“What is it? ’Cause it looks like a giant teacake.”

Angelo scowled and set the fruit-studded round loaf on the counter with undue care. “It’s panettone. You told me to get bread for stuffing.”

“Breadcrumbs,” Dylan huffed. “How am I supposed to make sage and onion stuffing with that mutant hot cross bun?”

“Who said we were making sage and onion stuffing?”

“I did, when you told me you were taking an emergency client and abandoning me in the kitchen all day. You think I know how to make all your weird-arse Italian shit on my own?”

“It’s not weird-arse, and I’ll be gone an hour—perks of living at work. Don’t be so dramatic.”

Dylan resisted the compulsion to stick his tongue out and turned away to consider the ginormous turkey Angelo had also brought home from his morning dash to the shops, all the while absorbing the spring in Angelo’s step at being so productive. Dylan was usually at his own job when Angelo went out to work, so he rarely saw him in therapist mode. After a night on the booze and banging, it was a startling change. Why is he so fucking hot?

Angelo scribbled down the recipe for his precious stuffing and left Dylan to it. Dylan prepped the turkey, peeled potatoes, and wrapped a million tiny sausages in bacon. He was finishing up when he heard movement above him, so he knocked the leftover bacon into a sandwich and took it upstairs to Joe with a mug of sugar-sweet tea.

“You fucking diamond.” Joe slurped the scalding tea. “Harry hides the sugar from me, I swear.”

Dylan slid onto the bed. “Wouldn’t put it past him. Angelo goes through phases of doing stuff like that, but I can usually get round him with rimming.”

“Noted.” A faint flush stained Joe’s cheeks, but it could’ve been the tea. “What did you lot get up to last night? Please tell me you didn’t have an orgy at my ma’s house?”

Dylan laughed and stretched out on his stomach. “As if. I didn’t even set foot in the bungalow. Rhys and Jevon came back with us for a bit, but they were gone when we woke up.”

Silence. Joe’s face was a study in apathy, but the tick in his cheek gave him away, and Dylan was feeling kind.

“We didn’t have an orgy at all,” he said, “if it’s keeping you up at night thinking about it. We are capable of having fellas over for just drinks, you know.”

“Didn’t say you weren’t.” Joe eased his legs out in front of him. Well rested and dressed only in Harry’s slightly too big sweatpants, he was the picture of hard-earned relaxation. “I just recognise the gleam in your eye from when you two have been on it.”

“And you’re feeling nosy?”

“If you say so, but I can live without knowing if you don’t want to talk about it.”

“There’s not much to talk about,” Dylan admitted. “I think Jevon’s curious about playing but too wrapped up in Rhys to explore it.”

“What about Rhys? I wondered if it might be different for him now he’s with someone.”

Dylan shrugged. “Hard to tell. I don’t think he’s turned off by the idea, but if he plays again, it’ll be for better reasons.”

Joe nodded. “Makes sense, but I think I’ve reached my limit on understanding you lot and your sex clubs. How’s it going downstairs? Harry reckons I’m not allowed to get up until lunchtime, but if I sleep any more I’ll probably die.”

“Drama queen.”

“Fuck you.”

Dylan would so have fucked Joe for real if the opportunity had ever arisen, but there was more chance of him turning vegan than coming around to Dylan and Angelo’s way of life.

Sighing, Dylan rolled onto his back. “I’m pretty much sick of handling raw meat products, but I think tomorrow’s dinner is going to be epic . . . if you like fruitcake in your stuffing.”

“Say what?”

“Ask Angelo. He’s gone crazy Italian mama on me.”

Joe chuckled and set his plate aside, then he stood and drifted to the window, surveying his ramshackle kingdom. “Did the donkeys get done?”

“You’re asking me?”

“Yes.”

“What the fuck for?”

“Because you always know what everyone’s doing, even if you don’t know why they’re doing it.”

Dylan sat up. “That’s not true.”

“Uh-huh. Where’s Harry?”

“Mucking out the stalls.”

“George?”

“Measuring out the feeds for tomorrow so you don’t have to.”

“Emma?”

“Wrestling that mad, black beast you call a horse in the top field.”

Joe’s grin widened, though he still wasn’t looking at Dylan. “What about Lacey and her mate from uni? I know they didn’t rock up until late—”

“They didn’t stay,” Dylan cut in. “Lacey was hungover, so she called Toby instead. He’s with the donkeys, Angelo’s at the clinic, and Rhys and Jevon, in case you were wondering, are still in bed . . . hanging too, I reckon, unless they’re freaking out because Jevon saw my dick, which is too bad if they are, because they’re next on my breakfast route.”

