Page 4

Mondays weren’t supposed to feel like this.

He scrubbed a hand over his face as the van bounced over a pothole, the town slowly easing itself awake around him. He’d been up since six, partly because the spring sun didn’t give a shit about the crappy blinds in his bedsit. And partly because the sun wasn’t the only thing rising in the mornings.

Jake, too, woke fully erect and rock fucking hard.

Which wouldn’t have been nearly as irritating if Jake hadn’t apparently imposed a fucking dry spell on himself. Harrison hadn’t asked him to. They hadn’t discussed exclusivity, or waiting, or whatever people were supposed to discuss when they were doing whatever the fuck Jake and Harrison were doing. Jake could still go out, find someone, fuck the frustration out of his system and be home before he had to think too hard about it.

He just didn’t want to.

For the first time in longer than he cared to examine, no one else held much appeal when the person he actually wanted was unavailable. So until Harrison decided to take this thing beyond kissing, touching and leaving Jake permanently half out of his fucking mind, his sex life apparently consisted of his own right hand and getting up stupid early for an increasingly efficient morning shower.

Bloody Harrison.

Which was another reason Jake was heading where he was now. To find out if this whole self-imposed abstinence bollocks was still worth it.

He’d taken a quick patch job up near the estate first thing, sorting a leaking valley where a slipped bit of lead flashing was letting water track where it shouldn’t. Easy fix. Up the ladder, flashing back where it belonged, job done before the owner had even finished boiling the kettle. She’d still caught him on his way down, though, pressing a brew into one hand and a folded couple of notes into the other. Easy hundred quid before most people had dragged themselves out of bed.

And now he had fuck all else on for the day.

He could’ve picked up another job. There was always another gutter to clear, tile to replace or roof someone had ignored until water started coming through the bedroom ceiling. And normally, Jake would’ve gone looking. Work was work, and a hundred quid in his pocket didn’t mean there wouldn’t be bills waiting to swallow it.

But he’d already earned today.

Which meant he could give himself the rest of it.

Go do the one job he actually wanted to do.

Tapping his thumbs on the steering wheel, he mumbled a few lyrics under his breath. New ones, from the track he’d been building all weekend. Still half-finished. Rough in places. Working on it gave his brain something to chew on besides where he was going.

Who he was going there to see.

Then he turned onto Larkspur Lane, the cottage coming into view and Jake’s stomach dropped when he saw the empty drive, which was exactly the sort of thing he was trying not to fucking care about.

Because, ironically, Jake had spent more time at Harrison’s cottage over the past couple of weeks than he had with Harrison himself. He’d been back and forth for weeks, fitting the roof around other jobs and the weather, slowly stripping it back and putting right the damage he’d found the first time. Harrison had insisted on paying, but Jake was only taking the cost of materials. Anything more didn’t sit right.

Funny, really.

Jake was a drummer. Keeping time was the one thing he was supposed to be good at. But this thing with Harrison felt like playing to a track he couldn’t quite hear, always half a beat off, reaching for something just as it drifted away.

Hence, he was here.

To fix his bloody roof.

So he parked, got out and hauled the ladder free from the top of the van, metal clanging as he dropped it down, the sound carrying a little too far in the morning quiet. He checked the footing, angled it beneath the gutter line and adjusted it before looking up at where he’d left off. Last Thursday’s stopping point was sealed against the inevitable Yorkshire rain, the temporary covering strapped down tight over the unfinished section.

He set his tool belt on, then climbed and hauled himself onto the pitch.

Up there, the world opened out. Low rooftops, thin lines of smoke curling from chimneys, the town easing into the day. Beyond it, the land rolled away in green and gold, hedgerows splitting fields into neat, uneven shapes. Further still, the moors sat heavy on the horizon, dark and quiet, holding on to the last of the morning mist.

It was the sort of view most people stopped for.

Jake didn’t.

He crouched with his back to it and got to work. Then as the sun climbed higher, he remembered there were perks to working outside. Occasionally, even Yorkshire remembered it wasn’t supposed to rain every fucking day. So he hooked his fingers into the hem of his T-shirt and hauled it up over his head, tossing it behind him onto the ridge.

Better.

He then rolled his shoulders, the chain at his neck shifting with the movement, swallow pendant tapping lightly against his chest as he bent back to the job.