After the Scrum (3 page)

Pouring him a glass of juice to stay him over, Caddock began the process of making waffles for breakfast. Taking on his nephew had forced him to take a crash course in cooking. Before now, the best he could manage would be toast with eggs that slightly resembled scrambled.

The girl at the bookshop thought him mad when the six-foot plus rugby star had purchased fifteen cookbooks. He'd never had to cook for the lad before, but kids couldn't eat takeout all the time. His mother had offered to come stay with them for a bit.

It was a generous offer, a kind one even, but not a chance in hell would he agree to it. His mother meant well. She truly did. Her help generally involved making him feel like a ten-year-old again with a skinned knee and mud on his nose.

So after many, many long nights of reading cookbooks and burning his way through a few pots and pans, Caddock could manage most of the basic recipes. He'd never be a brilliant chef. Devlin didn't need him to be a gourmet. Avoiding poisoning the both of them would be sufficient.

"Can we go to the sea now?" Devlin asked around a mouthful of waffle, cream covering his chin and part of his cheek. "Pwease?"

"Already?"

Making up his own plate, minus the cream and berries, Caddock dropped down in a chair beside his nephew. They ate in relative silence for a few minutes before Devlin couldn't resist asking about the sea again. Four-year-olds weren't generally known for patience.

Rugby brutes weren't generally known for patience either. They'd blame it on the patriarch of the Stanford family. He blamed his dad for a ton of other things, why not impatience?

While Devlin raced off to clean his hands and face, Caddock turned his attention to the message from his realtor. It seemed a local designer, Francis, would be taking on redoing the slightly dilapidated pub and nearby cottage. She'd already sent over samples for his approval.

Bird had good taste. The paint, fabric, and antique ideas in the photos from the email fit perfectly with his concept for the pub. It wasn't too modern, but didn't appear like something from some bizarre period film either.

Better to not tell his parents about the bird though. They'd start trying to set him up with her. He wanted a decorator, not to be shoved into a relationship with someone from the wrong gender.

Sighing into his coffee, Caddock decided to leave
that
line of thought for another day. His father seemed to particularly enjoy arguing rather loudly with him about it. It was yet another reason to move further away from them.

His parents meant well, but tended to have rather strict ideas about raising children. They'd been tough on him and Hadrian. Devlin was a good boy who only needed a bit of freedom combined with guidance.

"Uncle Boo?"

He barked out a laugh when Devlin appeared by the corner of his desk in swim trunks, holding his little sandcastle bucket. "Where you going with those, then?"

"The sea." His nephew hopped up and down, swinging the little orange pail around in his hand. "You pwomised."

"Did I?"

Devlin nodded fiercely. "After awfuls."

"
Waffles.
"

"
'S what I said." He blinked up at his uncle in confusion.

Caddock covered his face with his hand, torn between laughter and a groan. He hadn't planned to travel to Cornwall so soon. "How about next Saturday?"

"No."

The sounds of his favourite cartoon on the telly provided a suitable distraction for the little Devil. The idiot box gave a brief respite from the numerous questions that plagued the parents of all four-year-olds. It gave him time to text with Rupert to settle the details more concretely.

If they were heading that direction, it might be wise to see if they could also visit the pub and cottage. Devlin had a week off from school, after all. He deserved a break. The salty sea air would do wonders for the both of them.

Rupert promised to have not only the deeds ready, but the decorator at the pub for a meeting. If they drove down today or tomorrow, the two could scope out the new village and the beach. His nephew would be over the moon at finally being able to build his sandcastles.

A moment later his thoughts were interrupted by a little devil clambering into his lap. His nephew's blue eyes were filled with tears as he admitted to missing his dad. Caddock wrapped his arms around the distraught child. No words could heal his loss. They'd have to continue to weather the occasional emotional storms together as best they could.

"I miss him too." Caddock rested a gentle hand on the boy's tousled hair. He rocked back and forth until the lad's breathing evened out. "I'd bring him back if I could."

