Chapter One
Freddie
“How many cheesecakes do you think it takes to transition me from merely obsessed to utterly pathetic?” Freddie glanced longingly at the box of traditional Welsh treats. His cat, Bitsy, a silver tabby, hopped up on the kitchen counter to sniff at them. He lifted his beloved pet away from the box of baked cheese pastries. “One more couldn’t hurt, could it?”
Bouncing around in his kitchen to the music on his radio, Freddie munched on more pastry than was good for him and read through the latest report from one of his clients. His job as clinical nurse specialist who worked specifically with cancer patients kept him busy. He often brought files home to organise.
The box of cheese pies had been a thank you from the mother of one of his younger patients. He closed the lid to attempt some sort of self-control. Reaching into it to grab one last one proved he had none.
“Stop judging me.” Freddie glared at Bitsy, who licked a paw and ignored him. “Typical. Drewgi.”
Bitsy hissed at him. She always did when he called her a smelly dog in Welsh. He grinned at her before picking the cat up to dance around the kitchen.
He set her down when her paw swatted him in the face. “Fly, my little furry friend. Fly!”
With his cat disappearing under her favourite quilt on his sofa, Freddie shuffled all the papers together to make space to hop up onto the counter. His summer had been a long one without a break, one filled with new patients, new treatments to organise, and a never-ending chain of people to support emotionally through an undeniably trying time.
Between all that and moving into his new apartment, he had never been happier to see the start of September. The weather had begun to cool. Leaves had just started to change colours beautifully. He felt energised by the hint of crisp air and everything else that came with this time of year.
An hour went by, followed by another while he crosschecked dates for surgeries, follow-ups, and therapy. Being diagnosed with cancer was terrifying enough; Freddie tried to make everything else as painless as possible. It was the least he could do.
It had become his mission in life. He had lost both sets of his grandparents, his uncles, all but one of his aunts, and his only cousin to one form of cancer or another, all over the course of six years. The vile illness had stolen so much from their family—how could he not fight to help others who were suffering as they had?
Setting the files aside for the moment, Freddie kicked around the football on the floor. He spun around his kitchen and living room, sending the ball flying. He froze when a banging echoed from underneath his feet. His neighbour probably didn’t appreciate his racing around at eleven at night.
He had been on his own for over a year, but it often slipped his mind that he no longer lived on the family farm. He couldn’t bang around in his third-floor flat without annoying his neighbour. Pity. Sitting still had never come easily to him.
The Star Wars theme sounding from his mobile phone told him his tad had messaged him. His fathers had similar notifications when they text messaged him—Star Wars for one, and Star Trek for the other. He came by his inner geek quite naturally.
Tad: Your dad wants to know if you’re coming home for the weekend.
Freddie: I am home.
Tad: We miss you.
Freddie: You need hobbies.
Tad: We miss you.
Freddie: Shouldn’t you be happy you have the farm to yourselves after twenty-four years or more?
Tad: We’re finishing up a new batch of cheese.
Freddie: Are you bribing me with cheese?
Tad: Yes.
Freddie: Fine.
The downside of being an only child definitely had to be the overprotectiveness of his fathers. They smothered him with their love. It had taken quite a bit of standing his ground to make a move to Cardiff without them trailing along behind him.
Cancer played a part in that as well. Their extended family had slowly dwindled down to his auntie Anna Rees. She also happened to have been his biological mother.
His fathers had always wanted a child together. They hadn’t wanted to adopt, so his Auntie Anna had agreed to be their surrogate, after much convincing from her brother Adam. It had allowed them to pass down the genetics from both sides of the family.
He loved all three of them deeply, but going to primary school had been a nightmare for him. Children could often be cruel, and having two fathers made him stand out in a bad way. Acceptance had come slowly to their small village.
They joked about his aunt being his mother. They teased him about being Jewish. They laughed at his love of cheese.
Who doesn’t like cheese?
TwmffatsCheese.
His mouth salivated at the mere thought of a slice of fresh Caerphilly. Or even better, maybe his dad would make cheese pudding for him. The trip to Cornwall seemed far more attractive all of a sudden.
