘Jess’ and then the rapid abandonment of ‘Jess’ had earned him a reputation as a womaniser—much respected in that crowd—so he went by undetected.

  Even by Rhodri. Which felt disloyal somehow, but John would not have risked that easy friendship for the sake of a secret. For the sake of impermanent partners and stereotypes. For the sake of—

  If Rhodri had heard—if any of the old firm had heard—about what Daniel had done, they’d have believed it.

  And for that, they’d have beaten him. His size wouldn’t have protected him then.

  So, when they got to work, and Rhodri asked about his weekend, John said nothing about Chris. Even a bad liar could lie well given enough time and practice, and John had had nearly twenty years of practice. So, Rhodri didn’t notice.

  But then, Rhodri was a Campbell, not a Halliday.

  John could get away with fudging a lot of his personal details at work—but the moment he got home, at five past five that evening, Nora materialised in the kitchen doorway with two cans of lager and two eyebrows up at her hairline.

  “So,” she said, “you ducked out of Sunday dinner, ignored all of Nan’s calls, and willingly stayed on this late? On a Sunday?”

  “The money was good,” John said defensively but took the can anyway.

  “Sure. There’s going to be a second date, isn’t there?”

  It was barely a question. Her voice was so flat, it might as well have been a statement. So much for his intentions of not telling her.

  John sighed, cracked open the can, and nodded.

  She beamed.

  She might have been thirty-seven and going through a divorce, but Nora was a sucker for romance. John had tried reading her book collection once. It was stuffed with slushy novels where all the characters were called Baby or Darling and featured scenes with ‘throbbing columns’ and holes all over the place. Her taste in films wasn’t much better. When her face lit up like that, it knocked about twenty years off her age, and John groaned as his sister shepherded him into the living room, so excited it felt like they were kids on Christmas morning.

  “So,” she said, throwing herself down on the sofa. “Tell me all about him. And your date yesterday. And your next one.”

  John coughed.

  “Yeah, well, it was just coffee yesterday. Next week is a proper nice date. Restaurant and dressed up nice everything. I picked, this time.”

  “Hence, you put all your shirts in the dryer this morning,” she said.

  “Hence, I put all my shirts in the dryer this morning,” John echoed obediently.

  “Oh, good,” she said. “So, tell me about him. What’s he look like; what does he do?”

  John’s family had known he was gay since his early teens. There’d never been much issue with it, really. John was six feet tall by the time he was twelve years old, and out—though not entirely intentionally—since around the same time. He’d attracted the usual snide comments in school, and double takes as an adult when he went out with a boyfriend, but nothing serious. He was smart enough to keep his sexuality a secret from the types of people who could cause him hassle, and everyone else wasn’t dumb enough to try.

  Dad put it down to being raised by a domineering mother and having three sisters, never mind that John had had only one sister until he was fourteen years old and already pretty sure he wasn’t into girls. Mum put it down to his interest in property programmes and home decoration, even as a little kid, but seeing as that had translated into training as an electrician and working for a building firm for most of his life, John couldn’t quite follow her logic.

  John put it down to being gay and had left it at that.

  Generally, he knew he’d been lucky, and luck had given over to a certain amount of boldness in asking guys out when he didn’t know if they swung his way. Which, in turn, had led to the old confidence he used to have before Daniel. And now, his luck could make a comeback with Chris, and that stunning, gut-wrenching smile.

  So he said, “He’s totally fucking gorgeous, Noz.”

  “John, you’ve said that about literally every boyfriend you’ve had, and none of them look alike! Come on, specifics. What’s he like? What’s he called? Craig, was it?”

  “Chris,” he corrected. “And he’s, um. He’s tall—maybe five eight?”

  “Kissable height?”

  “As close as I can get, yeah.”

  She laughed, beaming, and John grinned to match.

  “He has black hair, and it’s all curly and messy, a bit overlong but not long-long—like if you gave it the usual short back and sides, then left it for six months?”

  Nora, a hairdresser for nearly a decade, nodded sagely.

  “And they’re quite big curls. They look soft. I wanted to run my fingers through them to see how they feel.”

  “What did he think of you?”

  “He…”

  Chris had liked his voice and touching his hands. But how could he tell Nora that without her catching on? And, weirdly, John didn’t want to tell her about Chris being blind yet. There was some childish part of him that wanted to keep the odd secret to himself, at least in these early days.

