1. Jacob

Chapter 1

Jacob

"Surprise! We got married."

I knew something was going on when Dad invited me for a drink after work. He never invites me for a drink. My suspicions were further raised when I walked into the coffee shop where he sat at a table with his mistress. But…marriage?

I blink and shake my head. "What?"

"We got married," Dad says.

Does he expect me to congratulate him as he sits there, grinning from ear to ear, with the woman he had an affair with on his arm? Their affair is the reason my parents' forty-year marriage ended bitterly. To put the icing on the proverbial wedding cake, Molly is only two years older than me. Two years. She could be my sister. Am I supposed to call her ‘mum'?

"What do you want to drink?" Dad asks.

I'm too shocked to answer, but the coffee shop is busy, and we're taking up a table. We need to order drinks soon.

Molly holds out her hand. "Look at the beautiful ring Barry gave me."

I keep my gaze trained on my father. "When did this happen?"

"Two days ago, in Vegas."

"We couldn't wait. We're so in love." Molly flutters her lashes at Dad.

"We thought we'd arrange a reception now we're back. You could do a best man's speech," Dad says.

I can't believe he has the gall to ask me that.

"Are you happy for us?" Dad asks.

What does he expect me to say? Yes, I'm thrilled you married the secretary you couldn't keep your hands off. I'm ecstatic you're happy while Mum cries herself to sleep at night, wondering why her husband couldn't keep his dick in his pants.

"Congrats."

Molly slumps her shoulders.

"You could be a bit more enthusiastic," Dad says.

"It's fine. It must have come as a bit of a shock. We'll have plenty of time to get to know each other." Molly smiles brightly.

"Will you do a best man's speech at our wedding reception?" Dad asks.

Not unless hell freezes over. "It wouldn't be a good idea."

He frowns. "Why not?"

It would upset Mum and make her believe I approved of Dad's behaviour.

"Why don't you give Jacob a few days to think about it? He looks shell-shocked," Molly says.

"Fine. What do you want to drink?"

"You know my favourite."

"Of course I do."

Dad kisses her. They make silly, cutesy noises full of giggles and lip smacks. It earns them a few stares from the other customers. I rub my forehead above my right eyebrow with my forefinger. It would be awesome if the ground would open and swallow me. I am not okay.

I stand. "You know what? I forgot I have an errand to run. Enjoy your coffee. I'll see you around."

"Can't you stay for one drink?" Dad asks.

"No. Sorry. Congrats on your wedding. Let me know when the reception is."

"Think about giving that speech. It would mean a lot to me."

It would mean a lot to me . Dad uses that statement whenever he wants me to say yes, try harder, or keep a secret for him. When I was a child, it worked every time. Who am I kidding? I'm thirty-five, and it still works. But not this time. I'm not going to deliver a best man's speech at his and Molly's wedding reception.

I smile thinly and leave, pushing through the throng of pedestrians on the street. I need a drink. A strong one. Getting utterly rat-arsed sounds like an amazing plan.

I walk into the first bar I find. The dark green interior and brass bar rails give off a sophisticated, welcoming vibe, which is complimented by verdant plants hanging from the ceiling and standing on the windowsills. It's filling up with people in smart to smasual attire, presumably grabbing drinks after work. It's what my work colleagues and I do some days. I never drink alone. Until today. I find a space at the bar.

"What can I get you?" The barman is in his early twenties. A student, perhaps? He has brown, floppy hair swept to the left, dark blue eyes, a nice smile, and an athletic build.

"A pint of your best draught beer and a shot of tequila to chase it down with, please."

"Got sorrows to drown?" He selects a glass and pulls a pint.

"You could say that."

"It's pretty quiet if you want to talk about it."

"Thanks for the offer, but I'm good."

"Suit yourself." He puts the pint on a beer mat, prepares a shot glass with a half-salt rim, and pours tequila into it. He rings my order up on the till.

I wince at the total and hand him a ten-pound note. I'll have to switch to paying by card after the next round. Would he set up a tab for me? On the other hand, I'm usually a social drinker, so it probably won't take much to make me paralytic.

I sip the beer. It's cool and refreshing. Much better than coffee with Dad and his new wife.

The barman busies himself wiping surfaces with a cloth between serving customers. More people come in, although no one else seems interested in staying at the bar after ordering drinks. He saunters back to me.

"What's your name?" I ask.

"Archer. You?"

"Jacob."

He holds out his hand. I accept and shake it. His grip is firm and warm.

"How long have you worked here?"

"Three years."

"Have you been legal that long?" Fuck. What a stupid thing to ask.

