Chapter 4 #2
“Is worth a lot?” He nods. “It is.” Dair scrubs a hand through hair that doesn’t gleam with hidden fire now. It’s dull. Somehow muted. “I just wanted it to stop. All of it.”
“So, the legal advice you got was to hand over the keys to this place?”
His jaw clenches. “I can make my own decisions. Believe me, after the court hearing, I know all about that. And about whether or not someone has the capacity to make up their own mind.” He lifts his chin to meet my eyes.
“Because that’s what the family disputed.
Family I never saw once the whole time I cared for her.
” His breath catches. “C-Charles told you all about that? That I was her sole beneficiary? How Alice left everything to me? All of it.”
I glance around an antiquated bathroom. Picture all those tea sets, dinged-up cabinets, and china spaniels. “Yeah, he did.”
“Well, there was just enough wiggle room to dispute Alice’s capacity.
And something about trusts. It was…” His eyes turn glossy for a second time this evening.
“It was a lot. And I didn’t know she’d made any of those changes to her will until after she was gone.
It got complicated in a hurry. And there were…
” He struggles for the right vocab the same way I do while sitting in the wings at meet-ups. “The family put up roadblocks.”
I blurt a word I maybe couldn’t have summoned without all that wing-sitting. “Injunctions?”
“Aye.” He makes a single word sound like praise.
Like I’m smart, when in reality, I’m close to making an offer just as dumb as when I last shook hands with a virtual stranger.
Dair nods at me, his eyes still bright. “That’s exactly the kind of roadblock I mean.
Those injunctions meant I couldn’t move on until it was sorted.
Then the judge suggested mediation to keep the costs down. A compromise to end the fighting.”
Giving up real estate in one of London’s poshest postcodes doesn’t seem much of a compromise to me.
Unless there really is some treasure hidden in all that china.
Right now, I keep my lip buttoned. Not because it’s what Kev ordered.
I can’t help thinking I’m looking at someone who isn’t in the right headspace to have his hopes raised like Flynn did mine.
Dair’s eyes are still too bright for comfort. “The judge was lovely. She really listened. Helped me to hash out my number one priority.”
“Which was?”
“To go home.”
His accent is really something. I’ve done removal runs to Scotland. Taken days with Kev at the wheel of the van, both of us goggling at a landscape I can almost see when Dair repeats himself with feeling.
“I just want to go home. And to be honest, even if I clear out all the tools from the shed there, I really don’t have room. I already sent home anything I wanted to keep. I have to stop kidding myself about taking more back with me.”
I picture the snug spare room at Kev’s place and feel Dair’s pain.
He draws in a slow breath. “It’s done. No point talking about it.
All that’s left is to clear this place before handing over the keys, and I’m running out of time to do it.
” Dair gets busy digging in that medicine cabinet again, even though he doesn’t need to.
He already found that antihistamine for me, but I don’t stop him.
I can’t when the mirror reflects someone waging a one-man war to stop his eyes from leaking.
Not gonna lie, I fought the same battle when I got the news about my aunt passing with no warning. Then both me and Kev waged the same war as Dair, only we did it with her casket on our shoulders. Both of us held it in that day just to get kicked in the nuts later by surprise reminders.
Right now, Dair is working hard the same way I remember doing, which means I stay right where I am, and the silence extends until he turns around with a different packet in his hand. His question is as shaky as his hold on it, so maybe his battle isn’t over. “I think this is good for hives?”
I spy the spiky plant on the label. “Aloe vera. Yeah, my aunt used to slather me with it when I was younger.”
“Want me to do the same?” He blinks away some of that glossy brightness. “It might help.”
Him.
That’s who might be helped by stepping into a caretaking role, and into shoes I can’t help thinking he isn’t ready yet to slip off for good. Evidence of that hangs in air scented with furniture polish, and it’s on display in every chintzy cushion I’ve noticed placed for an old lady.
What would actually help me the most would involve lying through my teeth to him.
I could make a tidy profit if I could make myself do it, only I can’t see past his all-too-familiar struggle.
See it?