Laughter burst from Joe, deep and warm. He turned away from the window and flicked a stray bread crust at Dylan’s head. “See? You’ve got that shit covered.”

“What shit?”

“Keeping tabs on everyone . . . on the details that matter. You can’t help yourself, and I wish I’d had you around years ago when I first came back here to run the farm. I’d have saved myself a lot of aggro if I’d had someone who knew one end of the business from the other.”

“I don’t know anything about running stables, Joe. I barely know one end of a horse from the other.”

“Not about the nags, though, is it? It’s about the money—everything is—and there’s loads of farmers around here who need help with that.”

“If this is your roundabout way of suggesting I go into farmyard financials, don’t bother. I’ve already halfway thought about it, but I don’t think it would work.”

Joe came back to the bed and sat down. “Why not?”

“Because I don’t know enough about farming to offer workable advice. Domestic finances are easy—I know exactly what’s going to happen if someone doesn’t pay their gas bill or their mortgage. It’s different for businesses, particularly agricultural ones, and I don’t have the knowledge to be truly helpful to anyone.”

Dylan figured Joe would understand, but the challenge in his eyes remained.

He pulled a notebook from a drawer and scribbled something in it. “That’s Emma’s number if you can’t catch her in the yard. She’s got the knowledge you need but not the tools to distribute it. Maybe you can help each other.”

Dylan took the number without comment and left Joe to his forced morning off. The idea had legs—serious legs—and a glimmer of hopeful enthusiasm carried him downstairs, merging with the vague Truro-based idea he’d been floating to himself since his afternoon with Rhys and Harry.

Brain buzzing, he cobbled breakfast together for Jevon and Rhys and braved the mud to deliver it.

At the bungalow, he found Jevon in the shower and Rhys still in bed. “You okay?”

Rhys yawned. “Just letting the last few weeks catch up with me. Apparently falling on my arse during a terrorist attack is more traumatic when you sink all that booze.”

“I did wonder if it might be. You haven’t talked about it at all, and you’re usually good at that with me.”

“I’m good at most things with you. You’re a positive influence.” Rhys held up the covers and nodded for Dylan to slide in beside him. “But yeah . . . I hadn’t really talked about it enough, and because me and Jevon were both twatted, it took all night to hash out.”

“But you did, though? Hash it out? Because I’ve got some numbers somewhere for stuff like this, and I’d imagine your employers do too.”

“I know all that, mate. I’m not some rookie, and this isn’t the first time I’ve seen horrible crap.”

“It is the first time you’ve come close to getting stabbed by a marauding terrorist, though.”

“You don’t say.” Rhys shifted awkwardly onto his side. “But I’m okay, honest. I flipped my shit when I first got here, but I guess I wasn’t done—that I needed to let off some more steam—and I reckon being around you and Angie helped me out with that.”

“I hope so. How’s Jevon this morning? Not hiding in the bathroom, is he?”

Rhys snorted. “Doubt it. I don’t think he’d be up for the club anytime soon, but fucking around in front of you was his dynamite.”

“He’s beautiful, Rhys.”

“I know that too.”

Of course he did. The bathroom door opened and Jevon stepped into the bedroom, dark braids bundled at the nape of his neck, a towel wrapped around his trim waist. He grinned at Dylan like the long-lost pal perhaps he’d always been. “Morning, gorgeous.”

Dylan smiled too; so comfortable in their bed he could’ve happily stayed all day if not for the mind-map exploding in his brain. “Says yourself. Don’t worry. I’m not staying. Just brought you some fuel so you can hole up for the day.”

“You don’t need help in the kitchen?”

“Unless you can save me from Angelo’s best Carluccio impression, nah, we’re all right. Stay here and be naked.”

“Fine by me,” Rhys said.

Like a moth to a flame, Jevon’s gaze left Dylan for Rhys and stayed there, transfixed. Dylan took his cue and crawled out of bed. He kissed them both on the cheek and left them to love each other.

Back in the kitchen, Angelo had returned, eyes bright with achievement.

Dylan kissed him too, but on the lips, devouring him like he’d been gone a week. “Good session?”

“Really good. Harry’s given me a couple of ME patients to work with who have the same symptoms as me.”

“Relapsing and remitting? I thought that was quite rare?”

“It is, but Harry has a few because he’s the best. The ones I saw today are a girl about our age and her grandmother. Weird, huh?”

Nothing about Angelo’s vicious condition surprised Dylan anymore, so he nodded for Angelo to go on.

“Anyway,” Angelo said. “They both have random shitty days, like me, but we managed to ward one off today for the girl, and it reminded me what I can do for myself when things get tough.”

“You already work like a dog on your recovery.”

