The knocking on the garage door came and went as the morning drifted into the afternoon. Angelo dozed through most of it, curled up on the couch that doubled as his bed, but eventually, Theresa’s patience wore thin, and she let herself into his garage lair.

“Why are you still in bed?” she demanded. “Your uncles are visiting today. They want to talk about the business.”

Angelo cracked his eyes open, shielding them against the light Theresa had let in with the open door. “Unless they want to buy it, I’m not fucking interested.”

Theresa met his cursing with a string of her own Italian expletives. “You’re no help to me when you’re like this. You’re just like your father.”

Angelo could believe it. Silvio Giordano had been a constant source of disappointment to all who knew him, and it was clear by the way his mother was looking at him now that she felt much the same way about her son. “I’m tired, Mum. Can we do this later?”

“You’re always tired. Perhaps if you came home at night instead of staying out drinking, you’d feel better. It’s no wonder you’re not fit enough to dance anymore.”

Fuck you. Angelo sat up, ignoring the wave of nauseating fatigue that threatened to send him straight back down again. “I’m retired. What did you expect me to be? A fifty-year-old ballerino?”

“You’re twenty-eight.”

“Right. Did you want something? Because I’ve got shit to do.”

The conversation had no destination. Theresa treated him to a final glare before she turned on her heel and left. The bang of the garage door rattled Angelo’s aching bones, and he lay back down, retrieving the TV remote and his phone from the concrete floor. His phone was of little interest to him⁠—he’d run out of data on his PAYG SIM days ago⁠—so he switched the TV on and stared at the news channel until sleep claimed him again.

Dawn the next morning found him alone in the deli, taking deliveries and setting up for the breakfast rush. Despite sleeping most of Sunday away, his legs were still dead weights, and he was practically on his knees when he sensed a familiar presence behind him.

Dylan.

Angelo turned slowly, half convinced his exhaustion-addled brain was playing a cruel trick, but for once the universe was on his side, and Dylan’s tentative smile felt like a light summer rain. “Hey.”

Dylan’s grin amped up a notch. “Hey. I wasn’t sure if you’d be pleased to see me.”

“Why would you think that?”

Dylan shrugged. “Stalker, remember?”

“I followed you to the club on Saturday.”

“What? Literally?”

“Well . . . no, but you said you’d be there, and I wouldn’t have gone otherwise.”

“No?” Dylan leaned forward with his elbows on the table. “That’s odd, ’cause I’ve been asking around about you, and apparently ‘Angel’⁠—that is you, right?⁠—is a man of extremes. You either disappear for months on end or show your face every week.”

“How do you know I’m not in a disappearing phase?”

“Because you hadn’t been seen all year before the first night we met.”

“First night we met, eh?” That was one way of describing it. Angelo’s arms throbbed with a darkly familiar pain, but convincing himself that it was a hangover from holding Dylan against the wall had got him out of bed that morning. “Well, I’d go back to the stalker bullshit if I could be bothered, but if I’d had the time, I’d have asked around about you, so I guess I can’t complain.”

“I’m too intrigued to care if you complain or not.”

“Intrigued?” The door opened behind Dylan. Angelo glared at the potential customer, willing them to fuck off already so he could lose himself in a conversation that was making him hot all over. “There ain’t much about me to be intrigued about. Fucking in the club is my jam, and I’m a miserable bastard in real life.”

“Are you? Or has life kicked you in the nuts?”

Dylan stepped aside without waiting for an answer, and with a cruel twist of fate, the customer behind him had a long list of orders for the estate agent’s office down the road. Filling them took the best part of fifteen minutes, and by the time Angelo was finished, Dylan was gone.

He trudged home that evening in a warped funk⁠—torn between the buzz of Dylan’s unexpected visit and the reality that whatever was simmering between them would likely fizzle out once Dylan realised that Angelo was a disaster in just about every way possible. Besides, it wasn’t like he had plans to stick around. Convincing his mother to sell the deli would take time, but as soon as it was done, Angelo was gone. Where to, he had no idea, but Romford was as dead to him as Silvio Giordano.

In the garage, he found a stack of debt collection letters and a bowl of rigatoni ready for him to chuck in the microwave. It was about as close to an apology as his mother ever got, but he couldn’t stomach it. He tossed it in the bin with the letters, bowl and all, and went to bed.

The next morning, Dylan was waiting for him on the street with the morning papers.