"Is he in 'eaven with Mum and angels?" Devlin turned serious, watery blue eyes up at him. "Stevie says only the bestest people go there."

"Well, your dad was the best man I ever knew. Better even than me." He ruffled the chaotic brown curls while his nephew giggled. "Tell you what, how about we drive down to Cornwall today?"

"The sea!"

And thank God for resilient children who are easily distracted.

Chapter Four

Francis

"
Sherlock!
"

The muffled shout didn't accomplish anything while Francis struggled to kick Watson's rear door shut. His arms filled with all manner of supplies, others clamped between his teeth, while he stumbled up the path to the pub door. His irrepressible pup darted helpfully around him, making it impossible for him to navigate over the threshold without banging into several chairs and careening to the floor with a loud clatter.

"Thanks, Sherlock." Francis flopped over on his back to stare up at the ceiling. His head rested on a stack of fabrics. He intended to pick out one set for curtains and another for upholstery on the new chairs. "Why'd you have to be allergic to sheep? Why couldn't you be allergic to being a nuisance?"

"How do you know he's allergic to sheep?" A deep, almost raspy voice queried from further back in the bar.

It might possibly be the most orgasm-inducing voice Francis had ever heard. A deep, gravelly timbre with only the barest hint of an accent. He'd wager the man attached to it would be large—hopefully in all the best ways.

"So?" How'd you know he's allergic?" Mr Orgasmic Voice prompted impatiently, disrupting Francis's wild fantasies.

"I asked him."

"You asked him? Are you mad?" His footsteps moved closer.

"Only on Sundays." Francis sat up and slowly inspected the stranger from the tips of his dark blue trainers up his large, denim-covered thighs, across his broad chest and muscled arms, to finally rest on the handsome face attached to the impressive body. A rather familiar face at that. He'd know those clear blue eyes, slightly bent nose, and short greying hair anywhere. "You're the Brute."

"
You
watch rugby?"

"Sweaty and muddy men in tight shirts and shorts grappling with each other?" Francis batted away Sherlock's attempts to lick his face. "Who wouldn't watch it?"

A long silence followed that was only broken by the sound of Sherlock's nails on the scuffed wooden floor. Francis wondered if perhaps he'd embarrassed the large man. Some people seemed to find his
openness
offensive—poncey pricks.

"Not to be rude, but what're you doing in my pub?" The Brute, or Caddock Stanford, glared fiercely at him.

"Francis Keen." He held out his hand, amused by the difference between the rugby player's massive grip and his own slender one. "I'm your interior decorator."

"But…" The man looked at him, utterly bewildered, still holding on to his hand. His hold tightened ever so slightly before letting go. "You're a bloke."

Francis glanced down at himself in mock horror, even lifting out his cardigan to glance at his well-defined but slight upper body. "Am I? This explains so much. No wonder the women screamed when I went into the wrong loo the other day. Well spotted, you man detector, you."

Caddock's brow furrowed deeply before he burst into deep, raucous laughter that was as sensual as his speech had been. His oversized mitt of a hand squeezed Francis's shoulder once. They didn't get a chance to speak further as Sherlock herded a small child out from behind an overturned table.

He blinked in surprise between the boy and the Brute. "He didn't come with the pub."

It earned him another glorious laugh and an introduction to young Devlin—nephew and godson apparently. Francis sensed a less-than-happy story, so made a quick gesture to Sherlock who pranced around immediately. It worked to lighten the mood. Caddock sent him a grateful smile over the oblivious head of his giggling four-year-old.

"Rupert gave me a spare key to start working." Francis gestured towards the menagerie of items still scattered across the dusty floor. "You approved of my vision for the space?"

An abrupt nod was the only response. Maybe the Brute was the strong silent type? Francis found his mind drifting to all the ways to elicit sounds from the stoic man who'd clearly suffered several losses outside of just his career recently.

Wouldn't it be lovely to lick a path down his thick neck?

Oh, yes, please.

