Chapter 1
Chapter One
Socks. Where were his socks? One fell out when Eric shook out his jeans, the other was still playing hide and seek. Under the bed, maybe?
“You could stay,” William said from behind him. “Round two in the morning?” He sounded hopeful, and ah, shit.
Eric fixed a regretful smile onto his face before he turned to the bed.
Sprawled naked across the covers, William was watching him with an appreciative expression.
They’d had fun, really—a drink and a snog back at the bar before they’d moved things to William’s place.
Nothing too heavy, just nice and easy. Exactly what Eric was looking for.
And now this.
He shifted his weight, still in his boxers, with his jeans in one hand and a lone sock in the other. “Actually, uh… Thing is, I’ve got an early start tomorrow. Some other time?”
William frowned. “Thought you’re a songwriter?”
Right, Eric had mentioned that, mostly because he’d just had to ask whether William had gone by Billy in school.
Like in that song, you know? He walked the halls as Billy.
The lyrics had bumped up against Eric’s own impression that ‘William’ was far too grown-up a name for this cheeky, high-energy bloke who’d come up to him without even a hint of hesitation.
“Call with an Australian musician,” Eric said. “Time zones, you know?” Fuck, he’d never fancied himself the guy who made up excuses to scramble out of bed and out the door after a hook-up. That wasn’t the kind of person he wanted to be.
“Oh, right.” William nodded like that made sense.
Eric pulled on his jeans before he sent William another glance. “You could give me your number, if you want? Meet up sometime.”
It seemed like the right thing to say because William’s frown melted away. “I’d like that.”
“Great,” Eric said when what he really wanted to say was, ‘I’m so sorry if I gave you the wrong impression.’
“Great,” William echoed, and Jesus, this was awkward. Or maybe it was only Eric who felt it because William’s smile seemed genuine as he sat up, blond hair messed up from Eric’s fingers, nice body and pretty face, good sense of humour. For someone else, he’d be a catch.
Too bad Eric wasn’t looking.
He located the missing sock underneath his jumper and pulled the rest of his clothes on while William programmed his number into Eric’s phone under ‘William Shepard’.
Fortunately, William didn’t think to call himself—he’d stop waiting for Eric’s call in a matter of days and move on.
After all, they’d known each other for barely even four hours. No big deal, right?
Eric might have skipped a goodbye kiss, but William took away that choice by rolling off the bed and tugging Eric in for a quick, sweet peck that left him feeling rather awful.
Jesus, maybe he just wasn’t cut out for this love-‘em-and-leave-‘em lifestyle. Unfortunately, he wasn’t cut out for love either, it seemed, because three strikes and you’re out, right?
So. Celibacy, then?
Yep.
Once he stepped out of the studio flat and into a dimly lit corridor, his breathing eased.
In the mirrored wall of the lift, he caught sight of himself—brown eyes a little tired, angular features emphasised by the undercut his hairdresser had talked him into trying.
After having kept his dark brown hair cropped short for years, it still didn’t feel wholly familiar—but he’d been in the market for a change.
Outside, he zipped up his jacket against the humid air of a foggy November night, streetlights casting a diffuse glow on the damp pavement.
A few pubs and restaurants lined the street, people hurrying along with their collars turned up against the chilly air.
Goodge Street Station wasn’t very busy at this hour, and he made his way onto the platform as the rumble of an approaching train vibrated through the air.
The muted grey of the station contrasted with the vibrant colours of posters that adorned its walls, adverts for movies, tech companies, the latest West End productions, and …
And of course.
Of fucking course Rhythm of Shadows was among them.
Lucas was captured in mid-leap, dressed in sleek, black attire to highlight his muscular body.
And either because this was Eric’s life or because a clever marketing person had decided to put the rumours to good use, the poster right next to it announced Max Fina’s upcoming album that would no doubt go instant platinum.
How adorable—the two alleged boyfriends, side by side in all their dazzling beauty.
Eric had never fancied himself a cynical guy, either. Thanks, Lucas.
The train ground to a halt, its doors hissing open. Turning away from the posters, Eric joined the trickle of people boarding.
Water under the bridge.
Eric came home to find Kojo bumbling about his kitchen.
That in itself was no unusual occurrence—Kojo worked as a sous-chef in a fancy restaurant in Covent Garden and often stayed in Eric’s extra room afterwards because it was far closer than his tiny flat in Edmonton. What was unusual, though, was the time.