The clock chimed midnight as Bitsy prowled by his feet, hunting dust bunnies. He slumped down on the couch, twisting around to stretch his legs out across the cushions. He drifted off to sleep with one important thing on his mind—cheese.
Chapter Two
Taine
Since retiring from playing rugby internationally, Taine had found two things that made him happy—jazz and his hamster. He had achieved every accolade possible throughout his career in sports. It had been sad to walk away from it.
Sad in some ways. I won’t miss the injuries, or the constant travel, or the invasive attention from media and fans. I definitely won’t miss being away from Speedy all the time, poor little hamster.
Speedy had his own shire-themed terrarium mansion. It had far more space than an individual hamster needed. Or so his friends liked to tell him whenever they had the chance.
Father Wilson hadn’t been overjoyed with his choice of paths for his life. The man had nudged Taine towards the church, but it hadn’t been in the cards for him. He didn’t think the Catholic faith had much room for gay, sexually active men in the clergy.
In his heart of hearts, Taine had always expected his adoptive dad to abandon him for his lifestyle. The man had prayed for him and continued to love him. “God judges us. No one else has the right.”
Now in his sixties, the priest had dedicated forty-one and a half years of prayers to his adopted son. He continued to do so. Taine would never fault the man for his dedication to either him or his faith.
Taine often tried to imagine what had led his mother or father to abandon him on the steps of the church. How desperate must they have been? He had let go of his anger towards them long ago, finding compassion and gratefulness that they had at least attempted to find a safe place for him.
He still had the letter left within the blanket with him. It had been straight to the point with no flowery words or declarations of love. “Take care of my son. He’s part Maori and part Scottish. I can’t have him.”
In his youth, Taine had read shame in those words. Now at forty-two, he could instead offer them the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps his mother or father hadn’t wanted him to be completely unaware of his heritage; maybe it had been pride in his ancestry and not embarrassment or resentment that led them to put it into the letter.
Father Wilson had gifted him several books over the years on the Maori people. It had been important to the priest that Taine had a firm grasp on both sides of his biological family. It had provided him with a foundation for his identity many adopted children weren’t lucky enough to have; he’d never been forced to struggle with questions of “who am I” and “where did I come from?”
The Land of the Long White Cloud by Kiri Te Kanawa had become a personal favourite. He kept the signed first edition book with him, one of his treasured possessions. It had led him to another obsession—moko or body art.
His adoptive dad hadn’t been overly thrilled with the development, but to his credit hadn’t voiced any harsh criticism. Taine had tattoos on both arms, which covered not only his biceps but parts of his chest and shoulder as well. His left arse cheek and thigh had its own design of swirls and lines, along with a string of tribal turtles all the way up his spine.
All of his tattoos were tribal with a hint of a modern twist and done by a New Zealand artist who had moved to London years ago. Taine had met him through Boyce “BC” Brooks, a fellow rugby player. They’d grown close, as men who fought together often did.
Even if our fighting happened on a pitch with a ball.
Along with BC, Taine had maintained his friendship with several other retired rugby players. Caddock Stanford lived in Looe with his husband, Francis. Remi Chardin, a Frenchman, had married a Cornish woman and moved there after his own retirement from playing for the French national team. And lastly, Scott “Scottie” Monk had shocked all of them by turning into a Zen master surfer on the Cornish coast after their beloved sport had spat him out for being too old.
He’d been closest with BC. The man had returned a few weeks ago from another jaunt across the world with the new love of his life, Graham Hodson. The younger man was a travel journalist who had only recently recovered from a near-fatal fight with stomach cancer.
The two men would be holed up in BC’s inn on the Cornish coast. Taine had promised to make the drive out to see them over the weekend. He still couldn’t get over the changes in his old friend.
BC had always been up for a laugh but had never enjoyed traveling or expanding his horizons much beyond European borders. BC Brooks flying? Going across the world? Eating exotic foods? Armageddon would clearly be next.
A chirp drew him out of his thoughts to the terrarium that covered a large portion of the far wall of the living room in his flat. Speedy poked his tanned head out of his cave. It had been designed to look almost identical to Bilbo Baggins’s home from The Hobbit, one of his absolute favourite novels—and movies, for that matter.