Think non-sexual thoughts,
Francis urged himself while his body responded to the sudden visuals in his mind.
Think about Gran in the shower. Oh, bugger me silly. I'm traumatized for life. Bleach my brain.
He shook his head then smiled sheepishly at the man who watched him worriedly while waving a hand in front of his face.

"Sorry, sorry," Francis stammered apologetically. He twisted around to face anywhere but in the direction of the man who had way too much of an impact on his composure—and libido. Rupert had been right—he really needed to break his streak of bad dates. It had clearly been too long since his last romp in the sheets. Lusting after a straight, unavailable man wouldn't do anything for his battered heart. "I—"

"Uncle Boo.
Uncle Boo.
" Devlin bounded over with Sherlock happily circling around him. "Can I has a puppy too?"

Uncle Boo?
Francis mouthed the words, watching the two in the reflection of the dirty bar windows. His heart melted at their interaction. For all his aggressiveness on the rugby pitch, Caddock seemed more gentle giant than anything else with his nephew.

"Maybe Mr Francis will let you play with Sherlock every once in a while when we've moved to Looe? I bet he would if you asked nicely." Caddock managed to redirect his nephew with what appeared to be practiced ease.

"Can I? Can I? Pwease?" Devlin turned powerfully pleading eyes in his direction. "I can take him for walkies. I'll be good. I pwomise."

Francis glanced with a sense of inevitability between the child and his own manipulative dog who had sad brown eyes of his own. "Of course you can. Sherlock would love to have your company."

With a cheerful shout, Devlin danced away with the traitorous sheltie beside him. The pair played tug-of-war with a fabric sample. Laughter and happy barks filled the pub and put smiles on the faces of the men watching their antics.

"Those blue eyes are dangerous. He'll be a heartbreaker when he's older." Francis started to gather up everything from the floor. He mentally added cleaning to the top of his to-do list, freezing in place when Caddock knelt to help him.
Act calm, Keen, act calm.
The Brute's eyes were just as dangerous as the little lad's. Time to distract himself. "Were there any changes to the design plans you wanted? Have you decided on a name? There's a great place that makes those old-fashioned wooden signs if you have."

"Haddy's."

"Haddy's?"

"For my brother, the Devil's father." Caddock's eyes dimmed with hurt and the faintest shimmer of tears, which disappeared after a few quick blinks. "This is a new start for us."

Francis felt suddenly emotional for this strong man life had clearly battered around a fair bit of late. He rested his hand on Caddock's forearm briefly. "Looe's a brilliant place for starting fresh. Oh, and Ruth makes the best custard tarts. Don't eat them on Fridays."

"Why?"

"Her husband, Stevie, makes them and he's rubbish at it." He gave a wry smile. "The village is a fantastic place to raise a young lad."

Caddock cleared his throat with a harsh cough, turning his attention to Sherlock. "Does your dog herd anything if he's allergic to sheep?"

"People."

"People?"

"Yes, people." Francis nodded to where Sherlock was clearly guiding Devlin's path. "He's rather devious about it as well."

Chapter Five

Francis

Margaret Keen was a wise old woman and Francis had learned at a young age never to underestimate his gran. She had a
keen
sense of when something had happened to her beloved grandson. It was something he generally tried and failed to avoid.

He'd never managed to sneak something under her nose without being caught. It had been a source of frustration for him, and amusement for his granddad. The two often commiserated on her almost magical abilities to ferret out secrets.

"You've met someone."

Francis studiously ignored his gran's knowing looks. She'd been teasing him for days, as he'd drifted around in a mildly befuddled stupor after meeting his new client. He'd avoided telling her
why
he'd been so glossy-eyed. "No, I haven't."

Her eyes narrowed on him while Francis made a show of adding a thin layer of marmalade to his toast. They were noshing at the tiny table in the kitchen. It was the warmest room in the house in the mornings when the bitingly cold breeze drifted off the sea.

It had been a tradition with his grandparents, as long as Francis could remember. Breakfast before school at the table, he'd treasured the time with them. He could admit to himself he now clung to his gran—afraid to lose the last of his family.