“Wow. Okay. Maybe you are a stalker after all.” Angelo unlocked the deli and waved Dylan inside. “Did you want something? Or are you just checking I haven’t topped myself?”

“Why would I think you’d do that?”

Angelo shrugged and started pulling stools from the tables. “You’ve got that look that social workers give you when your school tells them you’re depressed, and I haven’t exactly shown you my happy side.”

“Do you have one?”

“I did once.”

Dylan lifted a stool from the table. “Where did it go?”

“Dunno. But I do want to know why you’re here.” He gestured at Dylan’s metal tee and jeans combo. “You’re clearly not working, so why are you even awake?”

“I like early mornings.”

“Freak.”

“Yup. But you already knew that.”

It was true, but what little Angelo knew about Dylan had nothing to do with daylight. “Seriously. Why are you here?”

Dylan took the last stool from the last table. “I don’t know, to be honest. You looked like shit yesterday⁠—⁠”

“Thanks.”

“⁠—so I was worried that Saturday wasn’t as good for you as it was for me. And then I realised how fucking self-absorbed that was and figured there might be something actually wrong . . . you know, something real.”

This rambling version of Dylan was nothing like the poised professional Angelo had met in the debt interview, and he was glad of it. The brief, random moments he’d spent with him outside of the club were like another world, and the bullshit that had brought them together seemed a lifetime away. Angelo smiled and drifted to the kitchen, trusting that Dylan would follow.

He couldn’t describe how he felt when Dylan trailed him and hopped up on the counter, lounging there like he’d done it a thousand times over. Christ, I could fuck him right now. And the sensation briefly won the battle raging in his treacherous body.

But Dylan’s fast sobering expression ruined it all. “So . . . ,” he pressed. “Are you okay? We’re not supposed to discuss your financial stuff anymore, but I can listen if you want to talk?”

Angelo scowled. Despite Dylan’s assurances that he could get his personal debt wiped, a phone call from the shitty Romford office had fucked it all up, and the looming prospect of bankruptcy was the last thing he wanted to talk about. “I don’t want to talk about that.”

“Okay.”

The defeat in Dylan’s voice did odd things to Angelo’s gut. He paused in the process of retrieving ciabatta loaves from the freezer and went to him, positioning himself between Dylan’s thighs with little conscious thought. “I don’t want to talk about it because I’m not in the headspace right now. Maybe we can another time?”

“If you want to. We can pretend it’s not happening if it makes you feel better. I’m not your advisor anymore.”

“And you only were for about five minutes, right?”

“Right.” Dylan licked his lips as Angelo leaned closer. “Now I’m just a playmate.”

Playmate. In recent years, they’d been the closest relationships Angelo had forged, but something⁠—everything⁠—was different about Dylan. The man who’d waited for him in the club wasn’t the same man who gazed at him now, and Angelo had no idea what to do next. His heart screamed at him to kiss Dylan, to wrap his arms around him and chase down the warmth Dylan’s presence had teased him with so far, but then what? Dylan was the sun, but Angelo was dead inside.

A delivery driver pounding on the back door broke the spell. Angelo drew back as Dylan stared holes in him, unable to look away until he wrenched the door open.

A stack of fresh fruit and vegetables awaited him. He signed the invoice, mentally calculating how much he’d need to take today to honour it, and shut the door.

Dylan appeared at his side. “What do you do with all this?”

“Wash it. Cut it. Put it on the plates and in the bags.”

“With the paninis?”

Angelo cut a glance at Dylan. “Yes. Why?”

“Because you open in half an hour, and I’m guessing that you don’t have time to prepare all this and do everything else by yourself unless you have someone coming in to help you?”

Angelo rolled his eyes. “Like who? I’ve pretty much banished my mum, and you know we can’t afford to pay any extra staff.”

“That’s what I thought.” Dylan took his wallet, keys, and phone from his pocket and set them on a nearby shelf. “Pass me an apron. I’ll give you a hand.”

Angelo would’ve been less surprised if Dylan had suggested they fuck in the freezer, but shock could be a wonderful thing, and he passed Dylan an apron before he’d truly comprehended what was happening.

For the next half hour, they worked in companionable silence. Well, Dylan worked. Angelo meandered around the deli, completing jobs he rarely had time for, all the while watching Dylan move around the kitchen like he was some kind of angelic apparition.

“You’ve worked in a kitchen before.”

