After the Scrum (5 page)

"Welcome to the village, love." Ruth handed him a small basket and ushered the two of them out the door before he could attempt to pay once again. "You keep the little one wrapped up. It'll be chilly by morn."

They were definitely
not
in London anymore. Caddock found he didn't miss the overly polite stiltedness of his former neighbours. Looe had a friendly charm to it.

Welcome home, indeed.

Chapter Seven

Francis

Rupert and Graham Hodson were fraternal twin brothers who had grown up a village over from Looe. Francis had known them by name through his granddad, who was best mates with their granddad. He'd become friends with both while in college. They'd been the ones to pick him up and dust him off after the incident at the club.

His friendship with Graham had been strained by his relationship with Trevor. The two had hated each other almost from the moment they were introduced, and Francis had felt caught between his lover and his best friend. He'd foolishly believed taking his boyfriend's side to be the best decision, though mostly, he'd tried to stay out of it.

The strain hadn't stopped Graham from coming to his rescue. When Francis had been attacked outside of the club, Rupert and his brother had pulled him away from the rampaging drunks. He tried not to think about what might've happened if they hadn't been there.

The two had tended to his wounds, both physical and emotional. Both brothers spent hours with him, ensuring Francis didn't sink into a dangerous depression. Rupert had been the one to suggest the therapist once his panic attacks surfaced.

Time might've passed, but their friendship remained strong. Graham travelled frequently for his consultancy work. It had left Francis in the background, so to speak, though he never begrudged his friend's success.

Every so often, Francis missed the closeness of living with a best mate. They'd roomed together until after university. It certainly involved less nagging, for one thing. His gran might be brilliant—and bossy—but she also had a tendency to want to arrange her beloved grandson's life to fit her idea of perfection.

He shook his head, drawn back to what had started him down memory lane—the panic attacks. Francis found his entire life dramatically affected by them at times. Sherlock made them barely manageable.

"Francis, love?" His gran knocked on the passenger window of his Fiat, causing him to start in surprise. "You coming inside? Or will Watson be your inn for the night?"

"Funny, Gran, simply hilarious," he grumped half-heartedly, realizing he'd been sitting in the parked car for nigh on an hour. She'd never let him live this down, not a chance of it. "I might've gotten a tad distracted."

"Distracted? About what or whom? Want to tell me about him?" She gave him an incorrigible grin that reminded him rather painfully of pictures of his dad. The two shared the same mischievous smile. "Francis?"

"It's been a long day, Gran. How about I make tea and beans on toast?" Francis headed off her enquiry. He wanted space to think without being confronted about anything that might remind him of the unattainable Caddock. "And no, Gran, I haven't met anyone."

Instead of their nightly ritual of tea, scones with blackberry jam and whatever happened to be on the telly, Francis claimed a headache and slunk off to bed. Sherlock curled up at his feet while he stretched out on top of his quilt. He stared up at the ceiling, trying to tune out the sounds in the hallway.

Gran did
mean
well. She truly did, but her hints tended to be about as subtle as a ref's whistle in the ear. Or a whiff of the strongest cheese imaginable.

Everyone in their small community meant well. They always tried to set Francis up on blind dates, fobbing him off on their cousins, friends, even a perfect stranger once. He'd been ushered in front of every available man within a twenty-minute drive. They'd even tried to set him up on a blind date with a woman once.

What was Francis supposed to do with a woman? They had weird jiggly bits. It was all rather terrifying.

"What am I going to do, Sherlock?" Francis kept his voice low. He often talked to his sheltie, who never offered unwanted advice, making him the perfect listener. "Caddock… he's perfection. How am I going to see him in the village and not melt into a puddle of aroused goo?"

Sherlock shuffled up the bed until he could rest his head on the pillow. Francis laughed at his spoilt-rotten furry friend. He listened to the rhythm of his breathing as Sherlock drifted off to sleep. It lulled him into a light doze while he set thoughts of Caddock aside for the moment.

