Dylan balanced his precious coffee mug on his stack of paperwork and resisted the urge to kick the photocopier. It took a herculean effort and he growled expletives under his breath. Why does nothing in this place ever work?

Helen, the office manager, glanced up from her own teetering pile of files. “Bad day already? It’s barely ten.”

“Is two hours not enough for everything to go horribly wrong?” Dylan gave up on the copier and chanced the temperamental scanner instead. “I’ve got three new DRO cases to set up and no way of duplicating the paperwork.”

“I’ve called someone out for the copier. Have you tried next door? They offered to help yesterday.”

Dylan scowled. Setting foot in the nearby Council offices was like asking the child catcher for a ride, but with his next appointment due in ten minutes, he didn’t have much choice.

He staggered back fifteen minutes later, avoiding eye contact with the mutinous huddle of pissed-off clients in the waiting room. “Sorry,” he said to Helen. “I had to play nice with that creepy receptionist.”

“Uh-huh.” Helen passed him the appointment schedule. “Your ten fifteen is in room five. Remember to keep it to twenty minutes for your initial assessment. We’re overrun right now.”

Dylan didn’t need reminding. He was the only full-time debt advisor at Stratford Citizens Advice Bureau, and his workload was so biblical that he hadn’t had time to even glance at the notes from his next client’s telephone consultation. Brilliant. If there was one thing worse than having too many clients, it was walking in blind to an appointment.

He grabbed a new notebook from his desk and made his way to his waiting client, trying not to smirk as he recalled the last time he’d entered a room with a big fat number five on the door. It had been a week since his trip to Lovato’s had reset his sexual energy, and despite missing Sam and Eddie, the burn of whoever had turned him inside out remained hot and strong.

So strong, in fact, that he’d gone to bed every night since and jacked off imagining the man with the strong hands and smooth voice. Picturing how he’d lifted Dylan from the bed and flipped him over. Remembering how he’d growled as Dylan had come so hard his eyes had watered for hours after. Lovato’s had always been a healthy escape, but whoever had railed Dylan that night had come through in more ways than one. It was the first time Dylan had ever regretted playing with a blindfold on too. I wonder if⁠—

Get a grip, dickhead.

Dylan clutched his paperwork close to his chest, and with another considerable effort, pushed all thoughts of his basement encounter aside. He opened the door and swept into the consultation room, moving straight to the battered desk to power up the ancient PC. As the advice database loaded, he finally faced his client. “Hi, I’m Dylan⁠—⁠”

Jesus fucking Christ.

Dylan’s words died on his lips as he met the liquid gaze of the most beautiful man he’d ever seen. Slim and dark, the man had neat hair and sculpted cheekbones, warm olive skin, and both ears pierced. Black jeans clung to his perfect legs, and a white T-shirt revealed slender forearms that made Dylan drool until he was drawn back to the man’s eyes.

“Uh, yeah . . . anyway.” Dylan fumbled for the notebook he’d dropped on the table. “I’m one of the debt advisors here. I haven’t got all your details to hand right now, but if you give me a minute⁠—⁠”

“What did you say your name was?”

“Pardon?”

The man leaned forward. “Your name. What is it?”

“Dylan.”

Silence. The man stared hard enough for Dylan to squirm in his seat. He dropped his gaze to the files in front of him, flipping through the pages until he found the client’s information. Angelo Giordano. The name was familiar, though Dylan couldn’t say why. He scanned the notes the telephone advisor had made, listing personal and business debts and a recent family bereavement. The advisor had suggested a DRO or an IVA or possibly bankruptcy, and it was Dylan’s job to figure out which option was best for the client. For him, the gorgeous man who was still scowling at Dylan. “I’m sorry about your father.”

“What?”

“Your father,” Dylan repeated. “It says here that he died recently?”

The man blinked, and the intensity in his glare faded a touch. “We buried him a week ago. That’s why I’m here.”

“To run his business? The deli at Gallows Corner?”

“You know it?”

“I do. Romford’s my hometown.”

“I bet.”

“Excuse me?”

The man blinked again and seemed to shake himself slightly. “I mean, it’s mine too. That’s why I came to this office, so I wouldn’t see anyone I know.”

“Makes sense. It’s why I work in Stratford.” Dylan speed-read the man’s information again. “But I’m not sure how much I’m going to be able to help you today. We don’t offer commercial business advice here, so anything related to the deli will need to be set aside.”

“It’s all related to the deli.”

Scepticism warred with Dylan’s massively unprofessional preoccupation with Mr. Giordano’s legs. Some of the personal debts listed were years old, and from what he could tell, Mr. Giordano’s salary as a dancer⁠—oh God, kill me now⁠—had largely disappeared into paying enormous interest charges on unsecured loans and late payment fees when he’d fallen behind. Mr. Giordano had been in financial trouble long before his father died, and taking over the family deli had pretty much reduced his income to zero.

