New Lease of Life (12 page)

He shouldn’t be this enthusiastic about throwing someone’s kindness back in their face.

You want to see Colby.

Determined to ignore that voice in his head—that unerringly astute voice—Pip focused on the scene from the window. The cab bounced along unfamiliar and slightly scruffy London streets, and Pip marveled at the driver’s uncanny ability to accurately hit every pothole on the road’s surface—a vehicular version of join the dots. Colby had claimed his shop was located in an up-and-coming area, and there were signs of regeneration in the shops, housing, and occasional green spaces they had passed. Unfortunately nobody seemed to have informed the local council, because the infrastructure sucked.

Something caused the cabbie to swerve and curse under his breath. Pip joined in and gripped both the seat belt and the walking stick across his lap. Morbid curiosity compelled Pip to twist in his seat and look out of the back window. A particularly deep pothole, the edges crumbling away, faded into the distance.

Pip shook his head and turned back. Should he have phoned Colby and warned him of his visit? No, he didn’t want to give Colby the chance to fabricate an excuse. And if Colby wasn’t at the shop, then Pip would know Colby had been fobbing him off earlier. Although, it was around the time that people would be considering lunch and, going by previous experience, Colby did love his food.

Now who’s fabricating excuses? You want him to be there. You can’t stand the thought that maybe he doesn’t want to see you.

Maybe he should have had more to eat than just that chocolate shake Colby had left him because Pip’s stomach flipped over with every bump of the cab’s suspension.

The shops lining the street had improved over the last half mile or so. They seemed well kept and inviting and even the occasional empty shop front showed signs of springing to life: workmen building cabinets, a young woman washing down windows, estate agents’ boards claiming properties as let. Trees lined the pavement every couple of yards, sprouting foliage in an array of greens and yellows. The whole area had a village vibe that most areas of London were sorely lacking. Pedestrians milled about on the pavements, stopping to chat as they came and went into the varied shops: small independent cafés, a glass works, a book shop, hairdressers, even the red and white stripe of a barber’s pole.

Glancing out of the side window, Pip caught a glimpse of his reflection in the glass and frowned.

“How far until we get to my destination?”

“It’s just around the corner, mate.”

“Stop here. I’ll walk the rest of the way.”

“You sure?” the cabbie asked, even as he pulled over to the side of the road.

“Positive.” Pip unclipped the seat belt as they pulled to a stop and leaned through the gap between the front seats, brandishing a twenty-pound note at the driver. “Will that cover it?”

“Sure. Do you want—”

“Keep the change.”

“—a hand with the door.”

“Oh.” Pip already had the door open. He swung his legs out of the car and sought solid ground with the cane. “I’m not a cripple, or so I’ve been told more than once over the last few days. Thanks for the offer, though.”

Had he managed to use the word cripple without snapping and growling at somebody? It was possible that he’d even managed to flash the cabbie a smile.

Once safely on the pavement, he started toward his destination at a resounding clip, the silver ferrule at the tip of his stick keeping a rhythmic beat every time it struck the concrete paving slabs.

“Oi!”

Faltering in his steps, Pip turned to see the cabbie leaning out of his window. He gestured in the opposite direction. “You’re going the wrong way.”

“I know,” Pip said, loud enough to be heard and waved him off. Then he dropped his voice to a whisper. “There’s something I need to do first.”

HALF AN
hour later, Pip stood outside New Lease of Life and stared through the window. He’d been immobile for the last few minutes, feet rooted to the pavement. Pip could argue,
would
argue if pushed, that he’d been studying the window displays, but truth be told, he couldn’t have played a memory game of the contents if his life depended on it.

His eagerness to see Colby and the confidence that had carried him this far seemed to be waning now that he had Colby in his line of sight. Pip’s self-assurance crumbled under the weight of his doubt. If he stayed there much longer, he’d turn and walk away like a coward.

A gust of wind blew down the street, picking up a stray coffee cup and carrying it past Pip’s feet. Tendrils of the fast moving air crept over the freshly revealed skin at the back of his neck, sending a shiver down Pip’s back and raising goose bumps on his arms.