Maybe it wouldn't be as bad as he feared after all?

Sleep, unfortunately, refused to play nicely. His dreams kept drifting into the steamy sort. Nothing but naked, firm flesh taunted his attempts at a restful night.

Rolling out of bed, careful not to dislodge his deeply sleeping dog, Francis made his way quietly through the dark house. He tiptoed into the kitchen to make a pot of tea, munching on a leftover scone while the kettle heated up. Tea might not solve
everything
, but it couldn't hurt.

Cup in hand, Francis made his way into what had once been his granddad's office. He eased into the familiar, ancient leather chair to soak up the smell of worn leather and old books. It always made him feel safe.

The images from his dream still hadn't quite faded. They'd be featuring heavily the next time he got around to pleasuring himself. Caddock
would
play an unfortunately prominent role that would make it impossible to forget about him.

Several sips of tea helped calm his mind, heart, and arousal down. This whole thing presented him with a rather sticky problem, and not the one in his pants, either. As a professional, it wouldn't do for him to be getting hard in front of his client every time they were in the same room.

And how humiliating would that be anyway?

Francis could just imagine the conversation now. "Pardon me while I adjust myself in my trousers." Caddock would likely be unimpressed and definitely not amused. It certainly wouldn't encourage him to give a good reference for future business.

At worst, Francis might end up with a fist to the jaw for his troubles. He'd seen straight men do worse things when they felt their manhood threatened. But Caddock didn't necessarily seem the sort to resort to violence, no matter his reputation on the rugby pitch.

The real question to answer was could he manage to act
normal
around the man? Would his attraction be too much of an issue? It wasn't like he was a complete slave to his desires.

Francis decided his granddad had been right, late-night tea should be spiked heavily with alcohol. He simply couldn't bring himself to drink any of it. The memories liquor triggered were unpleasant at best.

He sank down into the leather chair with a sigh. Being alone wasn't all that bad. He had his gran.

I have my gran?

Oh, saints preserve me.

It was definitely time to go out on a date. If his subconscious had started to consider his current life as fine, Francis was in more dire straits than he'd initially believed. Maybe another blind date? What could it hurt?

His mind immediately went to the
last
date that had ended spectacularly dreadfully. Francis might hover on the border of effeminate, but it didn't make him weak. The man he'd been set up with seemed set on treating him like a delicate princess.

It had ended with Francis dumping an entire bowl of mushy peas over the idiot's head. A serious chat had followed with all the well-meaning matchmakers. They'd promised to leave him be—for now.

He could be happy with just Sherlock, and many nights spent watching rugby. Right?

Chapter Eight

Caddock

Devlin's introduction to his new school had gone brilliantly—in the lad's eyes. Caddock hadn't quite enjoyed it nearly as much. All the little boys in particular had clambered for his attention, looking with a bit of jealousy at the Brute's nephew. With luck, it wouldn't lead to any issues between the classmates.

Leaving the teacher to her work, Caddock headed home to continue the process of unpacking, slogging through box after box of useless items he'd collected over the years to finish up with his office, the only room left. He decided to take a much-needed break. It wouldn't do to lose all his energy.

Tea, fresh air, and perhaps a pastry called his name. It had only taken him a week to get everything in the house situated, outside of his office. They'd settled into village life rather easily, though with Devlin in school, it would be the true first test for both uncle and nephew.

The short walk to Ruth's bakery cleared his head, despite the gloomy, drizzly rain. The cheeky baker slipped him several peanut butter biscuits and custard tarts. It seemed Francis had missed his mid-morning tea break.

"How tragic. Could you be a dear and take this to Francis? He's so slender, the wind might blow him away this winter. Be a good lad. He's only down the street at your pub. Works so hard that one."

Caddock found himself bustled out the door and on the way to the pub before realizing he'd paid for
two
cups of coffee, not one.
Pushy, interfering bint.
He'd been avoiding Francis. It hadn't helped with the dreams.

