New Lease of Life (5 page)

There were several related links to the story. The council promising to clean up the area with the help of wildlife-loving volunteers. An article on the benefits of microchipping your pet. No follow-up on Pip’s condition, though.

Colby closed the link for the local news site and scanned the other searches that had come up when he’d googled Pip. A professional business site for Pip’s company yielded no personal information. There were a few articles where he was mentioned in connection with his moneyed and titled parents—a search the journalist on the local paper obviously hadn’t done or he would have made more of the story. Maybe even done a follow-up piece profiling the
local hero
in the hope it would get picked up by one of the national rags. For Colby the articles simply confirmed what he had suspected—from the quality of Pip’s clothes, the address, and his accent—and he read no more.

His interest in Pip had nothing to do with his wealth or title. It lay in the neat package that held a firecracker of a man and the promise of a hidden smile. A smile Colby desperately wanted to see in the flesh and directed at him. Although, after the way he had goaded Pip earlier, it was more likely that he’d receive a punch on the nose when he arrived on Thursday to collect the clothes.

How could he, a council estate kid who’d had to train himself to avoid dropping his
h
’s or calling people mate, put a smile on the face of a man who, by birthright and breeding, should have everything?

How did a man who once radiated such joy with just a quirk of his lips, someone who would stop to help a stray dog, become such a grumpy bastard?

Pain could do that to a person, he supposed. Not to mention that ridiculous crutch, which, if Colby were a different type of therapist, he would say seemed to be the focus of a lot of Pip’s anger. But Colby’s talents lay with his hands, not people’s psyche, and if Pip allowed, Colby would be able to rid him of some of his pain.

Colby had studied as a physiotherapist before his work as a personal trainer had taken off. He’d always intended to go back to that as a career, but then the DVD had happened, and with money rolling in for doing nothing, working had become less important than setting up the charity shop and doing some good for those less fortunate than himself. He still kept his hand in, though, and had completed several courses on alternative therapies in the last few years to expand his skills.

Unfortunately he had to be able to touch Pip in order to ease his pain, and he could tell from the way Pip tried to avoid all contact that the offer of healing hands would not be welcome.

Colby sighed. He closed open tabs about Pip and bookmarked several sites about vintage tweed to read later. Only one site remained opened: the online catalogue of a secondhand clothing shop located in the West Country.

There was one thing he could do that would improve Pip’s situation, to ease some of the pain he was causing himself without even realizing. Determined to do something,
anything
, to help the grumpy bastard, even if Pip would balk at the offer, Colby scrolled down the page until he found the shop’s phone number.

Worst-case scenario, his gift would be thrown back in his face.

“Cabbages and Kinks. Antiquities, oddities, and ephemera. For all your clothing, accessories, and decorating needs. Mas speaking. How can I help you?”

Wow. That was how to answer the phone. And so upbeat, as though talking to Colby was the highlight of the guy’s day.

“Hello? Can I help you?”

And the enthusiasm had the power to strike Colby dumb. “Sorry. I was just marveling at your phone manner. I can barely get my staff to say the name of my shop.”

“Was it too much?”

Colby could almost sense the other guy wince. “No. Slightly overwhelming, but I’ve just spent the afternoon with the grumpiest client ever. It’s nice to hear a cheerful voice.”

“Glad I could be of service. Now, was there something specific, or did you just want to hear my dulcet tones?”

Colby laughed. “Well at least I know where to ring if I’m ever feeling in need of a pick-me-up. I found an item on your website, but I know you’re a one-of-a-kind sort of shop, and I wondered if it had been sold or not.”

“Let me check for you. Do you have the item number?”

“A748.” Colby could hear the sound of fingers tapping on a keyboard.

“A beautiful piece. And I can see it from where I’m standing. However, I feel I should ask how tall you are?”

“Six two?”

“You don’t sound too sure?”

“Oh no. I’m definitely six two. I just wondered why you needed to know.”

“Ah. I’m afraid this item won’t be any good for you. It’s on the small side. Probably why it’s been hanging about in the shop for so long.”