  “He liked my sleeve tattoos,” he said eventually. “He says there’s something about me. And he really likes my voice.”

  “Your voice?”

  John winced. Too odd. “That’s what he said. Maybe he’s into music and stuff,” he said. “And he thought I was charming.” At least, he’d seemed charmed.

  “You?”

  “I charmed him into a second date, didn’t I?”

  All right, well, given Chris had been pushing for it, too, he hadn’t exactly needed to, but John wasn’t going to tell Nora that.

  “How?”

  “Because he likes me, that’s how.” John kicked her ankle. “Go away if you’re going to rain on my parade.”

  “I’m not, I’m not!”

  John grunted, eyeing her suspiciously.

  She laughed. “So, come on, what’s your grand plan to keep him charmed? When do we get to meet him?”

  “Never?”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Not for a while,” John capitulated. “I—I just don’t want to have that pressure yet. Not so soon, not the first one after…after. He’s special, Nora. I just—I feel so good with him, and he’s not like any of the others. He’s—I know I say that every time, but there’s something different about Chris. I think there’s really something special there, so…you know, I don’t want Mum interrogating him about whether he’s son-in-
law material and scaring him off too soon. Or piling all that pressure on me and making me freak out a bit. You know what she can be like.”

  Nora pulled a face and nodded. “All right. But not forever.”

  “And don’t tell Fran. She’ll blab.”

  “All right. God, you suck.”

  “I…I want this to be the real deal,” John said. “I want this to be good. And I reckon it can be. And—and after Daniel, I…I need good, Nora. I need this.”

  Nora rubbed his arm and said nothing.

  Chapter Five

  THIS WAS JOHN’S element.

  He’d always been very good at laughter and love, and the best way to combine the two was to turn on the charm full blast and leave someone flustered, smiling, and feeling good about themselves.

  And where better to do that than a no-holds-barred, dress-to-impress date?

  He took his time getting ready, banishing Daniel’s influence as far away as he could manage by primping and preening to perfection…or as perfect as one could make an electrician with shoulders like a front-row forward. He couldn’t do anything about his massive size and spades for hands, but the tattoos could disappear under collar and cuffs, a nice tie could bring out his eyes and detract from the broken nose, and at least he hadn’t shaved his head in long enough that he could comb some respectability into place.

  The other step was the car. He couldn’t do anything about its age. John’s Volvo had seen better centuries and was running on electrical tape, superglue, and the voodoo of the fluffy dice he temporarily relocated to the boot before setting off, windows rolled right down despite the cold and snow to air it out one last time. But he’d vacuumed it out properly, put a new air freshener in, and painstakingly found a decent playlist rather than risking the braying donkey of a DJ the local radio station hired during the evenings.

  It was the little things that spelled success, after all.

  Chris lived in Greenhill, and the postcode he’d given John for the satnav brought him onto a potholed road lined by generous houses and long driveways. The snow had been worse here. It covered the Land Rover sitting in the driveway of number sixteen in a thick dusting of white.

  The cold did nothing to cool off John’s fever-high nerves as he knocked, and he felt a bit like a teenager. This was very obviously—the car, the begonias by the path, the kitten design on the welcome mat—Chris’s parents’ house. John hadn’t picked someone up for a date from their parents’ house in years, not since he was about nineteen or twenty. He fervently hoped, as he heard footsteps inside, that Chris would answer the bell and he wouldn’t have to meet his folks.

  The prayer was answered.

  “Hey,” he said, beaming when Chris opened the door, looking downright edible in a dark blue dress shirt and dark, well-fitted jeans.

  “Is this smart enough for your plans?”

  “That does more than well enough,” John said, still grinning stupidly. “You look amazing.”

  A smile flickered into life. “Thank you.” A hand groped over his shoulder, and then Chris was shrugging on a jacket. “We need to go now, before my stepmum realises you’re here and collars you.”

  “Oh, Christ. Right, you ready? It’s a bit icy…”

  Chris’s fingers were tight on the crook of John’s elbow. He shouted, “Later, Caroline!” into the house before unhooking the white cane from the wall and closing the door, and then John carefully led him down the snowy drive to his cleaned-within-an-inch-of-its-life car.

