“Did you hear about Monk?” Nye asked, joining him in the company gym that they’d been gracious enough to allow Gray to continue to use even after he’d left to pursue cooking. “He’s in the hospital, or he was.”

Gray paused in the middle of a deadlift to send a warning glare toward the former British Marine who worked with Hamish and Wyatt. “What’s that phrase you use all the time? Piss off.”

“Uncultured swine,” Nye teased. “I’m not trying to make anything of it. Shanti told me about your interest in him, and I thought you’d want to know.”

With a grunt of acknowledgement, Gray returned his attention to his workout in the hopes of ending the conversation. He’d received several texts early in the morning about Scottie’s emergency room visit. His first instinct was to go the hospital immediately, but he’d decided that waiting would be a wiser decision.

If Scottie had truly decided to deal with his binge drinking, then Gray would only serve as an unwanted distraction. He’d check in on him in a few days.

His mind was set, and he had no intentions of wavering—until a few days later his phone buzzed.

Scottie: Where the fuck have you been?

Gray: At the restaurant?

Scottie: Not what I meant.

Gray: I figured you’d need some time to figure things out for yourself.

Scottie: No one fucking thinks I can figure things out for myself. Isn’t that the point of all of this?

Scottie: You busy?

Gray: Prepping for tonight’s service. Why?

Scottie: I’m not allowed at the Sin Bin for a month.

Gray: What are you doing with yourself?

Scottie: Freddie set me up with some volunteer shit. Supposed to be helping someone who was struck by a drunk driver.

Gray: Shock aversion therapy. Showing you the potential long-term consequences of being a drunken fuckstick.

Scottie: Is this your idea of being supportive? You’re fucking shit at it.

Gray: You want honesty, text me. You want bullshit answers that make you feel better? You’re purring at the wrong tree, kitten.

Scottie: Fuck off.

Gray: You texted me.

After a twenty-minute silence, Gray assumed the conversation had ended. He returned his attention to the sampling of the menu. Each day he cooked up a single serving of whatever they’d be giving to customers; he wanted the staff to taste all of it and be able to speak with confidence to customers.

While the diners might not get to choose their courses, it worked best when they knew in detail what to expect from the evening. Initial reviews for Ruck had all been overwhelmingly positive. He could admit to himself having a lifelong dream at his fingertips was surreal.

The servers joined him around noon to begin setting up for the afternoon and evening. They demolished the plates that he set out for them, exclaiming in particular over his new exploration with bite-sized beef Wellingtons. He planned on doing an entire series for miniature versions of the tired old standard; having complete control over a menu meant freedom to experiment.

Scottie: I’m having coffee across the street from Ruck.

Gray: Is that an invitation?

Scottie: No.

Gray: I’ll be over shortly.

After finishing up his meeting with the servers, Gray made his way over to the café only to find Scottie sitting outside on the kerb with two Styrofoam cups in hand. He offered one up when Gray sat beside him. He appeared tired and worn while staring into his coffee.

“Predicting the future? You’ll need tea leaves, not coffee grounds.” Gray found it hard not to smirk when he sipped his own drink and discovered Scottie had managed to order it perfectly. “What do you need, kitten? You didn’t text me for a warm and fuzzy cuddle. Neither of us is the type.”

“Fuck off.” Scottie scowled at him. “And I’m not a kitten.”

Gray went to stand up only for the man beside him to grab his arm and drag him back down. “Yes?”

“I almost died.”

Gray watched Scottie out of the corner of his eyes, not wanting to spook the surprisingly vulnerable-sounding man, whose fingers trembled slightly around his cup. “Alcohol poisoning will do that to a person. You sure you don’t want to try rehab?”

“Tens suggested Castle Craig in Scotland.” Scottie shrugged indifferently. “Don’t see how it can help more than the A-fucking-A shit. What do you think?”

“I think you don’t give a fuck what anyone else thinks. I also know you have to make the decision on your own and do it for yourself, or it won’t change anything.” Gray chugged down his cooled coffee and ached for the angry man at his side. He knew with a painful familiarity the rage that came from a childhood of abuse and pain, but he also had experience with pulling out of the trap of history repeating itself. “The question is, Scott, do you want to be your father? Do you want to be another statistic in your family?”

“I’m not drunk every fucking night.”

“Maybe not.” Gray honestly believed the real problem lay with Scottie’s anger—deal with it, and his tendency to occasionally drink himself into a dangerous stupor would likely go away. “I’m not a professional. Perhaps you should ask one before you wind up needing more than a couple of nights at the hospital.”

“Maybe.” Scottie went back to staring blindly into his coffee as if it held all the answers for him. “I don’t drink every fucking night.”

“Yes, and repeating yourself like a petulant toddler isn’t going to make your case to anyone—myself included.” Gray easily blocked the elbow sent his direction. “Here’s what I would do in your place, kitten. I’d speak to the people at Castle Craig. Go for a visit. What do you have to lose?”

“I’m not a fucking kitten.” Scottie turned his head away to glance down the street.

“When you act like the lion you claim to be, I might reconsider.” Gray leaned forward until his lips hovered against Scottie’s neck. His breath wafted across the sensitive skin, and he couldn’t help smirking at the way Scottie shuddered pleasurably at the sensation. “If you want me to stop calling you kitten, perhaps you should say it, instead of insisting you aren’t one.”

“Fucking wanker,” Scottie grumbled into his coffee.

“That’s what I thought.” Gray shifted back and stretched his long legs out in front of him into the street. “Why don’t you come help me in the kitchen?”

“Not allowed into the club.”

“The restaurant isn’t the club—and if you take a drink in front of me, I’ll have to punish you.” Gray winked at him before getting to his feet and reaching down to yank Scottie up as well. “Sitting around moaning at the world won’t change a fucking thing.”

“Wanker.”

They cleaned up together. Gray suspected Scottie threw himself into the manual labour to avoid thinking about his problems. He wondered if submission had cleared Scottie’s mind enough to force him to see some truths about himself.

It wouldn’t be the first time.

Gray put away the last of his knives and twisted around to lean against the counter. “Want me to make the drive with you?”

“To Castle Craig?”

Gray knew the other rugby players would volunteer, but they’d likely poke at Scottie in the wrong way. “What’s the harm in seeing the premises? Talking to a few of the counsellors.”

“Don’t need it.”

“Then think of it as a vacation with a fucking detour.” Gray couldn’t make him go, but he’d cajole strongly. “Voodoo says you learn a lot about someone on a road trip. Think you can handle it?”

“Fuck.”