After the Scrum (2 page)

Caddock had never been one for waiting around to make a decision. A tug on his sleeve had him glancing down to find bright blue eyes peering up at him over the furry head of a teddy. His eyes narrowed on the innocent smile.

"Blue wants a stowy." Devlin held up the bear as if to prove his case.

Caddock gave a mournful glance towards the telly; his team were playing their rivals in a derby.
Damn it.
He tried briefly to reason with his nephew. "Are you
certain
he wants a story right now?"

"Pwease?"

"Go pick a book then."

And the sad eyes win again.

The things one did for one's nephew. The weekends were usually spent with the two together, joined at the hip. It was another reason to consider life in a small village. His nephew could flourish there without the expectations of others, including his grandparents.

While reading about Peter Rabbit for the thousandth time, Caddock went through his internal task list. Moving with a four-year-old would be tricky, especially one whose life had been thrown into chaos by the loss of his parent not so long ago. He'd have to be sensitive.

I can do sensitive.

Right?

Devlin had lost his mother very early in life. She'd suffered heart failure, owing to a defect that had remained undetected. The young lad was as resilient as all children tended to be. He deserved happier things… happier memories.

When Haddy had named him godfather to his son, it had been a bit of a shock. Caddock, at the time, was more known for drunken nights, broken hearts, and the occasional broken nose. Why would anyone voluntarily choose to trust him with a child?

Yet his godson seemed to give him a reason to change. Those clear blue eyes had stolen his heart. It had caused him to make a complete overhaul of his life—less drinking for one thing.

His brother had been his son's hero. Devlin had idolised his father in the way little boys usually do. Caddock had rather large shoes to fill, and he wanted nothing more than to prove himself worthy.

"Devil?" Caddock closed the book and set it to one side. Time to have a chat. He turned his nephew around in his lap so they were facing each other. "Remember when I talked about us maybe moving to a bigger house? Would you like to live by the sea in a cottage?"

"The sea?" Devlin's eyes went wide. "Like Toad and Mole?"

Caddock gave a deep chuckle before nodding. "Well, more sea than river, but yes, just like Toad. Might be a nice change for us."

"And sandcastles." Devlin bounced excitedly while rambling off a list of things one could do by the sea. He finally slowed down, tiring with a wide yawn. "Wanna go to the sea, Uncle Boo."

"Right, then. The sea it is." He ruffled the boy's dark brown hair, something all the Stanford males had inherited. His unfortunately had turned grey earlier than anticipated. His brother had often teased him about dyeing it. "Maybe after a nap."

"No nap." Devlin yawned for a second time. He was already half-asleep by the time Caddock tucked him into his bed.

Right, no nap.

After settling the boy down for his nap, Caddock fired off a note to his realtor—Rupert Hodson. They were supposed to be signing papers in the next few days. The pictures of the pub and cottage made it seem like perfection.

He could do this. Be a father. Run a bar. He could be something other than a bruiser on a rugby team and a drunken fool.

He could.

The first step would be to stop talking to himself like a fool. It was a sign of sanity to question one's sanity, right? And it was
definitely
time to take a nap of his own, if only to silence his own mind.

Chapter Two

Francis

"No, Sherlock, stop it. You uncivilized mongrel!" Francis Keen, interior decorator extraordinaire, tripped over his own feet and his dog's leash. He landed in a heap on the walk outside his home. "Damnation, you obstinate creature, heel. Do you even know what the word means?"

"Having trouble, love?"

"No, Gran." Francis straightened himself up, running his fingers through his now thoroughly mussed-up mass of light brown hair. He ignored his beloved grandmother's tittering giggles while attempting to glare balefully at his Shetland sheepdog, Sherlock, his beloved and the bane of his existence. "Have a good day, Gran."

"Try to stay on your feet, love." She waved at him with another laugh then headed up the walk to their shared home.

Oh, the humiliation.