He imagined when most people thought of the sort of pet Taine “Tens” Afoa owned, they’d likely picture some massive, terrifying dog. It might fit their image of him with his six-foot-five frame and muscled body, never mind all of his black and grey tattoos, his greying beard and spiked hair.
His wee hamster usually came as a shock. I don’t know why. He’s such a loveable little bugger.
“What do you think, Speedy?” Taine strode over to crouch in front of his furry friend. “Want to take a trip to the seaside? It would be very, very British of us.”
Speedy squeaked.
I’ll take that as a yes. I hope it’s a yes.
“No pissing in the Bentley.” Taine had made few luxury purchases with the money earned over the course of his career. His silver Bentley Falcon had been his largest splurge. “I could do without having to clean up little pellets from the leather seats.”
Speedy squeaked again.
“Hope that’s a yes.”
Bollocks.
Chapter Three
Freddie
Saturday morning dawned incredibly brightly and intensely early. Freddie consoled himself in the knowledge that in a few hours he would have cheese. All the cheese. So much cheese. He’d also be able to play his bagpipes freely without anyone around to complain. His dads loved him too much to whinge about it.
The weekend in Cornwall would also allow him a chance to catch up with several of his post-surgery patients. He tried to keep tabs on them even after his contract with them had wrapped up. He cared—sometimes too much for his own emotional stability.
After seeing to Bitsy’s needs, Freddie grabbed his bag and headed out the door. He’d learned the hard way not to bring his cat to the farm. She tended to chase the animals, leave hairballs in his dads’ bed, and make a nuisance of herself.
Stepping out of his flat to find his bright green Mini Cooper vandalised hadn’t done much to improve Freddie’s already exhausting week. His plan to head out to Cornwall early would have to be momentarily derailed with a call to the authorities to file a complaint; he would never allow anyone to get away with such a visual and criminal demonstration of hatred.
Coc y gath.
His dads would be livid. They’d tried to argue against his moving permanently to Cardiff. He had no doubts they’d add this to their ever-growing list of reasons for him to return to the safety of the farm.
Cardiff in general had been incredibly welcoming and open to him. The only negative standouts were the two twits who shared a flat on the ground floor of his building. They always harassed him—or anyone, really, who didn’t fit into their view of the world. It had gotten bad enough the landlord had installed CCTV cameras all over the property.
In some ways, Freddie admired their dedication. They’d managed to carve vitriolic, hateful words all over the doors on both sides of his beautiful little car. Twmffats. He couldn’t even bring himself to repeat the hurtful language.
It took over an hour to get everything settled with the police and his landlord. Freddie had texted his tad to say he’d be late, leaving out the reason why. It might only be delaying the inevitable, but he could only handle so much at one time.
They’d find out. Freddie couldn’t exactly get the damage buffed away in an instant. To further prolong the pain of their smothering comfort, he decided to drive out to the Fisherman’s Refuge on the cliffs along Whitsand Bay to check up on one of his patients.
One of the upsides of his job had to be getting paid to travel around Wales, Devon, and Cornwall. Freddie made frequent trips to visit his clients wherever they lived. He spent more time in his car than he did the hospital, his flat, or anywhere else really.
After a quick stop at BBs for a muffin and an iced coffee to soothe his temper from the early morning adventure, Freddie made his way towards the M4 to start his three-hour drive. Traffic was surprisingly light for a Saturday. He made the journey in record time, pulling up the drive to the inn only to find a massive silver Bentley SUV blocking his path.
Pretentious, rich arse.
He whacked his hand against the horn twice, chuckling at how the jaunty beep didn’t match his annoyance. He stuck his head out the window to hurry things along. “Oi! Could you move?”
A wave of a hand through the tinted glass followed the Bentley turning to the right into an actual parking spot and away from the single lane entrance. Freddie pulled up beside it and stepped out of his Mini Cooper. He walked around the vehicle only to find himself face to chest with a Samoan god.
A gravelly chuckle told him that he’d said it out loud.
Cachu hwch.
His embarrassment faded when he spotted a furry creature on the man’s impressively broad shoulder. “Is that a hamster?”
