Chapter eleven
“Are you going to glare at me like that all day?” Oliver asked.
“Thinking ‘bout it,” Deano snapped.
“I’ve already put her off three weekends in a row. I wasn’t given a choice.”
Deano and he had been together for a month now and Becky had point blank refused to be fobbed off any longer.
“It’s not the fact that she’s coming, Oliver,” Deano said testily. “It’s the fact that you decided to tell me she was coming half an hour before she’s due to arrive. I’m not a kid, Doc. I’m too old to play games.”
“Yes, I should have told you,” Oliver acquiesced, holding up his hands in surrender. “But I knew you’d freak about meeting her, so I thought it best to wait.”
“And how is that working out?”
Oliver countered sarcastically, “Well, since you’re obviously ecstatic about the idea, I’d say it’s going swimmingly, wouldn’t you?”
Deano waved his arm at Oliver’s kitchen. “I mean, look at this place. When was the last time you washed up?”
“When did you last let me out of bed?”
“Oh no, you can’t blame me,” Deano said as he crossed his arms and looked down his nose at Oliver. “You’ve been at my place every night this week.”
“Aha!” Oliver yelled, triumphantly. “So it is your fault. How am I supposed to do the washing up here when you’ve kept me prisoner there?”
“Prisoner?”
“Practically… maybe…” Oliver prevaricated, trying not to smile at the sardonic expression on Deano’s face. “Well, when I say prisoner,” he said, stepping back as Deano stepped purposefully towards him. “I don’t really mean prisoner in the, you know, prisoner sense of the word.”
“Oh, I see.” Oliver’s arse hit the cupboard below the kitchen counter and Deano effectively pinned him in, putting his hands either side of him. “So not like this, then?” He leaned in and slid his lips up the side of Oliver’s neck. “You know, in the sense of hemming you in. Not letting you escape. Doing exactly what I want to you. A prisoner in that prisoner sense of the word?” He continued to work his way up Oliver’s neck and traced the shell of his ear with the tip of his tongue.
“Fuck!” Oliver groaned; drawing out the word as his cock tightened in his cargo shorts.
“Among other things,” Deano whispered.
Oliver slid his hands around Deano’s waist and slipped them under the hem of his T-shirt. Deano hissed in his ear as Oliver drew his blunt nails across the warm skin of his back. He tilted his head to give Deano better access to his throat and moaned lowly. “Don’t stop.”
“Actually, please do.”
Oliver pushed Deano away at the sound of Becky’s voice and hastily straightened his shirt. “How the hell did you get in?” he exclaimed.
“Charming,” Becky said as she dropped her suitcase on the floor. “You left the front door open, numb nuts.”
“I mean, hi!” Oliver pushed himself away from the counter and pulled her into his arms, hugging her tightly. “You’re early. What a great surprise.”
“Yeah,” Becky replied dryly. “I got that from the ‘how the hell did you get in?’ brother dear. Anyway, hello, you look good, now get off me.” She shoved him aside and smiled brightly at Deano. “I’m not here to see you.” She looked Deano up and down, much to Oliver’s embarrassment and Deano’s amusement. “My, my, you weren’t kidding when you said he was gorgeous.” She sidled up to Deano and put her red-tipped fingers on his arm. “Are you sure you’re gay?”
“’Fraid so,” Deano replied, grinning down at her.
“Shame.” She slipped her hand through his arm and propelled him towards the kitchen door. “Ollie, be a love and put the kettle on. Farmer McHottie and I are going to adjourn to the living-room and get to know each other better.”
“Becky,” Oliver warned.
“It’s okay,” Becky replied, smiling sweetly. “I’m not going to ask him any embarrassing questions. That’ll happen when I go through the list Mum gave me.”
“What?”
“A sandwich would be good too, it was a long drive.”
Oliver stared, open-mouthed as Deano shrugged and allowed Becky to lead him out of the kitchen. “Make her a sandwich?” he ground out. “I’ll make her a bloody sandwich.” He sighed heavily and set about making the three of them some lunch. There was no point in attempting to thwart Hurricane Becky. He’d been dancing to the beat of her drum since he could walk. He’d learned very quickly that life was easier that way. Oliver took some bread out of the bread bin and shook his head. He wasn’t sure who he felt sorrier for—him or the poor sucker being Beckied in the other room.
*
Oliver waved until Becky’s car disappeared in the distance. Last night they’d had dinner in the pub with the boys, when Becky had kept them all enthralled with mortifying stories from Oliver’s and her childhood. And they had just had a wonderfully lazy Sunday lunch courtesy of Violet and Malcolm. Becky had, as he’d known she would, charmed their socks off and by the time they’d left he’d been pretty sure Violet was ready to adopt her. When they’d returned to the cottage and Becky had gone upstairs to pack her suitcase, Oliver had followed her, having been unable to get her alone all weekend.