“I know, but I don’t always believe it’s worth the effort. It’s good to be reminded that it is. I think—um, I think I’d be okay if we went back to London. I’m scared of it because not having Harry around is daunting, you know? Because he’s such an amazing physio, but working with other people is good for me too, especially when I’m the one with the knowledge.”

Dylan nodded slowly. “You do have something that Harry doesn’t, though—a view from the inside—and I want to talk more about where we’re going with this, but there’s something I need to do first.”

“Something back home?”

“No, something here. Can you hold the fort for a little while? I need to find Emma.”

Angelo seemed mystified—and more fearful than Dylan could bear—but took over the mammoth meal preparations without protest and kissed Dylan’s hand. “Hurry back. I miss you.”

Gino Giordano’s sausage and panettone stuffing was the only good thing Angelo recalled of family Christmases. Spiked with chilli, sage, and lemon, it had brightened an otherwise painful experience, and he had fond memories of stealing the leftovers with his little cousin Ludo and hiding in the cellar of the big old Romford house until it was all gone.

Life had moved on since then, of course—Angelo hadn’t seen Ludo in years—but the smell made him smile as he retrieved it from the oven and set it on the counter to cool; a welcome break from fretting over where Dylan had gone. What the fuck does he want with Emma? Two hours into Dylan’s absence, and he still had no idea.

“What on earth is that?”

Angelo jumped. Somehow he’d missed Joe coming downstairs. “Stuffing. And what are you doing in here anyway? You’re supposed to be sleeping.”

“That was this morning. It’s nearly tea time now, and if I sit in that room any longer, I’m going to smother myself with a pillow.”

“Try spending a month in bed, then tell me how you really feel.”

Joe gave Angelo a one-armed hug on his way to the fridge. “I know, mate. I know. That shit smells amazing, by the way. When can we eat it?”

“Tomorrow. Harry’s ordering pizzas tonight, and he left some custard creams in the office to keep you going. He said you had some invoices to pay or something?”

“Wow. It must be fucking Christmas.” Joe sloped off to the office.

Going on past experiences, Angelo expected him to reappear fairly quickly, raging about needing a secretary. When he didn’t, Angelo stuck the kettle on and foraged for another packet of biscuits, but Dylan came back before he could resupply Joe, and Emma was a heartbeat behind him.

“We have a plan.” Dylan’s eyes blazed. “A pretty sketchy one right now, but if we can make it work, it should keep both of us busy for a while.”

“Both of us?” It took Angelo a moment to realise Dylan was talking about Emma and him. “Busy doing what? You’re—uh—we’re—going home in a few days.”

“Yeah, but not for long if we can pull a long-term plan together before then.”

“I literally have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Then listen.” Emma pulled up a chair at the table and dropped a stack of paperwork in the middle. “And tell us if you think of something we haven’t.”

“Are you taking the piss?”

“Just listen,” Dylan said. “Please.”

So Angelo did.

Managing money wasn’t his strong point, and he knew even less about farming, but as Dylan and Emma hashed out a plan to provide financial advice to farms and agricultural businesses all over South West England, his bewilderment faded away. “So Emma would run the contact centre from here, and you’d go out into the community?”

“That’s the basic plan.” Dylan sat back in his seat. “I mean, Emma can come out with me anytime she wants, but the point is, she doesn’t have to if she’s having a shitty time.”

Angelo nodded. Emma’s anxiety disorder was as crippling as ME—every day a constant work in progress. Hoping for the best but planning for the worst was far more practical. He nudged her gently. “Is this what you want? I thought you were set on going to Norway to do that teaching course?”

She nudged him back. “As if that’s ever going to happen—and don’t give me a positive attitude pep talk, it doesn’t help. I want to do this, Angelo. Me and Joe have nearly lost this place so many times, there’s not much I don’t know about keeping a farm above water, and other farmers call us for advice all the time. Trouble is, most of them need face-to-face communication—hours and hours to pour over their paperwork and get things in order, and I just . . . I just can’t do it some days, and that’s not fair when people are relying on you.”

Angelo understood that all too well. How many times had he let patients down when he couldn’t get out of bed? Too many to contemplate right now. “How would you get paid—” He stopped and shook his head, searching for less crude phrasing in his jumbled brain. “I mean, if you’re providing a service for struggling farmers, how is it funded?”

“DEFRA, if I can secure it,” Dylan said. “Similar to the funding system we use at Citizens Advice. It’s basically the government outsourcing support services like they do everything else.”

“Like the NHS paying Harry to take private patients?”

“Something like that.”

It didn’t make much sense to Angelo, but nothing about public funding ever did. He let it go and flicked through the list of businesses Emma already had on her list. “These are people you’ve worked with before?”