Ten minutes later, Dylan read through the notes he’d made. “As the business is in your mother’s name, it counts as neither an asset nor a responsibility. Which is good and bad. You’re not liable for its debts, but you can’t borrow against it to consolidate your personal loans either.”

“I know.”

Dylan glanced up. It was the first words Mr. Giordano⁠—Angelo⁠—had uttered for a while; he’d apparently drifted off as Dylan had filled in financial statements from the paperwork spread out between them and had stopped responding to Dylan’s observations. “Your wages from the deli are a hundred pounds a week?”

“Yup.”

“And you don’t have any other income?”

“Nope.”

“Okay.” Dylan completed the last of the forms. “Well, as you’re probably already aware, your personal debts, and the repayments on them, vastly outstrip your current means, even with your living expenses as low as they are while you’re living in your mum’s garage.”

“Right.”

Dylan waited until Angelo met his gaze before he went on. “The deli belongs to your mother, and so I’m going to refer you⁠—and her⁠—to an organisation that can help with your business debts.”

“What about the rest of it?”

“Honestly?”

“I didn’t come here to be lied to.”

The growl in Angelo’s voice did odd things to Dylan. For a moment he was briefly transported back to the basement rooms where a voice like that had come with a firm grip and an expertly aimed dick. “You have no assets or leftover income each month, and your debts come in at just below twenty grand. The best advice I can give you right now is to apply for a DRO⁠—a debt relief order⁠—that would be in force for twelve months, after which, your debts would be wiped. It costs ninety pounds and will affect your credit score for six years, but unless you foresee your circumstances changing anytime soon, it’s your best option.”

Dylan sat back in his seat as Angelo digested the information. It had been a strange consultation⁠—one-sided, mainly, as the beautiful man had fluctuated between gazing into space and staring so intently that Dylan’s teeth itched. Angelo’s financial situation was dire but fixable. What Dylan couldn’t work out was how it had got so bad in the first place. The deli had been a victim of gentrification, but Angelo Giordano had earned good money in his previous job and he didn’t strike Dylan as a man who’d be careless with cash. A brave assumption, perhaps, but Dylan had a decade in debt relief, and he’d bet his right arm that a big piece of the puzzle was missing. “What did you do for work before the deli?”

“Hmm?” Angelo glanced up from the financial assessment Dylan had slid across the table.

“Your previous job,” Dylan said. “What was it?”

“I was a dancer.”

“I know that. I meant what kind of dancing.”

“Ballet.”

“Seriously?” Dylan blurted before he caught himself. With his pierced ears and dark beard, Angelo didn’t fit Dylan’s naïve idea of what a ballet dancer would look like. “That’s amazing.”

“It was,” Angelo said flatly. “But I’m past it now.”

“Past it? Too old, you mean?”

“Something like that.” Angelo’s dark gaze flashed with an emotion that cut Dylan to the bone, but it faded fast, like it had never been there at all, and he broke the spell by tapping his elegant fingers on the desk. “So what happens next? Do I need to sign something?”

“Uh . . .” Dylan opened a drawer in the desk and retrieved a DRO pack. “Applications for debt relief orders can only be made by an approved intermediary, and I can’t do it for you here because you live in Romford.”

“So?”

“You’re out of area,” Dylan explained, though he couldn’t explain why it was killing him. “I have to signpost you to the Romford office.”

“Then why did you give me an appointment here?”

“Because we’ll see anyone who walks through the door, but our options are limited when it comes to making DRO applications. It’s policy to refer you to the office closest to you.”

“That place is shite.”

Dylan couldn’t deny it. Aside from not wanting to know the financial woes of his friends and neighbours, it was the notorious disarray of the Romford office that had led him to take the position in Stratford. But his hands were tied. “I’m sorry.”

“Why? Not your fault, is it?”

“No, but it seems unfair that you came here for help and all I can do is pass you from pillar to post.”

Angelo stood. His gaze was directed at his feet as he seemed to manoeuvre himself with more care than necessary, but when he looked up, the dull haze had faded, and in its place was a malevolence that was almost frightening. “Don’t worry about it, mate. Twenty minutes on the train is nothing. Besides, it ain’t like you walked in here and fucked me, is it?”

Dylan blinked. “What?”

“You heard me.” Angelo pushed his chair back and walked to the door. “Thanks for your help today, Dylan, but I gotta say, you did more for me a week ago when I railed you at Lovato’s. You have a nice day, now.”

