New Lease of Life (6 page)

Apparently Colby wasn’t going to give him the choice. He made grabby hands at the basket, and Pip found himself handing it over without another thought.

“Wow,” Colby declared, peering inside. “There’s loads here.”

Pip cast a wary glance at the clothes, most of which were in neat piles on his bed. A look that Colby caught but thankfully misinterpreted.

“I won’t touch anything while we’re eating, and I’ll wash my hands when we’ve finished. Is this avocado and bacon? My favorite. Oh, do you want a chair?”

Instinctively Pip’s hackles raised, and he bristled at the implication, but something stopped him before he snapped back a retort. Maybe the casual nature of Colby’s question, tagged as it was on the tail end of praise for Pip’s sandwich choice. Or the complete lack of pity and condescension in Colby’s expression. In fact, he’d already turned his attention back to the contents of his sandwich.

Pip took a deep breath to quell the irritation he always felt at any offers of help.

“No. I can manage on my own.” Pip leaned his crutch against the wall and, using the bed to take most of his weight, lowered himself to the floor.

“I wasn’t insinuating you couldn’t cope. Sorry if it came out that way.”

Had he snapped at Colby regardless of his intentions to play nice? Did he really not know how to act around people anymore?

“No, it didn’t.” Pip tried for a smile but couldn’t be convinced that those muscles worked any longer. Thankfully, at that moment a strip of crispy bacon distracted Colby, and he missed the hideous expression that had undoubtedly morphed on Pip’s face. “I know you were just being thoughtful. Thanks.”

In order to get comfortable, Pip stretched his dodgy leg out in front of him. Colby glanced at it but made no further comment.

While Colby munched happily on his sandwich, finishing one and reaching for another, Pip picked at his brioche. He normally wouldn’t attempt to make anything this tasty just for himself. He’d been living off ready-meals, food parcels from Mother, and the occasional Latvian dish from his cleaner.

Wanting to avoid an awkward silence from descending, Pip groped around for something to talk about. Something that wouldn’t result in questions about his leg or eating habits. Luckily, before he could say something stupid, Colby took the decision out of his hands.

“It was very kind of you to make me lunch,” Colby said and gestured to the spread with his hand that held a bottle of cloudy lemonade.

He smiled, a natural expression of happiness that made Pip feel almost envious.

“I’m glad you decided to eat with me. I’ve hardly seen you all morning.” Colby paused to take a long pull on his drink before continuing. “I guess you’ve been working.”

Hiding.

“Trying to,” Pip lied, knowing the only use he’d put his laptop to that morning was to google Colby—or at least his shop. Something he probably should have done before calling them in to clear his stuff. The website had been well laid out, if a little basic, with images of the shop, a contact form, directions, and a map as well as an interesting history of the shop and how it came into being. There had been plenty of information on Colby’s vision of quality upcycling, of being able to nominate the charity your donation benefited, even figures and bar charts showing the amounts passed on to charities, but nothing on the man behind the shop, not even a surname. Sure, Pip could have delved deeper—the details of the ownership of the shop would be online somewhere, companies house or the charities commission—but he wanted to know about the man, not the business. With that body and easygoing smile, Colby could have used himself to attract donations, but he chose not to.

“You have a website,” Colby said, the phrasing making the words a statement not a question, despite his hesitancy.

“Of course. I work online. It would be poor business practice not to have a website.”

“Uh-huh.” Colby shook his head and made a show of chewing.

Obviously he had more to say on the subject, and Pip tried to avoid staring, casting his gaze back to his lunch rather than watching for the undulation of Colby’s throat when he swallowed. Or the way he licked his lips to catch the oil from the semi-sundried tomatoes.

“The blog.
Tweedle’s About
. Nice play on words, by the way.”

Damn.
The brioche seemed to expand to clog his throat. “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I found it. Your blog. I was researching tweed, and you came up.”

Colby held up a hand, and Pip’s denial stalled somewhere between his brain and his lips.

“I recognized some of the photographs from your album. At least it explains why some of the photos were headless. You should answer your comments. Your followers are worried that something has happened to you since you haven’t posted for over six months.”