What could one visit hurt?

To his surprise, the pub was empty. The turquoise Fiat sat parked outside, but Francis and his ever-present shadow Sherlock were nowhere to be found. It worried him slightly.

Where were they?

A quick glance around the room showed the continued progress in the refurbishment project. The pub had gone from dusty and dilapidated to pristine in a scant few weeks. It looked like the perfect sort of seaside place that gruff fishermen might've once frequented.

The wooden floors had been painstakingly restored before being stained and then aged to a rich mahogany that matched the bar itself. The walls had been painted with some sort of effect that was foreign to him. They looked as if they'd seen decades instead of days. Antique fixtures, paintings, and bartending equipment lined the shelves and other places.

It appeared as if his dream pub had been plucked straight from his mind. Francis had outdone himself, though the decorator claimed to be waiting for one or two final pieces for it to be finished. Haddy's would likely be open for business within a week or two.

Caddock felt a shiver of doubt at the idea. He still needed to hire his staff, including a chef. The pub couldn't run itself.

Loud voices drew his attention from thoughts of how to proceed with his plans. Caddock stalked over to the large stained-glass windows in the front of the bar in time to see Francis and a rumpled man in conversation. The stranger stumbled, wavering on his feet, making him seem drunk, and Francis took the chance to duck around him.

Before Caddock could say a word in greeting, Francis seemed to fall apart at the seams. His body shook while his breathing grew increasingly erratic. He sank to his knees while Caddock remained unobserved, watching him in growing concern.

Sherlock moved up to Francis, who was clearly in the midst of some sort of breakdown. He muttered something that sounded like a mantra to himself repeatedly. Caddock wondered if Sherlock had some therapy training from how the dog behaved.

He wished Rupert hadn't evaded his questions. There were clearly things about the decorator that he didn't know. The realtor had gone out of his way to avoid responding to his calls.

Caddock crossed the room quietly and cautiously crouched in front of Francis. He had no experience with panic attacks. "Francis? How can I help you? Do you need anything?"

"Oh. God." Francis flushed a lovely pink that only made him more attractive. Sherlock scrambled into his owner's lap. Slender, trembling hands threaded into the sheltie's fur. "I apologize for my—"

"No, don't." Caddock cut him off, reaching instinctively to squeeze the man's shoulder gently. "What helps? Would you prefer I sod off and leave you alone?"

Francis's eyebrows lowered as he frowned at him in confusion. "Help? Me?"

Caddock wondered if he was still struggling to return to his calm self. Sitting on the floor, he leaned against a chair and waited Francis out. Their hands lightly touched with their thighs separated by barely a breath.

Long minutes passed in silence before Sherlock started to perk up. The sheltie bounced around, licking both of their hands and faces. It didn't take long for his boisterousness to bring out the hint of a smile on Francis's face.

The smile apparently signalled the end of the breakdown. Sherlock raced off to attempt to inspect the bag with his biscuits. It left Caddock with an obviously embarrassed and suddenly shy Francis.

"You blush." Caddock swiped a rough, calloused thumb across the flushed cheek, then smirked when the fair skin turned a deeper shade of pink. He got to his feet then yanked Francis up as well. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"No
.
" Francis stumbled slightly to sidestep around a table to avoid him. He ran his fingers through his out-of-control mop of hair. "Sorry. Patty is the village drunk. He brings up some rather dreadful memories for me. His breath alone can trigger a panic attack. I usually try to have them in private."

"Is Sherlock a therapy dog?"

"Yes." Francis glanced up then dashed over to rescue the bag of baked goods from the inquisitive dog. "He's a troublesome creature, but he helps. I'd be a miserable wreck of a man without him."

Caddock had stirrings of another sort within him. There had always been hints of dominance in his relationships. He enjoyed being the one relied upon and had struggled to find someone who would allow him to care for them. He found Francis almost unbearably enticing.