After the Scrum (4 page)

"You've
met
someone." She tapped her spoon against his plate to get his attention. "You get all wide-eyed and put too much sugar in your tea when you start fancying someone new."

"
Gran.
" He briefly reconsidered all his earlier mushy thoughts about her. "Must you torment me before I finish my tea and toast?"

"You've finished your tea, now stop avoiding my question." She leaned across the table to stare pointedly at his mostly empty cup.

"Must run. Don't want to be late for a new client." Francis crammed his toast into his mouth and dashed out of the room. "Later, Gran."

Her laughter followed him through the house while he snatched up his leather bag and snapped his fingers for Sherlock to follow. His trusty Fiat sat outside, waiting for them both. Mornings like this were the only time regrets about not living on his own taunted him.

Most of his friends had places of their own, far away from their families. Or at least, they weren't in the same block, let alone the same house. But it didn't feel right to leave Gran on her own.

"Well, Sherlock?" Francis opened the door for the sheltie to hop into Watson. "Think we can manage to avoid utter humiliation today?"

Sherlock barked then twisted around to lie down in the passenger seat with his head resting so he could look out the window.

"Not sure if that was a yes or a no." Francis tossed his bag in the back and slid into the driver's seat. "Maybe the Brute will have left already?"

Another bark.

"Thanks for the support." He scratched Sherlock behind the ear. "Maybe Ruth will have biscuits."

Ruth
did
have peanut butter biscuits—and a slightly squished pain au chocolat. It seemed Stevie had managed to get his elbow into a couple of pastries while they were proofing. She'd saved them for Francis.

Life in Looe would always be slightly left of centre. Francis tended to be slightly off-kilter much of the time as well, so who was he to complain? He chuckled to himself while heading up to his office to check messages before heading to Haddy's Pub to really start fixing it up.

"My desk is
not
a chew toy." Francis frowned at Sherlock when he gnawed briefly on one of the antique legs. "No, stop it, blasted mongrel. I paid five thousand quid for this thing."

Sherlock tilted his head and barked.
Useless creature.
Deciding not to risk any more of his furniture, Francis grabbed the printouts of his plans for the pub and headed out the door. He could walk down the few blocks to the bar, giving his overly enthusiastic sheltie a chance to run himself at least a bit ragged.

He rarely bothered with a leash. Sherlock had become something of a fixture in the village. He regularly visited most of the shops, begging for treats and attention.

"Be needin' any help with the pub?"

Francis found one of the
less
friendly villagers blocking his path. "No, but thank you."

"You sure?" Patrick "Patty the Drunk" Edwards leaned in closer, giving him a full view of rotted teeth and breath to match. "Could use a few quid to tide me over."

"Quite confident." Francis attempted to edge around the man with Sherlock pressed firmly against his leg. The dog always stayed close to him when his anxiety started to rise. "Have a good morning."

Holding his breath, Francis quickly strode down the pavement and up into the pub. He slammed the door. Once inside, he slid to the floor with his back against the closed entrance. Sherlock clambered up into his lap, resting his head on his owner's shoulder.

The panic attacks had started when Francis lived in London. He'd been young and idiotically believed himself invincible. A few drunks outside of a gay club in Vauxhall had taught him a rather bitter lesson about the dangers of alcohol and being out of the closet. They'd cornered him in an alley and beaten him rather badly.

He'd avoided clubs and alcohol ever since.

"How humiliating." Francis groaned with his face pressed against Sherlock's fur. His therapist had suggested a dog to help with the panic attacks. The sheltie had been specifically trained to recognize the signs. "Thanks, little love."

For all his often manic energy, Sherlock had taken to his training well. He knew precisely how to soothe away Francis's anxiety. Once the initial panic faded, the sheltie would lick Francis's face and dance around like a clown until he laughed at least once.

Francis's smile turned into a grimace when he noticed the muck covering his jeans from the uncleaned floor. "Well, Sherlock, pub won't clean itself. Can I use you as a dust mop?"

Sherlock barked twice and scampered away from him.

"I'll take that as a no." He chuckled at the dog's antics then got to work. "Floors first, yeah?"