Damned if he’d come all this way to bottle out now. Pulling his shoulders back and holding his chin high, Pip affected a confident air that he certainly did not feel. He pushed open the door and stepped inside.

With the tinkling of the bell above Pip, Colby raised his head. Artfully tousled, or just careless and lucky, Colby’s dark hair had a thickness to it that begged for Pip to bury his fingers in deep until he could massage Colby’s scalp. Thick dark eyebrows peaked out from beneath the mess of wavy hair that fell across Colby’s forehead, and Pip knew that as he got closer, he would be able to make out the long lashes that framed the cool blue of Colby’s eyes.

“Pip!” Colby said his name like a long lost friend. Surprised and pleased in equal measure.

Colby wasn’t the most handsome guy in the world until he smiled; then his face came alive as though lit by the strength of a thousand candles. Hot enough to turn Pip’s insides to a molten mess. As he moved between rails of clothing that he barely noticed, Pip’s heart pounded fit to burst, and his stomach fluttered with the beating wings of a hundred butterflies. He could blame the nerves that were building at the thought of returning Colby’s gift without causing any hurt or offense, but that wouldn’t account for the liquid heat pooling in his groin with every glance in Colby’s direction.

If his dick were a dog, he’d be begging shamelessly for attention. For a stroke. He giggled, pushed down the hysteria that threatened to consume him. Hell, if his dick were a dog, he’d be humping Colby’s leg by now.

“You’ve had a haircut,” Colby said with a smile. He leaned over the counter, his hand outstretched as though he were about to run his fingers over Pip’s freshly clipped hair or, perhaps, tug on the hair at the front that the barber had pushed up into a quiff.

Pip would probably wash the product out later and brush the hair back into a more vintage look unless Colby could be encouraged to use those longer tresses to manhandle Pip.

Shocked at the directions of his thoughts, Pip reared away, taking a step back. Colby snatched his hand away, and as if he needed to keep the wayward appendage busy, he gestured to his own head and tugged on his hair.

“The quiff looks great.”

“I just asked for a short back and sides.” Pip shrugged. “I guess this is what passes for a vintage cut these days.”

“Lay the blame on Beckham.” Colby grinned. No, leered would be a better description. “I would.”

Pip’s confusion must have been on display for all the world to see because Colby added, “
Lay
Beckham. The man is hot. I’d break my no straight guys rule for him. Doesn’t your barber know how you normally have your hair cut?”

“I got it cut on a whim.” Pip didn’t add that he’d had it done not half an hour ago at the barber’s around the corner. He didn’t want Colby to know how hard he was trying to impress.

“Well, you look good. Really, really—” Colby dropped his gaze and straightened a few leaflets on the counter before glancing up again. A faint brush of color highlighted his cheeks. “Not that you need an excuse, but what are you doing here?”

“You said you were trapped in the shop all day, so—”

“You brought me lunch?” Colby asked, a hopeful hitch in his voice.

That would have been a bloody good idea. Why didn’t Pip think of that? He could have picked something up from the bakery around the corner.

“Sorry, no. I came to bring the walking stick back, but I could pop out and get you a coffee and some cookies.”

“How about we both go and get a coffee? I can shut the shop long enough for us to sit and have a drink. If you want to?”

Pip wasn’t stupid. He knew Colby had ignored his comment about returning his gift. But a coffee did sound good, and he could tackle Colby on the subject of the walking stick later. He’d spent twenty quid getting to the shop—forty, if you counted the haircut—on the off chance Colby might grace him with a few of those endorphin-spiking smiles.

No, damn it. He’d come to the shop with the sole intention of returning Colby’s gift. No ulterior motive at all.

“Sure. Why not?” Pip said before he could talk himself out of it.

Colby beamed, and a sense of well-being flooded through Pip, strong enough to drown out his previous mental protests and declare his conscious thoughts a liar.