It wasn’t a question, but Dylan nodded anyway. “I’ve helped my mate at his café in Vauxhall before. Spent all summer there when I was a student.”

“Is this the mate whose calls you won’t answer?”

A guilty flush crept up Dylan’s neck. “For your information, I called him back, but it seems he doesn’t want to talk to me now.”

Angelo couldn’t imagine why anyone wouldn’t want to talk to Dylan, but he kept quiet as he claimed the cured meats Dylan had prepared and took them out to the service counter. After all, he barely knew the man. Perhaps he was as much of an arsehole as Angelo.

Right. Like that’s even possible.

Angelo started the coffee machine, checked the milk supplies, and unlocked the front door. He went back to the kitchen, expecting to find Dylan getting ready to leave, but found him scrutinising the ancient recipe cards tacked to the walls. “Are these still current?”

“Um, I suppose? Can’t say I’ve looked at them since I was about six.”

“But your menu is the same, right? That’s your hook . . . that it’s been the same for fifty years?”

“Something like that, though we upgraded the panini press about a decade ago.”

If Dylan heard the bitterness lacing Angelo’s words, it didn’t show. He took a last look at the recipes and then retied his apron. “Good, then I should be able to help you serve. You’ll have to teach me the coffee machine later, but I can handle a panini press.”

“Are you serious?”

Dylan shrugged. “As serious as I am about anything when I’m not at work or getting my dick sucked at Lovato’s. You need help, and I’m free. If we’re going to be friends, it stands to reason that I should do you a solid.”

“Who said we were going to be friends?”

Dylan picked up the last tray of tomatoes and swept past Angelo into the deli. “I did, sunshine. Now come and show me how to turn this thing on.”

* * *

It was probably the most bizarre Monday Angelo had ever lived through. Dylan moved like a whirlwind, working the panini press, clearing tables, and washing up things that hadn’t been washed in months, while Angelo looked on. Working with Theresa drove him up the wall, but with Dylan’s help, the day was like a holiday.

It was gone three by the time Angelo forced himself to make Dylan go home. “You’ve rocked my world, but I can’t let you work for free. That shit ain’t right.”

Dylan smiled. “I enjoyed it. Being stuck in an office all day is making me old.”

“Spend a week here, then talk to me about feeling old.”

“Would that help?”

“Fuck no.” Angelo shook his head before Dylan could start getting any ideas. “It might get me home before seven, but my conscience would kill me. Thanks, mate, but you’ve done enough.”

Dylan let it go and took his apron off. He folded it into a complicated triangle that looked like it belonged in a hotel and set it on the counter. Angelo passed him his wallet, phone, and keys, and Dylan pocketed them absently, his gaze distant as he chewed on his lip.

Angelo pinched Dylan’s cheek, his thumb lingering for longer than was entirely necessary. “What are you scowling about?”

“I’m not scowling.”

“No?” Angelo gave in and let his fingers ease the frown lines from Dylan’s usually sunny face. “Why do you look like a Chihuahua chewing a wasp then?”

“It’s bulldog chewing a wasp, dickhead.”

Angelo grinned. “Yeah, but you’re too small to be a bulldog.”

Dylan’s arms gently circled Angelo’s waist. “Says you.”

It was Angelo’s turn to glower. He was taller than Dylan by a mere inch, and they were evenly matched in weight, though Angelo’s muscles were more defined . . . for now. Until that moment, he hadn’t given much thought to the aesthetic consequences his inactivity would have on his body, but with Dylan so close, and so fucking beautiful, vanity kicked him square in the gut.

He let his hands drop and stepped out of Dylan’s personal space. “Thanks for today. Not having to play nice with customers has done me a world of good.”

“Yeah, I can see that peopling gets on your nerves.”

Angelo snorted. “You’re being kind. It’s a wonder I’ve never decked anyone during the lunchtime rush. Hungry yuppies get on my tits.”

“Hmm, well, your people skills work just fine with me.”

The vague innuendo nearly sent Angelo straight back to the hypnotic haven of Dylan’s loose embrace, but the sound of the front door opening brought him to his senses. He left Dylan alone and mechanically brewed cappuccinos while Dylan waited in the kitchen, but on the fourth jug of frothy milk, he sensed Dylan leaving. The backdoor closing was another kick to his gut, and it wasn’t until he found Dylan’s note on the fridge that an alien thrill of another impromptu encounter returned.

Here’s my number. Call me.