Something did happen.

“I’m not that—”

But Colby didn’t give him the chance to formulate his standard response.

“People care. Whether you want them to or not, people will always care.”

Do you care?

He’d almost said that aloud. Pip could practically taste the words on his tongue, drowning out the creamy mozzarella and tang of the basil. Why did one man’s opinion matter so much all of a sudden?

“I—” Gripping the duvet for support, Pip struggled to his feet. “I should let you get on.”

“You haven’t finished your lunch.”

Colby gestured to the remains of the brioche, and Pip was surprised to find that he’d almost demolished the entire thing. Probably wasn’t wise to confess that fact to Colby, though.

“Have you had enough?” Pip asked, aware that in his panic he’d completely failed at being a good host. His mother would be mortified.

“Hell yeah. The cookies look good, but I’m stuffed. Maybe we could have them later with a coffee?”

Colby stretched and, when his T-shirt rode up a couple of inches to expose flesh, patted his stomach. Muscular without the six-pack of a gym bunny, Pip noted with appreciation, before a thickening trail tugged his gaze lower, dragging his attention from where the dark hair gathered at Colby’s belly button down toward the waistband of his chinos.

“I’ll just pack this up, then go and wash my hands before I get started again.”

Colby’s voice, tinged with amusement, dragged Pip from his contemplation of Colby’s navel with mortifying speed. But even that might not have been enough if the material hadn’t fallen back into place, hiding the view.

In moments Colby had rewrapped the remainder of their lunch, placing it and all the rubbish back in the basket. Then, with an ease Pip could only envy, Colby rose to his feet and handed the basket to Pip. He brushed past as he headed toward the bathroom, leaving a lingering scent in his wake. Colby smelled fresh and slightly woodsy but with the familiar hint of Pip’s washing powder from handling the clothes or, more likely—since the clothes hadn’t been worn or washed in over six months—constantly touching his bedding.

With that logic, would his bed smell of Colby?

Mindful of Colby’s comment about coffee, Pip hobbled next door to the spare bedroom where he had a small kitchenette. Just a kettle, French press, mugs, a sink, and fridge. It allowed Pip to avoid an awkward journey up and down the stairs if he wanted a drink early in the morning or late at night.

Letting his crutch take the weight, Pip groped around in the basket until he found the cookies. He extracted them from under the remaining sandwiches and left them beside the kettle. Maybe Colby would be around long enough to finish off the sandwiches too. With this thought Pip placed the remaining food in the fridge before rinsing his hands in the sink and drying them on a tea towel.

As he passed the door to his bedroom, he couldn’t resist a glance. As if he could sense Pip’s gaze on him, Colby turned from where he was stripping the tailor’s dummy bare again.

“Hey,” Colby greeted him with a dazzling smile, as though they hadn’t just spent the last half an hour together. “Could you pass me that jacket?”

Without thinking Pip hobbled into the room and reached for the jacket Colby had indicated. The tweed felt soft in his grip, and he rubbed the material gently between his fingertips.

“There. That’s the expression I’ve been waiting for.”

Pip snapped his head up to find Colby watching him, his features softened with affection. An emotion that implied a familiarity their acquaintance didn’t warrant.

“It’s not as good as seeing you smile, but I’ll take what I can get for now.”

Pip tossed the jacket onto the bed. “You tricked me.”

“Mind the merchandise.” Colby grabbed up the jacket and brushed it off with the flat of his hand. “This is good stuff.”

“I know,” Pip growled, pivoting on his crutch. The rubber foot squeaked on the parquet flooring, setting his teeth on edge and rocketing his irritation up a notch. Without a backward glance, Pip stormed from the room.

STARING AT
his laptop screen, Pip knew he wouldn’t get any work done. Not while he could still hear Colby moving around upstairs in his bedroom. Tapping his fingers nervously against the casing next to the touchpad, Pip contemplated the flashing cursor in the search bar.

“Sod it.” He typed the first few letters of the familiar web address, his computer filling in the rest, remembering even while Pip had tried so hard to forget.

Tweedle’s About.