Chapter Six

Caddock

Every. Single. Night.

Every.
Single
. Blasted.
Night
.

The same dreams had woken him in a sticky mess for the past week since the visit to Looe. It was all a bloody pain in the arse. Never mind him being too damn old for dealing with things he hadn't dealt with since his teen years.

Caddock had things to do. Lots of them. Moving his and Devlin's lives to a little village required a fair amount of work. He did
not
need distractions. Nor did Caddock have time to deal with sleepless nights caused by increasingly lurid fantasies about his interior designer.

Why now?

After years of mostly not dating, his life had seemed to reach a comfortable state of loneliness. With a high-profile career, it had been impossible to settle down for anything outside of a few nights here and there. And now? Who wanted a washed-up rugby player with a kid in tow?

The impending move to Looe had his entire routine scrambled. And early morning wet dream wake-ups were less than ideal. All the extra wash was a pain, for one thing. For another, he didn't stand a chance with Francis.

Younger men didn't often go for greyed men like him, unless they had particular needs. Caddock had no interest in playing a role for anyone. It would be best to put the dreams and the man out of his mind—though far easier said than done.

In a short period of time, the movers had managed to help him pack up the furniture and almost everything else being taken down to Looe. The only items left in his now barren flat were clothes and more personal things, which he preferred to take himself. They would easily fit into his Range Rover.

After taking stock of his bedroom, Caddock decided to check on his nephew. It was getting late in the day. He chuckled when he spotted the lad napping on a stack of folded clothes near an open suitcase.

Lifting the snuffling little boy into his arms, Caddock carried him into his own room. They would be sleeping on mattresses for the night.
Indoor camping.
They'd set out for Looe in the morning, following the last of the boxes going with the movers.

His parents had initially wanted to be there to help pack and then drive to Looe with them to help unpack. It had taken an hour to convince them to stay at home. The last thing Caddock wanted was his lovingly overbearing mother and his perfectionist father hovering over him. Better to have them visit once everything was situated.

Three hours later, with the clock moving ever closer to two in the morning, Caddock finally finished up. He stretched out cautiously on the airbed, hoping it wouldn't pop from the weight of his bulky muscles. He breathed a tentative sigh of relief when it held.

Then the dreaded sound of hissing air echoed in the room.
Sodding piece of shite.
The mattress slowly squashed underneath him until it was completely flat. Caddock lay on the floor and gave an aggrieved sigh.

Why me?

He regretted having all the furniture moved first. Sleeping on the floor wasn't ideal for him. What felt like ten minutes later, a small body catapulted onto his chest. Bare feet dug into his abdomen while small hands patted his face repeatedly, all accompanied by periodic giggles.

"Wakey, wakey, eggs and bakey." Devlin sang the rhyme his father had always sung to him. "Up, Uncle Boo, time to get up."

"I'm feeding you to the Loch Ness monster the first chance I get." Caddock grunted when Devlin accidentally kneed him in the stomach. "In tiny pieces."

After a rushed breakfast and a long drive, the two found themselves standing in the midst of a mess of cardboard boxes and furniture. The four-bedroom cottage had more room than his flat, but at that moment, it seemed chaotic and cramped. Maybe they should've asked for help after all.

Once Devlin's room had been straightened out, Caddock left him to play. It took him close to five hours to gain some semblance of organization to the jumble of belongings. He'd emptied a fair few boxes and gotten the kitchen set up by the time his little Devil demanded, "Cheese sammiches and bickies."

Devlin sat on a chair with a sandwich in one hand and a biscuit in the other. He swung his legs, rambling about all the things he would do after lunch. "Gonna see Lock and the sea and Fwannie, and make sandcastles."

"Frannie?" Caddock had no idea how the interior decorator would react to being gifted a moniker by his nephew. "Francis, I believe was his name."

"Fwannie."

"Stubborn as a mule, just like your father." Caddock gave a bittersweet laugh at the pouting child. "Go on then, wash your face and we'll tackle some more boxes."

"Uncle Boo!"

