Page 61 of Someone Like You

A light rain was falling, thin, icy drops hitting Ian’s bare claves like needles. Perfect day to say goodbye to a beloved one.

Or more than one.

“We’re havin’ a few drinks in Rory’s memory.” Thomas hinted to the pub down the road with his chin. “Ye joinin’ us?”

“Nah. Got somewhere to be.”

“Ye ever goin’ to introduce her to me? Orhim!” Thomas defensively lifted up his palms before Ian could correct him. Slip as old as time.

“Him. And it’s complicated.”

“It’s always complicated with you.”

Ian eyed his father fondly: he was just a couple of inches shorter than his son, but his hunched shoulders carried the weight of too many years of loneliness and sacrifices. They’d never been rich, but Thomas had worked hard to make sure Ian never wanted for anything, especially after Sheilagh had died. They’d never been good at this father-son thing, but, with Rory’s mediation, they’d managed to make it work, if awkwardly. Two reserved grumps like them would’ve never made it on their own.

“You think ma would’ve approved of me liking men?”

Thomas huffed out a gruff laugh. “Yer ma would’ve approved of you bein’ a serial killer.” He lifted a watery gaze on Ian behind the rain-stained glasses. “So, what about this new wee fella of yours?”

“He’s no‘wee fella’. He’s got a few years on me.” He said it with a vivid picture of Phil’s expression lines and greying beard spreading a smile across his lips.

Thomas bobbed his head approvingly. “I’ve always reckoned ye’d be better off with someone older. Ye’ve always been mature for yer age.”

Ian kicked a pebble on the ground. “He’s engaged.”

“Ah.” Thomas’ pause was tangibly uneasy. “Nowthat’s somethin’ Sheilagh wouldn’t have approved of.”

“It’s not like that. We’re just friends who ended up with more than we’d bargained for.” Ian couldn’t believe he was ashamed of something hehadn’tdone. “Nothing happened between us.”

“’Course not — I didn’t raise a homewrecker!” Thomas groused, visibly relieved.

No, you didn’t, Ian agreed grimly. He’d rather die than ruin someone else’s relationship.

A crisp pat hit his back. “You’re a good man. Yer ma would be proud.”

“Ach, rap that. I’ve cried enough today.” Ian had to run a knuckle under his eye to prevent the wetness pooling along the waterline from spilling out. Thankfully, they’d reached the pub. He could see through the windows that it was already crowded inside. “Have one for me,” he told Thomas. “Rory won’t grudge me for sittin’ this one out.”

Thomas squeezed his shoulder. “Good luck with this man of yours.”

Ian accepted the well-meaning words, but inside his heart sank.

No luck can fix this. It’d take a miracle.

They bumped fists, their surrogate of a hug, then Thomas went inside and Ian kept walking, headed to his pickup.

He arrived at the café a bit early, expecting to find Phil sitting at their usual table with his laptop and at least a couple of empty plates. He found him by the tables outside instead, alone, leaning back against the wall with his thumbs hooked into the loops of the jeans, only a light pullover protecting him from the cold wind and the rain. In his mind, Ian shrugged off his jacket to drape it on Phil’s shoulders, enveloping him in his arms to warm him up. In reality, all Ian could do was walk to him, tilt his head, and sketch a smirk.

“What’s a pretty boy like you doin’ here on your own?”

Phil hadn’t noticed his arrival. His head popped up with a surly scowl, ready to bark back, but his mouth froze agape. He gave Ian a thorough once-over, with a particular emphasis from the waist down, where the blue kilt flapped around his knees, tossed by the wind.

“Like what you see, old man?”

Phil licked his lips, gulped, then finally pried his eyes away from Ian’s bare calves to pin them into Ian’s.

“You know, when you said ‘better than naked’, I assumed you were messing with me, because what could possibly be better than Ian Gallowaywithout clothes, but…” His gaze dropped again andvery slowlyclimbed back up. “Holy shit.”

Ian’s smirk widened. He knew how good he looked in a kilt, but he couldn’t have cared less about the other dozens appreciative looks he’d gathered today; all he cared about was Phil’s attention greedily grazing all over him and that beautiful rush of colour in his face. A chilly gust swept the street, scattering the ashes of a cigarette that was burning in the ashtray on the table in front of Phil.

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