“Mushrooms and garlic?” Eric asked as he kicked his shoes off next to the door.
“And thyme,” Kojo confirmed, the white flash of his smile contrasting with his dark skin. He’d stripped down to a pair of jogging bottoms that might be Eric’s because ‘what’s mine is yours’ was an integral part of their friendship agreement. “On toasted sourdough.”
“Sounds great.” Eric dropped his key on the antique hall table that had come with the flat, bought by the previous owners during their honeymoon in France.
With the divorce papers filed, they hadn’t wanted it anymore, and he’d taken an immediate liking to the history tucked into its intricate floral patterns. “You’re home early.”
“And you’re home late.”
Half eleven, according to the kitchen clock. Eric patted Kojo’s bare stomach in passing and went to inspect the contents of the frying pan. God, it smelled heavenly—no wonder given Eric’s dinner had been of the liquid kind, and he’d chased it down with a workout. Of sorts.
“You smell like sex,” Kojo informed him with a delicate wrinkle of his nose.
“It’s my new cologne. You like?”
“Fire your nose.”
“But I’m kind of attached to it.”
When Eric tried to sneak a mushroom right out of the pan, Kojo slapped his hand away and went to arrange the food on two plates that they took into the living room.
Eric flicked the telly on to some rerun of a World Cup match—England against Belgium, the semifinal—and they ate the first couple of bites in silence.
“This is delicious,” Eric said. “Is there… There’s something unusual in there—sherry?”
“You’re getting better at this.” Kojo nodded, then set down his fork and drew one foot up onto the sofa to face Eric. “So. I quit.”
“You quit what?” Eric hoped the answer was smoking. It was a nasty habit that Kojo had picked up because just about everyone in the hospitality industry considered cigarettes a legitimate excuse to take a five-minute break.
“My job.” Kojo said it lightly, as though it was a mere comment on the weather.
Eric put down his plate and muted the TV. “You quit your job?”
Granted, the work environment was terrible.
The chef de cuisine was a perfectionist who would get angry if parsley wasn’t chopped to his exacting standards.
He also had a certain penchant for comments that toed the line of racism.
It was a Michelin-starred restaurant, though, and when Kojo had landed the job, he’d been enthusiastic about what it would do for his CV.
“Yup. Got fed up with being judged by the colour of my skin, so I found myself a new job. Threatened them with legal action if they didn’t let me go quietly—should’ve seen their faces. Fucking brilliant, man.”
Okay, that was … something. “You got a new job? Since when?”
“Since this afternoon. Starting Friday.”
“That’s…” Eric leaned back, blinking. “In four days. So, where?”
“Switzerland.”
“Switzerland?!”
“Is it me, or is there an echo in here?”
“But—hold on a sec.” Eric raised a hand and dropped it again. “You only just moved back to London.”
Okay, so Kojo had returned about six months ago, after a one-year placement with a top restaurant in the French countryside. But the point was that life was better with Kojo around. Eric wasn’t prepared to give that up again so soon.
“Eh.” Kojo shrugged. “I’m fed up with this place. Perpetual grey skies and endless queues—give me some sun and a proper farmers’ market!”
Kojo wasn’t wrong, not that Eric would admit as much. “Switzerland is bloody cold in winter!”
“You better pack some warm clothes, then. Ski gear, too.”
“What?”
Kojo’s grin was sharp, eyes crinkling at the corners. “You’re coming with me. They’re looking forward to a pair of extra hands.”
Uh.
“I’m coming with you?”
“Again with the echo in here. You should really get that checked out, especially if you decide to rent out the place while you’re gone.”
“Mate.” Eric stopped, not sure how to continue because Kojo was serious, wasn’t he? This wasn’t just teasing. He was actually serious, a stubborn tilt to his head that was at odds with the grin that still lingered.
When they’d been younger, Kojo had dragged Eric on all sorts of adventures in the town they’d both grown up in—building a raft to sail the closest river, spending a night in the nearby nature reserve, seeing a film in Manchester when their parents had thought them off in the woods somewhere.
Moving to Switzerland on a whim was the adult version of their childhood escapades.
Kojo set his plate aside and leaned forward, eyes intent. “Swiss Alps, Eric. Place looks gorgeous. Lots of history, starry skies, closest town is a thirty-minute drive down the valley.”
For a moment, Eric let himself entertain the idea—pack up and leave for a while, trade a grey November for snowy mountains and crystal-clear air. It wasn’t that simple, though.
“Not much of a music scene, is there?”