* * *

Wanker. Angelo pressed his fists into his eyes, like he could unsee the horror he’d left on Dylan’s face when he’d walked out on him with legs that had only just made it outside before they’d given way. He’d barely made it to the train station.

Serves you fucking right.

Of course it did. The first rule of Lovato’s was that there was no Lovato’s, and yet Angelo had taken it to Dylan’s work and thrown it in his face. The gravity of his own woes had outweighed his shock at recognising Dylan, and then his treacherous temper had intervened, and he’d hurt the man who’d haunted his fantasies all week long.

Angelo stretched his aching legs out in front of him and made a half-hearted attempt to massage the pain out of his thighs. For a while it seemed that he’d be spending the night on the bench he’d collapsed on when he’d stumbled off the train, but eventually he found the energy to get up and trudge the two miles back to Gallows Corner, trying not to dwell on the fact that Dylan knew he couldn’t afford the bus.

At the deli, his mother was waiting for him, already drowning in the lunchtime rush. “Angelo! Where have you been?”

Angelo pushed passed her and grabbed his apron from under the till. “I told you, Ma. I had to go to Stratford for some business.”

“What business?”

“What do you think?” Angelo snapped before the guilt at having left his mother alone in the deli all morning kicked in. “I went to Citizens Advice, remember?”

Theresa Giordano frowned. “What do you need to go telling our business to strangers for? Your father would turn in his grave.”

“Then he should’ve paid the damn bills when he was alive.”

Angelo regretted the words as soon as they were out of his mouth, but it was too late. His mother’s eyes filled with tears and she turned her back on him, leaving him to face the rest of the day on his own.

It was late by the time Angelo made his escape. The Giordano house was a mile away, but the walk seemed to stretch on much farther. Angelo was so tired he felt sick, and the long stagger to the tatty garage he called home seemed like it would kill him.

He was halfway there when a figure hopping off a bus caught his eye. His heart stopped and then restarted with a painful thud. Jesus. Twice in one day? Surely not. But as Angelo fell into step behind the slim blond, the back of his head grew more familiar. After all, he’d spent the best part of their first encounter staring at it.

Angelo wondered where Dylan was going. He’d said that he lived opposite Romford’s Citizens Advice Bureau, but that was in the wrong direction for Angelo’s home, and there was no need to follow him . . . right?

He was half a mile out of his way before he saw reason, and by then the converted Railstore development where Dylan likely lived was at the end of the road. Angelo thrust his hands into his pockets and thought about turning around. But he didn’t. He trailed Dylan all the way to the entrance doors, intending to walk straight past, but a startled exclamation from Dylan halted him in his tracks.

A pile of folders and paperwork hit the pavement. Angelo turned right at the moment that Dylan looked up. Their eyes met, and in the murky light of the early autumn evening, Angelo’s world stopped. His heart raced, and his breath caught in his chest, and no coherent thought graced his brain as Dylan stared at him, his blanched skin and red-rimmed eyes caught in a devastating mix of shock and horror. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Any hope that Angelo might’ve had that Dylan hadn’t connected his vicious parting words with the dick that had slammed him in the club evaporated. He swallowed and took a hesitant step forward. “Um . . . I live here.”

“Your mother’s house is a mile in the opposite direction.”

“So? Doesn’t mean I have to spend all my time there, does it?”

“No, but I’m pretty sure there’s laws against stalking people, so I suggest you find somewhere else to be.”

Dylan gathered his things from the ground and turned to his front door, jabbing a key at the lock with shaking hands. Angelo retreated and watched from a respectable distance, but when Dylan dropped his keys, the daft twat that had followed Dylan from the bus stop in the first place sprang to life again, and even his fatigue-addled legs betrayed his sanity.

He scooped up Dylan’s keys and jammed the biggest one in the lock. “There you go.”

“How is that fucking off?”

Despite the aggression lacing Dylan’s tone, the way his voice wrapped around the words erased the torturous morning they spent together in the stuffy Citizens Advice office and took Angelo back to the start⁠—back to the basement room where the first he’d seen of Dylan was his leonine body, arched and ready.

Ready for me.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Dylan snapped. “Turning up at my work? Blasting me with shit that should’ve stayed at the club? Or following me home?”

“All of it . . . except, I didn’t turn up at your work on purpose.”

“No? So why did you sit through a twenty-minute interview without saying something then? That’s messed up to the nth degree. Now, get the fuck away from my house.”

Dylan crunched his key in the lock and opened the door. He marched inside and the door swung shut in Angelo’s face.