I feel it in my core. In my soul. Before I know it, I’m setting my phone down on the side of the bathtub to free up both hands. I unbutton my shirt, and when I turn my bare back to him, it does help.
It must do.
His hands stop shaking somewhere between my shoulder blades and the dimples at the base of my backbone where he spreads salve. His thumbs press into each divot, and I release a groan only someone who lumps furniture around for their living can let out.
He goes still then.
Doesn’t even breathe, which, up until now, I’d felt as steady gusts of warmth across my shoulder blades.
I speak up, thinking fast, so he’ll keep going.
“You’ll need an inventory. Be easier to batch up lots for sale that way.
Make it less overwhelming.” Meanwhile, I’m overwhelmed by how good his hands feel. By being touched, full stop.
My poor cock.
It doesn’t know whether to stand up or to surrender, his motions are so rhythmic. And so, so good. Not gonna lie, Dair’s touch makes it tough to sound coherent. I bet I actually sound fuckwitted.
“I’ll think about the best ways to shift all the different categories without giving everything away for pennies.
Get the most bang for your buck, yeah?” Great.
Now I’m thinking about banging. I shake that off and keep going.
“My cousin has a spreadsheet he uses to list house-clearance jobs. Calls it his divide and conquer sheet. I could get you a copy.”
The mirror reflects his reaction. His eyes close. Just for a second, but even from side on, I see pure relief, and I like being the reason for that so much that I make another offer.
“And I could come back next week to help you get started.”
His hands slide to my hips and clench there. “You wouldn’t have to wait a week. You could come back tomorrow morning.” His hands resume their slick slide. “I’ll be sleepy, but I’ll be here. Come as early as you like. I’d get out of bed for you.”
Christ, I’d like to see him all rumpled and crumpled.
Would quite like to roll him straight back under his blankets and crumple them with him some more.
It sucks that I have to say, “I can’t.” The mirror offers a glimpse of that relief slipping away.
His head bows until I add, “Because I won’t be in London.
I’ve got a long-distance removals job with my cousin.
A four-day gig. Pack, load, deliver, and unpack at the other end.
Then we’ll stay up-country to clear a different house and offload it all at an auction house up there.
I’ll be gone until the end of the week.” I almost regret promising Harry that I’d keep an eye on Blake for him.
It means I have to add, “Then I arranged to meet up with a friend on Friday, so I won’t actually be free until the weekend. ”
I regret it even harder when the mirror shows Dair closing his eyes again, and I’ve never spoken faster.
“But I could talk you through inventory categories while I’m away. If you wanted. Walk you through the process of how best to group everything. Do some of that dividing and conquering together, yeah?”
He nods. Squeezes more salve from that tube. Spreads it in cooling circles nowhere near my balls, which tingle regardless. “You’d text me?”
“Video calling would be better. So you can show me pieces?”
He smiles, and there can’t be an inch of my back that doesn’t shine with aloe vera, but Dair isn’t done yet. “Turn around. I’ll do your chest.”
I could do it myself.
Of course, I fucking could.
We both have to know that. I still let Dair spread me with care, all while peppering me with questions. None of them relate to auctions. He’s more interested in finding out when and why my aunt used to do this for me.
“I don’t remember when it started exactly.
Would have been when I was around nine years old, maybe.
” It’s hard to focus on conversation. His fingers find hot and scratchy places to cool down.
To soothe. Holding in a groan is hard. So is speaking.
I force myself to keep going. “I just know that she would break off a spear from the plant on the kitchen windowsill and dab the stuff that oozed out onto wherever I was itching. Tell me I was being kissed all better by nature.”
“That’s what this feels like? Like you’re being kissed all better?” He meets my eyes. “Because that’s what you agreeing to help me feels like.”
His lips part, and I quit thinking about the healing properties of plants. Stop thinking about profits to be made or about personal losses. I even stop thinking about a rule I set less than a day ago that means banging is off the table.
This isn’t about sex.
Isn’t about getting him horizontal on a hallway carpet the same way that earned me my group-chat nickname.
No, the kiss I give him in this bathroom is for one reason only.
Comfort.