Chapter 2
ANGUS
Dad: Where are you?
Me: I told you I’d be back late tonight.
Dad: I need your help with the cows.
Me: I’m at a social, remember?
Dad doesn’t respond. He’ll probably chew me out later, even though I told him I wouldn’t be home in time to help tonight.
I should have gone to uni on the other side of the country.
If I’d done that, I wouldn’t need to tell my parents my every move.
I wouldn’t get yelled at for having a life away from the farm.
But I went to the local uni so I could help, just not all the time.
What it really boils down to is that Dad hasn’t—or won’t—accept that the farm isn’t my future.
“Why are you looking so glum? Cheer up, Angus.” Jimmy wraps his arm around my neck and rubs his knuckles over my head.
“Ow. Get off.” I push him away playfully.
“Is your dad giving you grief again?”
I slide my phone into my pocket and nod. “Nothing I can’t handle.”
“You shouldn’t have to handle it.”
“Drop it, okay? We’re here to have fun.”
He pinches my cheeks and pulls them apart. “Then smile and act like you’re having fun.” He lets me go, grabs his shot glass, and downs the contents.
I sip my non-alcoholic beer. Unlike the friends I’m here with, I don’t live within walking distance, so I have to drive home.
We’re all part of the university Barbell Society.
Every Thursday, after our weight training session, we walk into the city centre and have drinks.
Every freaking Thursday. I shouldn’t have to remind Dad that I won’t be home to help with the fucking cows.
He should have it ingrained in his mind.
He probably does. Forget Dad. I’m here to have fun.
I focus on the conversation going on around me, as people compare the weights they lifted this afternoon and their goals for next week.
I chip in with supportive comments every so often, but feel a little detached from it.
Probably because Dad’s texts have got under my skin.
Does he need my help? Should I go home? No.
It’s what he wants. If I go home, he’ll think he’s scored points in a game only he’s playing.
More importantly, he’ll think he can manipulate me into doing what he wants again.
I’m twenty-two. Too old to fall for his crap.
I tilt my head, staring as a familiar figure walks into the pub and goes straight to the bar. He sits on a stool, shoulders slumped.
“Who are you staring at?” Jimmy asks.
“Drooling at, more like,” Steph says.
“I’m not drooling.” I close my mouth, just in case I was.
“Professor Jones,” Steph says.
Jimmy wolf-whistles. “Professor Dick, more like.”
Steph slaps him across the arm.
“What? It’s his name.”
“Richard,” Steph corrects.
“Yeah, and Dick is short for Richard.” Jimmy nudges me. “Bet you want his dick, don’t you?”
I roll my eyes. “He looks miserable. I wonder why?”
“You could go and console him.” Jimmy pushes me in Richard’s general direction.
I tense the muscles in my legs to stop myself from falling off my chair. “Don’t be daft, he’s a lecturer and I’m a student.”
“That doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to talk. Besides, he’s not your lecturer.”
“He taught me in my second year.”
“For one unit. You don’t have any maths units this year, do you?”
I shake my head.
“Then go for it.”
“That sounds like you think I should do more than talk to him.”
“Talk. Fuck. It’s all the same.”
“No, it’s not. Anyway, aren’t there rules about that sort of thing?” I mumble.
“He’s married,” Steph says.
I point at her and nod. “See? It’s a bad idea.”
“But you want to,” Jimmy croons in my ear.
He’s right, I do. Richard is one seriously sexy professor.
It helps that he’s at least a decade younger than the rest of my lecturers.
His movie-good looks don’t hurt either. He has a nice smile and kind, slightly drooping eyes.
They sparkle when he’s teaching—a sure sign he’s passionate about maths.
Add in his short, bordering on scruffy, beard and moustache, and short, dark hair, spiked with gel at the front, and I was smitten by the end of my first lecture with him.
“It wouldn’t hurt to ask him if he’s all right,” Jimmy whispers.
He once told me he was named after the cricket in Pinocchio. The one who was the voice of Pinocchio’s conscience. The proverbial angel. Jimmy, on the other hand, is being a devil on my shoulder, which lends weight to my theory that he was having me on. Isn’t the cricket called Jiminy?
“Go on,” he urges.
What harm can saying ‘hi’ do? A friendly face might cheer Richard up. He can always tell me to piss off. I grab my beer, stand and stroll to the bar. The stool beside Richard is unoccupied, so I perch on it. The barman gives Richard what looks like a whisky on the rocks and then moves on.
“Hi,” I say. “Fancy running into you here.”
Richard stares at me. His eyes are bloodshot and red-rimmed. His cheeks are a little puffy. Shit. Has he been crying?
Slowly, recognition seeps into his eyes. “Angus, isn’t it? Angus Taylor.”
He remembers me. I grin, which is probably inappropriate. “That’s right. You taught me maths two years ago.”
I’m on a four-year degree course. I went on a work placement during my third year, which was an eye-opening experience. It convinced me that farm life definitely isn’t for me.
“Are you here alone?” I ask.