Narrowed eyes had a laughing Devlin dashing off to clean up.
I still got it.
Caddock shook his head at himself. He dumped the dishes in the sink then turned to look at the rest of the, as yet, unopened boxes.

Maybe a break was in order.

He collected Devlin, who whooped for joy, and the two went for a walk in their new village. The cottage was a short distance from the pub and most of the other establishments in the main part of Looe. His nephew seemed particularly excited about the bakery and a nearby bookstore.

"Lock, Lock." Devlin raced forward before Caddock could stop him. He had to jog after the lad, who scampered down the pavement to where Sherlock sat outside the lone coffee shop in town—clearly waiting for his owner. The little boy dropped down beside the dog. "Lo, Lock."

Caddock couldn't bring himself to reprimand Devlin for running off without him. The boy sat, playing happily with the exuberant sheltie. The two had clearly decided they were fast friends.

Francis stepped out of the shop with a cup of coffee and a paper bag in his hands. He blinked in surprise. "Well, hello there."

"Fwannie." Devlin waved enthusiastically at the stunned man who kept mouthing "Fwannie?" repeatedly. "Can I walk Lock?"

With a nod and a wink once Caddock had agreed, Francis fell into step with him, letting the dog and his boy skip ahead in front of them. Caddock watched Francis out of the corner of his eye. He seemed… tired—more than he'd been the last time they'd seen each other.

"Have you…?"

"The pub…"

They started to speak at the same time then stopped with wry chuckles. Caddock motioned for Francis to continue. The younger guy filled him in on the progress in the pub—refinished floors, fresh paint, a thorough cleaning and a new sign to be delivered at the start of next week. It was impressive how much he'd accomplished within just a few short days.

Francis explained that the hardest part, the actual design of the place, would take a bit longer. He seemed to be a perfectionist when it came to his work, not satisfied until the pub fit the vision he'd had for it.

Stopping at an enclosed park, they watched Devlin chase Sherlock around in companionable silence. Caddock enjoyed spending time with someone over the age of four. He'd let himself be too caged up since his forced retirement. Maybe Looe would be more than simply a change of environment for him.

"Rupert mentioned you went to university with his brother." Caddock felt Francis beside him tense up. His old rugby mate hadn't mentioned any uncomfortable history between them. In fact, the realtor had sounded incredibly fond and protective of Francis. "You met in London?"

"I knew them before, but yes, essentially,"—Francis's hands clenched around the bag he held—"Graham, Rupert's brother, roomed with me for two years at university. He's a good friend; both of them are really, though I see Rupert and his wife, Joanne, more frequently."

Caddock sensed the tension that continued to grow and was surprised when Sherlock suddenly abandoned play to come sit at Francis's feet. "You all right?"

"Fine." Francis's fingers drifted into Sherlock's fur, absentmindedly petting him. "I should get back to work."

With a wave to Devlin, Francis wandered off before Caddock could say anything other than goodbye. He took his nephew by the hand to lead him home to their cottage. The mystery of Francis could wait for another day.

"Why's Fwannie sad?" Devlin tugged on his sleeve until Caddock lifted him up into his arms. The lad dropped his head tiredly onto his uncle's shoulder. "We could get choccy bickies for him. I like Fwannie."

In Devlin speak, that meant he liked Francis's dog. Caddock let him ramble about 'bickies' while he thought over the afternoon. He'd give Rupert a call later to pry for information.

"Bickies make me happy." Devlin broke into his thoughts. "Can I have one?"

"Just one?" He gave a low laugh at the quick nod he received. "When was the last time you had only
one
? Is it possible for you to have only a single yummy chocolate biscuit?"

Devlin held up two fingers. "Can I have two?"

Caddock threw his head back and laughed at the little man, who glared at him. "Yes, little Devil, I think you can have two with your tea. How about we pick some fresh ones up at the bakery?"

The exuberant "Yes!" deafened Caddock in one ear. It was still ringing slightly when they stepped in to meet Ruth, the bakery owner. She immediately plucked Devlin from his arms and began showing him all the best bits of the day's baking. All his attempts to pay for the treats were waved off by the woman.