Defeated, Angelo backed away, the ache in his body returning with every step. Somehow, being close to Dylan had distracted him from the reason he’d wound up back in Romford without a penny to his name in the first place. He sank down on yet another nearby bench and put his head in his hands. Jesus. What the fuck had he just done? If Dylan had any sense, he’d call the rozzers. And being carted off by the police would just about top off Angelo’s day⁠—week, month. Fuck it. The whole damn year had been shit.

The temptation to slump down on the bench and fall asleep was strong⁠—it wouldn’t be the first time he’d slept outside⁠—but it began to rain, and Angelo was perversely glad of the chill that came with it. The wind rattled through his tired bones and matched his mood. He took a deep breath and stood, but a hand closed around his arm before he could take a step.

“Why are you here?”

Angelo turned. Dylan was behind him, dressed in ripped jeans and an Iron Maiden T-shirt. It was such a contrast from the smart casual he’d worn to work that Angelo simply stared, as transfixed as he’d been when he’d found Dylan naked and waiting for him.

“Well?” Dylan shoved his floppy blond hair out of his face. His wrist was covered in distressed metal bracelets and grungy festival bands. His hand was elegant and smooth. Angelo wanted to kiss it.

He stepped back, raising his own hands in surrender. “I said I was sorry. I had no idea you’d be at my appointment this morning, and I only followed you when you got off the bus in front of me to apologise for losing my shit at you. I’m not a fucking stalker, and I’m sorry, okay? You’ll never see me again, I swear.”

“Angelo⁠—⁠”

“Mate, I’m embarrassed enough. Don’t make me say it again.” Angelo turned on his heel and walked away as the heavens opened in earnest. The clusterfuck his day had become felt surreal, and despite being sick of his own four walls, he couldn’t wait to get home and pretend it had never happened. Hell, he’d even give up on the memory of fucking Dylan if it meant he could escape the cold impatience in Dylan’s eyes now.

“Angelo, wait.”

Angelo kept walking. Fat raindrops soaked into his clothes and ran down his face. His one remaining pair of Nikes squelched in the puddles. But still he recoiled when Dylan grabbed his arm. “Get off me.”

“Why? You followed me all the way home and now I’m supposed to leave you alone?”

“You told me to fuck off, so I’m fucking off.”

“So why did you get in my face in the first place?”

“I already told you.”

“I know, but why? Why do you care how I felt about what you did in the office? It’s not like we ever had to see each other again.”

“Isn’t it?” Angelo cast a pointed glance around them. “We live in the same town. We’d have run into each other eventually.”

“Would we, though? My dad has lived on Faringdon Avenue for twenty years and I’ve never seen you before. I even used to buy lunch from the deli when I worked at Jack’s Barber Shop. I can picture your father, your mum . . . even someone I think is your sister, but never you.”

“That’s because I wasn’t there.”

“What? Never?”

“Not since I was fifteen.”

“Why not?”

“What do you care?” It was oddly satisfying to throw Dylan’s question back in his face, and it seemed that Dylan had no better answer for it than Angelo.

“I don’t understand . . . I don’t get it.”

Angelo wiped rain out of his face. “Get what?”

“How this fucking happened!” Dylan’s shout rang out, but no one looked their way, and after a moment, he tugged on his hair again. “Look, I’ve been going to the club for a couple of years now, and there’s no way that the other night was the first time you’ve fucked someone in the basement rooms⁠—I can always tell⁠—so it seems a little messed up that you screw me once and then turn up everywhere I go a week later.”

Angelo’s brain didn’t work as fast as it used to, especially on days like this that wouldn’t just end already. “Are you asking me if I engineered fucking you and then stalked you ever since?”

“I don’t know what I’m asking. I’m just confused. And freaked out. I’ve never seen anyone I’ve played with outside of the club.”

“Neither had I until this morning.”

Dylan stared at Angelo, his bloodshot eyes suddenly more intense than ever. “Don’t lie to me.”

“Why would I lie? If I really am a stalker, I’m a pretty shit one, given that you know everything about me and my family. No mystery there, mate, is there?”

“I guess not.”

“Right.” Angelo started to move away.

Dylan caught his arm again. “Don’t go.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know.” Dylan’s grip on Angelo’s arm tightened. “Because it’s raining?”

Angelo laughed for what felt like the first time in a year. “If you’re worried about getting wet, it’s a little late for that.” He gestured at their drenched clothes and shivered. “I gotta get home before I bloody drown.”

A bus rumbling past drowned out Dylan’s reply, and his feet moved in the wrong direction. Belatedly, Angelo realised that Dylan was tugging him in the direction of his flat. “What are you doing?”

Dylan speared him with a determined frown. “I’m taking you home.”

“I live over there, remember?”

“I meant my home.”

“Why?”

Dylan yanked on Angelo’s arm a little harder. “Because we don’t know the answer to that question. Now come the fuck on.”