He nods and sags completely, so he’s hunched over his untouched drink.
“I’m with friends from the Barbell Soc.” I rotate on the stool, pointing to where the others are sitting, then drop my hand onto my thigh and swivel around, so I’m practically shoulder to shoulder with Richard. “But you probably don’t want to join us.”
“No. Sorry.”
I rap my fingertips against the side of my beer glass. I should go. I have no business disturbing Richard while he’s having a drink. Alone. Looking like he’s been shipwrecked and washed ashore.
“It’s none of my business, but are you okay?” I ask.
He lifts his glass with his left hand and does an imaginary toast. “Just peachy.”
I expect him to down the drink in one, but he takes one sip, puts it down, and runs his finger around the rim. I frown. He’s not wearing his wedding ring, but its absence is conspicuous because there’s a band of slightly pale skin where it usually rests.
“You’re not okay,” I say.
He sighs. “No. I’m not.”
“But it’s still none of my business. We’ll be here a while. Join us, if you want.” I hop off the barstool, pause long enough for Richard to say something—he doesn’t—and then go back to my friends.
“Well?” Jimmy asks.
“He didn’t want to talk.”
“Hey, Angus.” Gareth, a guy I hooked up with a few weeks ago, plonks himself on my lap and wraps his arms around my neck.
He’s a twink and one hell of a top. We spent a great night together.
He’s very energetic and has a swift recovery period that any guy would be jealous of. “Are you free tonight, baby?”
It’s so tempting. I don’t tend to go back for seconds, but I’d make an exception for Gareth. Except I want to make sure Richard is really all right before I go anywhere with anyone. Based on our first hookup, Gareth will drag me out the door the moment I say ‘yes’.
“I’m sorry. Not tonight.”
He pouts. “Shame.” He kisses me, tongue and all, before moving on to someone else he seems to know.
“You turned down sex?” Jimmy asks.
I shrug. “I’ve been there. Done that.”
He guffaws. “And worn the T-shirt?”
“Something like that.”
It’s hard to get back into the flow of the conversation because I can’t keep my eyes off Richard. He nurses the same drink, occasionally taking a sip, but mostly staring at it. Does he need a hug or a punching bag?
Jimmy clicks his fingers in front of my eyes. “Earth to Angus. Are you awake in there?”
“Yes. What?”
“We’re moving on.”
I glance around. All my friends have their coats or jackets on and are clearly waiting for me to join them.
“He didn’t notice because he’s been staring at Professor Jones for the last hour or so,” Steph says.
“I have not.”
She folds her arms and gives me a knowing look.
“Okay, I have, but I’m worried about him.”
She shrugs. “You said he didn’t want to talk.”
“Maybe he’s changed his mind. You guys go ahead, I’ll catch up in a few.”
“Ten pounds says he doesn’t,” Jimmy says with a smirk.
“You’re on.” Steph shakes his hand.
I scowl at them.
Jimmy blows me a kiss. “I’ll text you the name of the bar we end up in.”
They walk out en masse, laughing and joking and glancing over their shoulders at me. I wait until they’ve been out the door for five minutes before approaching Richard.
“Still alone?” I ask casually.
He glances at me and then nods.
“I could be wrong, but isn’t whisky best drunk cold? I’m not much of a whisky drinker myself.”
“You prefer beer?”
I smile. “Yeah, although I’m on non-alcoholic stuff tonight.” I tap my pocket so my keys jangle.
“I was intending on getting so drunk I wouldn’t be able to drive.”
“How’s that going?”
He picks up his glass, sloshes the warm whisky, and sets it down. “Terribly.” He glances over his shoulder. “Where are your friends?”
“They left.”
“And you didn’t go with them?”
“I can still catch up with them. I wanted to make sure you were okay, first.”
He frowns. “Why?”
Because he’s gorgeous and I hate seeing him sad? “Want to talk about it?”
He stares at me, lips quivering as though he’s having an internal debate about whether to confide in me or not.
“I won’t tell anyone.”
“Gossip has a habit of spreading on campus.”
“It won’t come from me.” I cross my fingers over my heart.
He holds up his left hand and wiggles his bare ring finger. “I caught my wife cheating on me.”
I suck in a breath. “Shit. That’s rough. Sorry.”
He drops his hand. “Which is why I had every intention of getting shit-faced.”
“But—?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. I got here, ordered the drink and…”
“Didn’t feel like getting drunk after all?”
“Exactly.”
“What do you want to do?”
He drags his stare away from his drink and pins it on me. He has the most beautiful honey brown eyes. Breathless, I’m helpless to do anything but stare back.
“I don’t want to be alone,” he whispers.
I grin. “Then you’re in luck.”
He raises his eyebrows. “I am?”
“Yeah. It just so happens I’m great company.”
He chuckles softly and raises his lips into the faintest hint of a smile. “Are you now?”
“Want me to stick around so you can find out if I’m telling the truth or not?”
He’s silent for a moment, searching my eyes for something. “I’d like that.”