“Oh, it’s not for me. It’s for—” Colby paused. How to describe Pip? He huffed out a breath. “For my friend. He’s about five eight.”

About the right height for Colby to tuck Pip against his body and nestle his chin into that blond hair.

“That would be perfect. And I’m not just saying that to be all salesman-y.”

“No, I don’t imagine you are. I’ll take it. Is there any way you can get it to me for tomorrow? I need it for Thursday. If not, I can drive up tomorrow. You’re only about two hours from London.”

“Is this a grand gesture?” The assistant sounded positively gleeful. He hummed thoughtfully down the line. “If I get my partner down to watch the shop, I can get it packaged and out to the post office in time to catch next-day delivery. Urm, I’m afraid it’ll—”

“I’ll pay extra to cover the cost. Let’s call it thirty quid, and you can call me back if it’s more.”

“That sounds more than reasonable. I’ll package it in one of our presentation boxes since it’s a gift,” the assistant said, almost breathless with excitement. “Now, if I could take your credit card details?”

Ten minutes later Colby disconnected the call and let out a huge sigh. Partly due to the sheer exuberance of the sales assistant. Mainly, though, because he’d committed time and money to a gift he suspected would be received with reservation and suspicion, if not thrown, quite literally, back in his face.

A grand gesture? For angry, bitter Pip? Ridiculous, because he barely knew the man, but the urge to put the smile back on his face still lingered long after Colby had laid the photo album to one side.

HE HADN’T
thought he’d ever find a use for the picnic basket again, but Pip thanked his lucky stars that he hadn’t thrown anything away after… after he ended up this way. A bloody cripple that a man like Colby wouldn’t look at twice, despite the crap he’d spouted the other day about getting all up on this. “This” being a skinny, pasty, paltry copy of the man he used to be. Yeah, right.

Bloody photographs. Bloody dog. Bloody Colby.

Dammit! The sandwich he’d been wrapping to put into the basket was now a mangled mess, the bread smushed, mozzarella seeping through his fingers. He caught a tendril of tomato juice as it reached his wrist, swiping at it with his tongue, and then dragged his useless leg the couple of steps so he could dump the entire mess in the bin.

Charity shop workers were meant to be cardigan-wearing, white-haired little old ladies that smelled of lavender and, possibly, cats. They weren’t meant to be ruggedly handsome men, with arms that looked as if they could bench press Pip. Or snap him in half. Although, he had a feeling Colby would be more likely to use those strong arms to keep him safe.

Bah! He didn’t even know the man. Had he become that desperate for the touch of another that he’d imprinted the kindness and gentle caresses he craved—but knew he didn’t deserve—on the first man to show him any attention in a long while? When had he—a self-imposed recluse—become so eager to welcome a stranger into his home?

And yet here he was, making sandwiches for the man who was upstairs in his bedroom, meticulously cataloguing each item from his precious dressing room, for goodness’ sake. It would be so much easier if Colby had simply taken the clothes and driven away. But no, all manner of clothing and accessories were scattered around his bedroom, sorted by item, label, color, or era. So many memories that Pip couldn’t bear to spend more than a couple of minutes in the room.

He couldn’t even hide away in the lounge because Colby had installed row upon row of clothes rails where suits and jackets that had already been catalogued swayed every time he limped past. Taunting him. Or dragging his attention from the mindless television program back to Technicolor scenes from his memories.

Getting rid of his clothes, that link to his past, hurt, but it would be better in the long run. They were the last reminder of the man he used to be now that all his friends had finally taken the hint and stopped ringing. Davy had been a bugger to get rid of, turning up with food or phoning to check that Pip had bothered to get up in the mornings. Pip wasn’t proud of the names he’d called his best friend the last time he’d turned up unannounced at Pip’s door. The hurtful accusations he’d flung had stung Pip as they left his lips, and they must have ripped his best friend to shreds. In a calculated torrent of abuse and half-truths, Pip had ensured the final person that gave a damn about him—those with familial obligations aside—wouldn’t want so much as to be in the same postcode. It was all for the best.