He'd gotten a smaller dog to go with his own more slender frame. He didn't fancy being dragged off by a monster of a mutt. Sherlock didn't appear to understand his purpose in life. Even for a smaller dog, he managed to yank his owner off his feet quite frequently.

The sheltie served other purposes, besides companion and best friend. Francis simply didn't advertise what Sherlock's training actually entailed. He didn't want the sympathetic stares.

"One morning, Sherlock, just one would be nice. I'd give you the largest beef bone in the world if you could allow me to preserve my dignity once." Francis fumbled with the keys to his only prized possession—a turquoise Fiat 500 from the seventies that had been painstakingly and lovingly refurbished. He patted the dashboard reverently once he'd situated himself and his insane canine. "Well, Watson, time to take the world by storm. Are you ready?"

Francis had grown up in Truro. His parents died in a car crash not long after his seventh birthday and he'd been with his grandparents in Looe ever since. At twenty-five, he still lived with his gran.

She'd tried to toss him out on his ear, but Francis feared leaving her by herself. His granddad had died after a fall in the cottage—alone. He didn't want gran to suffer the same fate.

Staying with her was comfortable and familiar. Gran didn't badger him to
man
up
like so many of his teachers had done over the years. His eccentricities were simply what made her grandson who he was—or so she told him.

Life in Looe might not have the excitement of London, but the village had mostly embraced Francis. He decorated many of the local businesses during the various holidays. He also threw on the occasional new coat of paint here or there.

"No chasing after Mrs Tinkles." Francis warned Sherlock when he started to bark at his nemesis. "We promised to behave. Remember? The butcher might chop you up for stew if you go after his wife's cat again."

At eighteen with a scholarship in hand, Francis had left the village to prove himself. He'd graduated with a degree in interior design from Regent's University in London. It had been a start, but he'd never truly found the big city a fit for him.

The only thing London had given him—aside from a degree—was a broken heart. A boy his age named Trevor had stomped all over his fragile feelings. It had sent Francis running back to Cornwall, tucking his metaphorical tail between his legs.

Trevor had been his first love. It had felt as if the world were coming to an end at the time. He still cringed whenever he thought about the man.

After sobbing into his gran's cream tea and scones for a month, Francis had followed her advice to start his own design firm. In just a year, he'd built a decent business, and since kept all of his energies focused on work.

Love.

Well, love hadn't shown back up in his life. Gran kept telling him to "go out, love, go snog some bloke." He usually nodded in agreement then ignored her advice completely.

Francis figured Sherlock and Watson were companion enough for him. Did it matter that one was a dog and the other a car? He ignored the rhetorical question and pulled up outside of his tiny office space, cramped between a tea shop and a bookstore.

"Mornin'."

Francis waved to Ruth who owned the tea shop and bakery. He graciously accepted her bribe of fresh-baked custard tart. He gave her a knowing look; she usually gave him the broken ones for free, not the best ones. "What happened now?"

"My Stevie put his elbow into the willow platter." She glared over her shoulder to her gentle giant of a husband, who stood sheepishly in the shop doorway. He shrugged at the both of them. "He does mean well. Do you think you could you find another one?"

"I'm going on another antique hunt this week. I'll keep an eye out," Francis promised. He shook his head when Ruth slipped a peanut butter biscuit to Sherlock who sat obediently in front of her. "I'll bring it by when I find one."

Working in a little village, Francis found himself more often than not playing antique hunter or painter rather than actual designer or decorator. His work would never grace the covers of design magazines, but it had a unique joy all its own.

Carefully balancing his leather bag, the custard tart, and the leash, Francis made his way up the narrow stairs to the cramped space he called an office. He tossed his bag to the side, released Sherlock from his leash, and started up his computer. Dragging the curtains open to let in light, he prepared himself for another day in Looe.

Boring, but safe.

He kicked his shoes off and sat cross-legged in his office chair, coffee mug balanced on one knee with the custard tart on the other. He batted away Sherlock's curious nose as he tried to sniff out the pastry. "My treat. You had three peanut butter biscuits, you don't need my tart."