  “It’s not a chariot,” he warned, opening the passenger door and bracing his hand against the roof in case Chris didn’t duck enough. “But it’s better than my work van.”

  “I’m not much of a revhead,” Chris admitted. He settled himself easily enough, fumbling for the seatbelt as John jogged around the bonnet, and then grinned when the car dipped under John’s weight. “Is that the suspension or you?”

  “Me,” John said. “I weigh close to twenty stone, and none of it’s fat.”

  “Wow.”

  “D’you live with your parents, then?” John asked, peeling away from the pavement and heading west.

  “No,” Chris said. “I moved out about a year ago. But—no offence, I don’t exactly know you super well, yet. And Dad’s a former marine. So you can know where they live.”

  John laughed. Most men would have been annoyed, but John simply felt a sharp stab of relief. He’d struggle—he knew he’d struggle—to prove he wasn’t what he looked like. Chris was going to help him out. Chris was going to take his own precautions and make John work to be let in. Cynical as it sounded, he was doing some of John’s work for him and providing his own ammunition against Daniel, even if he didn’t know it.

  “Sorry, I know it’s probably way over the top…”

  “It’s not,” John said. “I’m effectively a stranger. If you’re still doing it in six months, maybe I’m doing something wrong or you’re being over the top, but it’s fine. I don’t mind. Your dad’s a marine though?”

  “Former.”

  “Still!”

  Chris chuckled, shaking his head. “He’s not all that scary. Anyway, where are we going? Where are you taking me?”

  “Out to dinner,” John said. “Does it matter where?”

  “Does if it’s that dodgy Indian place on West Street.”

  “It’s not there.”

  “Good. It’s not very romantic either.”

  “No,” John agreed. “It’s not far, actually. I didn’t realise your street—your dad’s street—was this close.”

  The roads were empty, too, the weather having driven most people back inside. A mad cyclist was braving the elements, and a taxi was creeping about in hopes of a fare or two, but they were the only life John saw until he pulled the car off the road and into the busy parking area. The restaurant was in Dore and a right posh job that was the type of place used for proposals.

  “We’re here. And, um, can I make a confession?”

  “Sure.”

  “I feel like I was dumb and awkward last time. And I’m usually pretty good at this. So, this time, I’m back in my element, and I’m going to stop being floored you asked me out in the first place, and I’m going to show you that I can be a bit of a catch if I want to be.”

  “Oh, yes?”

  “Mhmm. So, I’m pulling out all the stops and spoiling you stupid so that you’d be daft not to give me another chance.”

  Chris laughed, finding the door release unerringly. “We’ll see about that.”

  The restaurant was a nice mix of busy and quiet. John had booked a table in the corner, away from other people staring too much, and had called ahead to organise a menu that Chris could hopefully read. He pulled out Chris’s chair for him and dared to stoop and kiss his temple before taking his seat and nudging Chris’s foot under the table.

  “You’re off to a good start,” Chris said mock-loftily as John ordered drinks, and chuckled when a Braille menu was handed to him. “I’m guessing…?”

  “I made sure they’d have one when I booked,” John agreed.

  “Very thoughtful, even if it doesn’t have prices on.”

  “They do date menus here.”

  “What on earth is that?” The flirtatious, low tone disappeared, and John laughed at the surprise in Chris’s voice.

  “It’s where one of the menus has no prices on, so you can get anything you want and not think about the price. Because I’m picking up the bill.”

  Chris paused. “You can’t pick up the whole bill.”

  “Yeah, I can.”

  A little line appeared between Chris’s eyebrows.

  “Look,” John said. “It’s our first proper serious date, and—I don’t want to be rude or step on your toes or anything, but I’m betting I have a lot more money than you do.”

  “You’re an electrician.”

  “Do you have any idea how many people don’t know how to replace a fuse? Or change a light bulb?”

  Chris cracked a smile, and John pressed his advantage.

  “I said I was going to spoil you, and that includes taking the bill.”

  Chris’s face hardened slightly. “That doesn’t entitle you to anything.”

  “Of course it doesn’t,” John said, and the tension eased. He pushed his hand across the table and slipped the tips of his fingers between Chris’s. “I’m not after anything. Just…I’m good at sweeping guys off their feet. I wanna check I’ve not lost the skill.”