“Some of them for web design and marketing, but most of them are friends and acquaintances—the ones my dad hasn’t pissed off over the years. They’re not interested in fancy websites and social media campaigns. Right now, they need help just to stay above water. Farming isn’t what it was twenty years ago, and if you’re not producing artisan hipster crap, you just can’t survive without help.”

Dylan made a noise of agreement, and Angelo glanced between him and Emma, absorbing their shared enthusiasm all over again and finally allowing himself to contemplate what it actually meant. If Dylan had a project in Cornwall—a project he cared about as much as his work in London, could it be that—

“Hey.” Dylan kicked Angelo gently under the table. “Did you have a stroke?”

“What?”

“You’re going all Walking Dead on your lips again.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. What are you thinking?”

Angelo shrugged. “I’m wondering if this means you’re actually wanting to quit your job in London and move down here instead of doing it for my sake.”

“Aaaand, that’s my cue to go and annoy Joe.” Emma abandoned her paperwork and slipped noiselessly from the room.

Leaving Angelo mauling his bottom lip again.

Grinning, Dylan rescued it. “We’ve been over that a million times. Even the cats must be fed up with it by now, but to answer your question . . . yes. There’s a lot to do to get this project off the ground, and it’ll take a few months to wind down my work in London, but I’m really fucking excited about it. I think what we want to do—the service we can provide—could make a real difference to the farming communities around here.”

“I love it when you talk dirty.”

“Shut up.” Dylan laughed and drew Angelo closer. “I want to ask you about something, though. Emma said Harry offered you a permanent job at the clinic. Why didn’t you tell me?”

Angelo shrugged. “Because it’s an amazing opportunity for me, and I didn’t want you to make any decisions based on that. That’s how it started, anyway. Eventually, I just couldn’t find the right moment.”

“And me having a meltdown every time we talked about it didn’t help, I bet.”

“You didn’t have any meltdowns.”

“On the outside, maybe.” Dylan tapped his temple. “But to be honest, it seems like we’ve been chasing this solution for months, and I feel a hundred times lighter now we’ve got this idea on the table, even though there’s still so much to do.”

Lighter. Angelo turned the word over in his mind and it fit. “We don’t have to literally live on the farm if you don’t want to. Harry always planned for the biggest chalet to be for on-site staff, but it doesn’t have to be me.”

“We don’t have to make any decisions about that right now.”

Calmness that had been missing for weeks laced Dylan’s gorgeous gravelly voice.

Fuck, I love his voice.

“But,” Dylan went on. “It would make sense to live on the farm with me and Emma working together too. I don’t want to live in a chalet forever, but it seems like a sensible place to start.”

“What about the flat?”

“We can rent it out. Sam and Eddie mentioned coming back to London next summer. Maybe they can live there.”

“Orgy BFF? Got it.”

Dylan flicked Angelo’s ear. “Stop it. I’ve never fucked Sam, and I haven’t fucked Eddie in years.”

“Not that many years.”

“What’s your point?”

Angelo grinned. “That I’m horny?”

Dylan ran his tongue over his full bottom lip, untouched by anxious, renegade teeth, but his retort was cut off by Harry coming in from a long day of hardcore farm work.

He left his boots by the door and glanced between Angelo and Dylan. “You two been on the rum already?”

“Nope.” Dylan released Angelo from his smouldering stare. “Just making plans. Angelo’s going to accept your job offer, and I’m going to work with Emma in agricultural debt relief, so I’m going to need a pair of those wellies you threatened to buy me yesterday. I’m not ruining any more shoes.”

Harry’s smile was a mile wide. “Seriously? You figured it all out?”

“Joe did, actually,” Dylan said. “He fed me the idea this afternoon.”

“He’s a fucking dark horse,” Harry said with obvious surprise. “He never mentioned it to me.”

“That’s because you’ve been busy planning other sneaky things,” Emma snapped from the hallway that led to the office. “Get in here . . . now.”

She disappeared as abruptly as she’d arrived. Harry rolled his eyes and ambled after her. At the door, he stopped and turned. “In all seriousness, I’m really happy for you. I get that leaving London behind is a massive wrench, even if things aren’t perfect there, but life’s different down here—it’s for living, not just surviving.”

“He’ll be lucky if he survives the next ten minutes,” Dylan remarked when he was gone. “Emma looked pissed.”

“Yeah, well, you’ve got that to look forward to if you’re going to work with her every day. Her and Joe are fucking wild.”

“It’ll be fine. If we’re as busy as I hope we’ll be, she won’t have time to lose her shit. Now . . . didn’t you say something about being horny?”