Sherlock sniffed at him before retreating to the massive pillow on the floor nearby. He curled up on it and plopped his head down on his paws. Francis chose to ignore the mournful gaze being sent his way. He was made of sterner stuff.

Maybe a biscuit wouldn't hurt?

Francis tossed one to the incorrigible creature then started to munch on his custard tart while perusing the multiple emails in his inbox. He deleted the messages offering to increase the size of his gentleman's bits. Did people even believe those things? The ones about Xanax and a prince in some country who needed a loan followed shortly after.

It was always disappointing to start out with fifteen new messages, yet end up with only four that required a response. And worse, only one actually appeared to be about a new client. It seemed the old pub by the butcher had finally been purchased. The new owner needed someone to help with the décor of it, along with a cottage down by the sea.

Interesting.

The rumour mill had yet to pick up on this. Francis would finally have something to share with his Gran over tea in the afternoon. She always loved to gossip with him about everything she'd learned in her visits to her friends around the village.

Firing off a quick response to the realtor, Francis started pulling together a few ideas for the pub. He'd visited it a few times before the previous owner died at the ripe old age of ninety-one. It
definitely
needed to be brought into modern times. The seats were practically falling apart, never mind the peeling paint and cracks in the ceiling.

A village like Looe could attract crowds during the holidays, but aside from those times, it was a quiet place with mostly locals and others from nearby who'd frequent a pub. The villagers wouldn't want to visit a pretentious modern pub.

He tossed aside some of the samples and moved on to a more traditional vibe. He held up a swatch of fabric to his snoozing sheltie. "What do you think, Sherlock?"

Yawn.

"Not a fan then? Me either." Francis moved on to the next one. "How do you think he'll feel about tartan? Yes, I agree, he'll hate it."

Yet another day spent talking to his dog.

I am going to die alone—surrounded by antiques and a dog.

Chapter Three

Caddock

A knee to the stomach and an excited "Uncle Boo!" had
not
done anything to improve Caddock's mood when he awoke early Monday morning. He gently plucked a bouncing Devlin from his chest and set him on the bed. A quick peek at the alarm clock informed him that he had at least two more hours to sleep.

"Go make breakfast." He grunted sleepily to a giggling Devlin. "I want a full English."

"Uncle Boo." Devlin leapt up onto his chest again. "Want awfuls."

"I'm confident you mean waffles." Caddock caught the small, pointy knee before it could connect with his stomach again. "Listen, Devil, how about you go put on something other than Iron Man pyjamas? Hmm?"

"'Kay." Devlin hopped on his uncle one last time before dashing out of the room.

"Caddock 'the Brute' Stanford taken down by a four-year-old's pointy limbs." He groaned, sitting up while rubbing his chest gingerly. He'd taken to sleeping in a T-shirt and shorts since Devlin took a fiendish joy in dive-bombing his uncle by way of an alarm. "I'm too bloody old for this shit."

"Naughty word, naughty word." Devlin's giggling voice drifted down the hall with the light patter of running bare feet.

Naughty words meant whipped cream and berries with his "awfuls." Caddock rolled out of bed and shook his head with a groan. He scrubbed his fingers over his greying dark brown hair, cut short enough he didn't have to worry about it getting mussed up, even at night.

Stumbling into his bathroom, Caddock glared at his reflection in the mirror while leaning tiredly against the sink. He looked haggard
and aged
.
The move would hopefully allow him a chance to truly relax.

A little village like Looe might be a bit of a risk. Would they be able to blend into a much smaller population? Did it matter that sports pundits still nattered on about him on occasion?
God, I hope not.

"AWFULS!"

"It's waffles, you deranged child." Caddock dragged a clean shirt over his head, shifting it to fit over his muscled chest. He made his way quickly towards the kitchen to prevent a four-year-old's meltdown over breakfast. "Strawberries?"

"Yeah." Devlin nodded so vigorously he tipped forward on the stool that he'd climbed up on. He giggled when his uncle caught him. "Thank you."