The header flashed on the screen, heather purple lettering on a tweed-style background. Hundreds of unread comments graced the once familiar pages and, with only a moment’s hesitation, Pip started to read.

THE SOUND
of Colby jogging down the stairs pulled Pip’s attention from the laptop. He glanced at the clock in the corner of the screen. Had he really been reading for an hour?

The rattle of hangers told him that Colby was in the next room, preparing more of his garments for transportation.

“Hey.” Colby’s head appeared in the doorway. “Is it okay if I make myself a coffee?”

Pip minimized the page as casually as he could muster, even though his heart hammered as if he’d been caught doing something illicit. “Sure. Knock yourself out.”

“Do you want one?”

“Nope.”

“Not even if I say sorry first?”

“I’m not mad.”

Colby scoffed.

“Honestly, I overreacted. And I’m not thirsty.” Pip looked up from the screen for the first time since Colby had appeared at the door. “Why don’t you have a cookie?”

Colby graced Pip with that open, easy smile again. “Okay. If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure, but thanks for the offer.”

He waited until he heard Colby overhead again and then reopened the Internet page. He continued reading until he’d finished every unread comment on his abandoned blog, but he couldn’t bring himself to reply to any. Not yet.

Instead he decided to accept Colby’s olive branch, even if he had to make his own coffee, and he made his way slowly up the stairs to his bedroom.

“SERIOUSLY? ARE
you colorblind?” Checks, spots, and stripes in a myriad of clashing colors had been combined in various garments on the tailor’s dummy. “That—that’s an abomination.”

“Really?” Colby cocked his head and studied the display. “I thought it looked quirky.”

“Quirk—” Pip glanced at the neat piles on his bedspread. All color-coded and sorted by era. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

“Am I?” Colby shrugged. “Maybe I’m just crap at what I do?”

“Nope. I’ve seen the photographs of the shop front. The window displays are….”

“You’ve been to the shop?”

Damn.
He’d said too much.

“Found it on Google Maps.”

“We weren’t there the last time they updated.” Colby tapped a few times on the screen of his phone. “See.”

The display clearly showed a boarded-up shop.

Busted.

“Okay. I googled you.”

“Me or the shop?” Colby asked, far too quickly. A sudden tension Pip had never noticed before became visible in the set of Colby’s shoulders.

“The shop.” Pip watched closely, noticing the way Colby visibly relaxed before his eyes. “Why? What would I find if I googled you?”

“Nothing exciting.” Colby turned his attention back to the clothes on the dummy. “So, you don’t like it?”

Hmm. Intriguing.
Maybe he
should
google Colby. Although it would be more interesting to discover the layers that made up Colby for himself.

Stupid.
He was acting as if he would see Colby again after today. Which he wouldn’t. Once Colby had finished packing up the stuff, he would leave and never come back. Nothing but disruption could come from piquing his curiosity for the rugged man kneeling on his bedroom floor. And that was somewhere else Pip shouldn’t let his thoughts stray.

“Are you sure you won’t change your mind?”

“Eh?” Pip squeaked, Colby’s unexpected question distracting him from fantasies of a supplicant Colby, his large hands cupping Pip’s less than fleshy hips, his thumbs pressing bruises into Pip’s pale skin.

“The clothes. Despite what I’ve done to them here”—Colby waved a hand at the outfit that wouldn’t be out of place in a circus ring—“they are beautiful and expensive.”

Colby’s eyes cut away from him, and Pip followed his gaze to the box of photo albums that he hadn’t gotten around to putting away yet.

“Hell,” Colby continued after a moment’s hesitation. “
You
are beautiful in these clothes. I don’t want you to change your mind later and regret giving them away.”

“I won’t.” Why couldn’t people just respect his decisions?
Get out more. Eat better. Those sweatpants make you look emaciated.
Everyone had something to say on the matter. Even bloody
strangers
. “They don’t fit anymore.”

Colby’s gaze swept over him, heating Pip from the inside out. When he made eye contact, Colby’s raised eyebrow expressed his disbelief, but he didn’t argue.

Despite Colby’s silence—or maybe because of it—Pip felt the need to justify his statement.