“Well?” he asked, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “You’re killing me. What do you think?”
“I like him,” Becky replied, smiling. “Although he’s definitely not what you usually go for.”
“What does that mean?”
“He’s not on the same scholarly scale as Andrew is he?”
“Thank God for that.” Oliver stared at her. “What?”
“I saw him last week. He’s miserable. He wants you back.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, he just wants what he can’t have,” Oliver scoffed. “Besides, my life is here now. Coming to Little Mowbury was the best decision I ever made. And as for Dean, he might not have the letters after his name, but he’s the most intelligent, sweet and loving man I’ve ever met. I’m really falling for him, Becks.”
She walked around the bed and held out her arms. He stood up and hugged her. “I’m happy for you, Ollie. He’s great.”
Brought back to the here and now and feeling slightly bereft now that she’d gone, Oliver turned to wrap his arms around Deano’s waist. “Thank you so much for putting up with the third degree,” he said. “I know how relentless she can be.”
“She loves you,” Deano replied, his voice very monotone and expressionless. “She wants what’s best for you.”
Oliver frowned and looked up at him, searching his gaze for some clue as to what was going on behind those eyes, but he was unreadable. Thinking about it, he’d been a bit quiet for a while. “Are you okay?” he asked.
“Yeah.” Deano ran a hand through his hair and gently extricated himself from Oliver’s grasp. “I have to get back to the farm.”
“I’ll pack a bag.”
“No,” Deano said quickly. Too quickly. “I need some space.”
Oliver stared at him, confused. Had he done something? What was wrong? Was he mad at him? The questions flashed through his mind one after the other, but he didn’t voice them. Instead he said the only thing he could, given the fact he had no idea what the hell was going on. “Okay. Call me later?”
“Yeah.” Deano nodded and climbed into his Land Rover. “I’ll call you later.”
It wasn’t until the car rounded the bend that Oliver realised something.
Deano hadn’t kissed him goodbye.
Oliver spent the rest of the afternoon and early evening tidying the house and setting his clothes out for tomorrow’s surgery. He threw a ready meal into the microwave but had picked at it rather than eaten it. He felt sick to his stomach, as if he was waiting for something to happen, but he didn’t know what.
He turned the TV off, dealt with the remnants of his dinner then locked up for the night. After a quick shower, he slid into bed and picked up his phone.
What’re you doing? He hasn’t rung. You know he hasn’t rung.
The feeling of impending dread amplified. Why hadn’t he rung? He’d said he would ring. But the phone hadn’t rung and he was going fucking insane. He tossed the cause of his frustration onto the bed and turned onto his side. That was mistake number one. He stared at the pillow beside him. Deano’s pillow. Every night since that first explosive night together they’d shared a bed, until tonight, and all Oliver could do was wait.
Mistake number two was answering the phone when it finally rang about twenty minutes later. He snatched up the mobile, took a couple of deep, steadying breaths, then answered it. “Hey.”
“Did I wake you?” Deano’s voice held a tone Oliver hadn’t heard before—thick and gruff, as if he was holding back tears.
“No.” Oliver swallowed against the sudden lump in his own throat. “Are you okay?”
“I can’t do this anymore.”
Oliver’s stomach rolled unpleasantly. “Do what?”
“This. Us. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have let it go this far.”
“You’re sorry? What the fuck is going on, Dean?”
“It’s just not working for me.”
“It seemed to be working just fucking fine when you had your dick up my arse last night!” Oliver’s fingers tightened on the phone. It was a cheap shot, but hell, he wasn’t feeling very charitable.
There was a lengthy pause, then Deano said again, “I’m sorry.”
“I know you, Wells,” Oliver said, closing his eyes and trying to remember how to breathe. “Something happened. Talk to me.”
“There’s nothing more to say. It’s over.” Another pause. “It’s not—”
“Don’t you fucking dare give me the ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ speech.” Oliver’s head was spinning.
“I’m—”
“And stop saying you’re sorry! Just tell me—”
“’Bye, Doc.”
Oliver tried to ring him back, but it kept going straight to voicemail and the farmhouse didn’t have a landline. He got dressed and undressed half a dozen times, wanting to drive over there and demand to know what the fuck was happening, but he also wanted to keep some iota of dignity. Although he was pretty sure he’d lost most of that when he was screaming down the phone at him. He didn’t know how long he’d lain there, staring at the phone, but it was almost midnight when he punched in a different number.
“Hey.” The answering voice was sleep addled and slightly pissed off. But the sound of it allowed the fist around his heart to loosen its grip and his voice was thick with emotion when he spoke.
“Becky?”