APPARENTLY, COLBY-WATCHING
was Pip’s new favorite pastime. Seated at a table in the corner that Colby had waved him toward when they arrived, Pip ogled Colby while he stood at the counter gesturing at something in the glass-fronted cabinet. He couldn’t even drag his gaze away as Colby chatted with the young woman behind the counter while she blended the concoction of fruits Colby had handpicked. Actually, Pip had an inexplicable urge to stamp over to the counter, see what was going on, and maybe slide his arm around Colby’s waist.

When Colby finally made his way through the tables with Pip’s latte and a tall glass of something the color of a setting sun, Pip sought out cover behind the menu.

“Are you hungry?” Colby asked, placing the drinks on the table. “I could order you something if you want?”

“No, thanks.” Pip wafted the menu between them, narrowly missing the drinks Colby had just placed on the table. “I was just trying to decide if this was a juice bar that served coffee or a coffee shop that also serves juices.”

“Does it need a label?”

“Asks the man that runs a vintage clothes shop. Labels are your business.”

“True.” Colby didn’t expand on that acknowledgment, too engrossed with peeling the straw from its candy stripe paper wrapping and sliding it into his drink.

He closed his lips around the end, sucked hard, and words not only became superfluous but an actual impossibility as Pip’s brain went into meltdown.

Conversation would be good, but all Pip managed to get out was a strangled sound that failed on so many levels.

Colby looked up, the straw sliding from between his lips and leaving a dribble of smoothie in the dimple beneath his bottom lip. He swiped up the mess with his tongue, clearing the area with one sweep.

That action didn’t help Pip’s current issue with the formation of words into coherent sentences.

“Do you want to try some?”

“I—” Pip let out a shaky breath then cast a suspicious glance at the drink. “I don’t even know what’s in there.”

“You don’t need to as long as it tastes good.” Colby peeled another straw from a paper sleeve and placed it in the drink. “Go on, take a suck.”

However unintentional the earlier pornographic display had been, Colby’s grin told Pip that the filthy implication of that instruction was deliberate.

“You’ll tell me what’s in it after I’ve tried it?”

“Sure.”

Once upon a time, in another life, Pip would have performed fellatio on that straw like a porn star, if only to serve Colby up a dose of his own medicine. The paler imitation of his former self, though, simply leaned across the table and took the straw between his lips and sucked hard, preparing for brain freeze and the prospect of something gross on his tongue that his reflexes would insist he spit out. Spit or swallow had never been an issue. He would always let spunk dribble out of his mouth rather than swallow a load.

How the hell did he get from smoothies to spunk? Before he could contemplate the answer to that question, a burst of citrus danced over his taste buds, fresh but with an underlying sweetness that he hadn’t expected. Another pull on the straw brought a different flood of flavors, and an appreciative groan slipped out from around the straw. Damn, the cocktail of pulped fruit was revitalizing. If Colby drank one of these every day, would he taste equally as invigorating?

Pip glanced up at his companion. Despite the lack of performance, Colby’s eyes were riveted on Pip, his mouth agape. If Pip’s paternal grandmother had been present, she would have scolded Colby for catching flies. And chastised Pip for his lewd behavior as another moan escaped from around the straw.

A barrage of giggles from the next table broke through the palpable tension, ripping it asunder. With a grin Colby turned toward the laughter and addressed the women sitting there. “I’ll have what he’s having.”

They laughed in unison.

Pip frowned around the straw, reluctantly letting it slip from his lips in order to speak. “But it’s yours.”

An astonished look passed over Colby’s features, and he shook his head. “It’s a film quote.
When Harry Met Sally
? No? Best rom com ever. And you call yourself a gay man.”

A chorus of sighs emanated from the next table. Did they agree with Colby’s assertion? Who knew? Certainly not Pip, who felt as though the conversation was slipping away from him.

“I’m disappointed. Please tell me you’ve seen
Priscilla
.”

Who? “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I wouldn’t know a rom com if it got up and bit me on the bloody arse.”

“Interesting thought. Love the way you say arse. That long stretched out
R
.”

Whispers of conversation drifted over from the other table.
So sweet.

“I don’t speak any differently from you.”

Colby snorted, and the intonation in his voice changed. “Right, mate. Course you don’t. I was born ’n raised on a council estate in South West London.”