He contemplated making another sandwich to replace the one he’d ruined, but the basket already held more than enough food for two people, especially since he barely ate anymore. Hopefully Colby would be able to pick up the slack. He looked like the sort of man who’d enjoy a couple of egg and bacon doorstop sandwiches rather than the brioche rolls with pretentious fillings that Pip had prepared.

Honestly Pip didn’t have a clue what he was doing. Stopping for lunch would only encourage Colby to stay longer. He should dump the entire lot in the bin.

As if hearing that thought, Pip’s stomach grumbled loud enough that Colby could probably hear it upstairs. He’d been so anxious by the events to come that he hadn’t even considered breakfast that morning.

Looping his left arm through the handle on the basket, Pip reached for his crutch, slipping his upper arm into the plastic cuff and clasping the grip tightly. Maybe he shouldn’t study his motives too closely.

With cautious steps he made his way toward the stairs.

“WHAT THE
hell?”

The sight before him brought Pip up short in the doorway to his bedroom.
Bloody cheek of the man.
A tailor’s dummy, long since relegated to the corner of the room, had been dragged close to the side table under the window where Colby’s notebook lay open, a bog-standard biro nestled in the dip between the pages.

He hadn’t used the antique wooden dummy in months. The treasured piece had gone from something he used every day to become a part of the background. Jogging bottoms and T-shirts had little need to be thought out with precision and care the night before. They certainly didn’t need to have lint removed or the nap brushed.

Without thought or guile, Colby’s actions forced Pip to acknowledge yet another item he’d recently overlooked. Not that he could appreciate the beautiful patina on the antique wood at the moment. The dummy had been dressed. If you could call it that.

The scarlet jacquard brocade waistcoat draped across the dummy’s torso would look exquisite with a jet-black tuxedo. Unfortunately Colby had matched it with a pair of forest green corduroy trousers with a tapered leg—Pip’s concession to casual since he didn’t do jeans—and a green plaid shirt. The combined effect conjured up the impression of a children’s television presenter from the seventies hosting a Christmas show. Especially when finished off with the gold cravat he’d been forced to buy for a wedding and had never worn again—it made him look like a camp 1950s comedian. The whole ensemble hurt Pip’s sensibilities, not to mention his eyes.

“Hang on a minute.” With so much wrong in the sight before him, Pip had overlooked one glaring fact. Now that the garishness of the outfit had faded somewhat, the omission pushed its way to the fore. “I don’t own any plaid.”

“Oh.” Colby glanced up from his position on the floor where he appeared to be laying out a tweed hunting jacket on a white sheet.

That jacket had originally belonged to Pip’s grandfather. One of the few items of the old man’s that he’d managed to salvage before his mother had declared the remainder of his clothes only fit for the bonfire.

Ignoring the tug in his chest at the thought of parting with the well-worn and much loved garment, Pip watched Colby rise up onto his knees and snap a photo of the item on his phone. After checking the screen and seemingly satisfied with the result, Colby shifted his attention back to Pip.

“That’s my shirt,” Colby said, gesturing toward the dummy with a wave of his hand. “I was getting hot.”

You are hot.

“Hope you don’t mind me taking it off.”

God no, take the lot off.

Distracted by the way Colby’s muscles pulled the sleeve of his T-shirt tight across his biceps, Pip momentarily forgot the reason for his visit.
Is he hiding a grapefruit up there?
“Um, no problem. I could open a window if you’d like.”

He started toward the window, and the basket banged against his leg, reminding him of the reason for being there. “Oh, yes. Lunch. I’ve got some lunch. Thought you might be hungry.”

“For me?” A look of stunned surprise appeared on Colby’s face, an expression that quickly morphed into a smile that seemed to encompass every feature on his face. Eyes, teeth, cheekbones. Even his nose wrinkled adorably. “Thanks.”

Moving the jacket carefully to the bed, Colby pushed the sheet to one side then dropped onto his arse to sit cross-legged—in a way a man of his musculature shouldn’t easily manage—and patted the space on the rug in front of him.

“I thought we could eat next door in the spare room.” Pip couldn’t eat surrounded by items he needed to be rid of. It was already too hard.

“Or we could just eat here. I’m already on the floor.”