“Speedy.” Mr God reached up to gently caress the tiny hamster’s head.
“He’s fast?”
“His name.” He smiled, revealing perfect teeth in a crooked grin with his full lips only barely visible through his mostly grey beard. “Speedy the hamster.”
Freddie had to laugh at it. “My cat’s named Bitsy.”
“Is it small?”
“Not anymore.” He joined the handsome man in his burst of laughter, waiting until they settled down to offer his hand. “Freddie Whittle.”
“Taine Afoa.”
Freddie mulled the name over in his mind while trying to remember where he’d heard it and seen the man. He looked so familiar. “So, actually Samoan?”
“Part Maori.”
“And apparently part god.” BC drew Freddie’s attention, sounding far too amused. He’d apparently been standing on the step with his inherited Yorkie, Zeus, at his feet. “I thought you weren’t coming until next weekend. Ginger Spice is out on the bluff.”
“I’ll make my way out to see him.” Freddie gave a cheerful wave to Taine when it suddenly dawned on him where he’d seen the man. He’d been one of the sports stars to visit the hospital’s children’s ward recently. “Have a good day, Speedy—and Speedy’s pet.”
“Did he just call me a pet?”
Freddie opted to allow BC to answer the likely rhetorical question. He jogged up the hill at the rear of the inn to find Graham—his patient and friend—on his normal bench. The redheaded journalist shifted over to give him a place to sit. “How’ve you been?”
Graham slouched down further in his seat. “Hair’s almost finished growing back. Thank God. Itched like a bastard, even my bollocks. How come no one ever talks about how you lose all your hair? Not just the stuff on your head.”
“Twmffat.” Freddie snorted loudly. Those sorts of remarks had been precisely why the man had moved from simply a client to a friend. “Everything else good? Aside from itchy bollocks? I can probably find you a cream for that problem.”
“Arse.” Graham elbowed him in the side. “I’m doing much better, nothing to worry you or Dr Genevieve. How’s she doing with the move to Cardiff?”
“Brilliant. She loves her new office. I’ll be turning over some of my Cornwall patients over time, since I’m based out of Cardiff and not Plymouth anymore.” Freddie had argued quite adamantly to keep from simply having his patients ripped away from him. He’d slowly transfer them to a new nurse over the course of the next six months. “Any concerns at all?”
“Yes. How about you tell us about the nasty words scratched into the side of your car?” BC had apparently walked up behind them with the bracing wind masking his steps. He loomed like an angry avenger at their backs. “Whose arses are Tens and I kicking? I haven’t had a good fight in ages.”
“No one’s arses are being kicked by anyone. The authorities are handling it fine on their own.” Freddie frowned over his shoulder at the retired rugby player. “Tens?”
“It’s what we call him. Not sure how he feels about it.” BC threw an arm out to whack Taine on the chest. “This numpty made a name for himself by always finishing his runs in practice a good ten seconds faster than everyone else. Show-off.”
“Lazy knobdobber.” Taine’s eyes glittered dangerously in the bright Cornish sun, with almost a golden tint to them. “So, you know who messed up your car?”
“Hamster whisperer,” BC shot back at his old friend, disrupting the conversation again.
Freddie couldn’t help lifting his eyebrows while staring blankly at the bickering former rugby stars. “Hamster whisperer?”
“Well, look at him.” BC nodded towards the small creature huddled against Taine’s neck. “Bet he’s getting poo pellets all down his shirt.”
“BC.” Graham choked on a laugh.
Freddie turned towards the redhead. “And you’re voluntarily staying with the overgrown child?”
Graham winked at him. “Have you seen the size of his shoes? You know what they say about that?”
“Bet he’s got really stinky feet.” Freddie glared at BC when he flicked him on the neck. “Dim gwerth rhech dafad.”
“Don’t go throwing your Welsh insults around.” Graham’s eyes narrowed on him. “What’s this about your car?”
“Just a few local lads who thought they were clever. They weren’t.”
Taine’s strong hand landed on Freddie’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “Don’t allow the bastards to get you down.”
“I never do.” Freddie blinked back tears at the gentle comfort from the giant of a man. The emotion clogged up his throat, making him strain to get the next words out. “Thank you.”