"Just about." He winks and turns away to serve someone else.

So he was eighteen when he started work here, which means he's twenty-one.

Is ogling the cute barman a better way of escaping my woes than searching for the bottom of a beer glass? Probably. He doesn't seem to mind me staring at him. Every time he meets my gaze, his cheeks are pink, and he smiles adorably.

He's too young.

I can still look. Can't I?

"Are you a student?" I ask.

"Was. I finished in June."

"I work in a bank." I loosen my tie.

"Bad day at work?"

I shake my head. "It's what happened after work that drove me in here."

"It must have been bad."

"More of an unwelcome surprise."

"Sorry to hear that."

I shrug. "It's not your fault."

He laughs. "That would be hard, considering I just met you." He wanders away again.

For the next half an hour, a constant stream of customers keeps him occupied. He's not the only bartender, but he is the only one I can't keep my eyes off. He steals glances at me. Is he figuring out how to tell me to piss off?

He's too young .

If he is twenty-one, he's fourteen years younger than me. Will we have anything in common? Do we need anything in common to have fun? Will he even be interested in having fun?

"I guess your sorrows aren't that bad," Archer says once the rush dies.

"Why?"

He nods at my beer, which is three-quarters full. I'm doing a piss-poor job of getting drunk. "You haven't drowned them yet."

"Maybe I'm debating other ways to forget my woes." Shut up .

He rests his forearms on the counter. "Oh?"

I shake my head. "Forget I said anything."

"What if I don't want to forget you said anything?"

Is he flirting with me? Am I flirting with him?

"What if I want to help cheer you up?"

Oh, fuck. I lean forward. "How would you do that?"

He chuckles. "You tell me. Have a think and let me know. I need to serve a customer." He walks backwards towards the waiting customer, gives me a wink, and turns to give the woman his undivided attention.

I fan myself. Would he be flirting with me if he cared I'm older than him?

As he serves customers with an easy smile and brisk conversation, I trace shapes in the condensation on the glass. I'm no longer interested in drinking myself into oblivion. Besides, by this point, my beer is probably so warm it's unpalatable.

"And here we are again." He grabs a cloth and wipes the spotless counter.

I smile. "I haven't moved. You're the one who keeps coming and going."

"Right? Work is such a bore."

"You don't enjoy it."

"Oh, I love it. I get to meet lots of interesting people. Sometimes I even get to meet handsome men."

My pulse spikes.

He walks his fingers over the bar and taps it beside my resting hand. "You were going to think of ways I could help cheer you up tonight. Have you come up with anything?"

"We could get out of here when you finish work." I'm really doing this. I'm hitting on a barman. And why not? He can always say no.

"For sex?"

His question is so casual my brain stutters.

"It's a good distraction." He grazes his fingers over mine.

"You want to have sex with me?" Smooth, Jacob. Smooth. It's been a while since I've chatted up anyone. Hook-up apps get rid of the need for it.

His smile pops dimples in his cheeks. "Definitely."

I undo the top button of my shirt. "Aren't I?—?"

"What?"

"Too old?"

He laughs. "How old are you?"

I open my mouth.

He holds his hand up, palm facing me. "Let me guess. Thirty-two?"

"Close."

"Higher or lower?"

"Higher."

"Not much higher. Thirty-four."

I point my finger at the ceiling.

"Thirty-five?" He raises his brows.

"Yes."

"That's a good age. Thirty-five is mature and experienced. Men get better with age."

My pulse races. "Like red wine?"

He hums. "Exactly like red wine."

I tug my collar away from my neck. Has it got hot in here?

"I get off in an hour."

"So early?"

"I've been on shift since midday when the bar opened. Do me a favour."

"What?"

"Don't finish your drinks. I don't sleep with drunk guys."

"Nor do I."

"Good answer. I like you more and more. Do me another favour."

"Anything."

"Keep sitting there looking broody and sexy."

"I'm not going anywhere."

He rakes his teeth over his bottom lip and stands. He stares at me a moment longer, then moves away to take an order.

I sit upright and roll my shoulders back, puffing my chest like a preening peacock.

He thinks I'm sexy? Not as sexy as he is. His tight jeans hug his thighs and pert arse. Does he play sports or go to the gym? I'd love a rain cloud to appear above his head, drenching him so his white T-shirt clings to his wide, sloping shoulders, and broad chest.

After an hour, he disappears into the back but returns through a door to the right of the bar, wearing a cream hoodie top with black vertical stripes.

He perches on the stool beside me and rests his elbow and forearm on the bar. "Still up for sex?"

"Yes."

His gaze flits to my drinks. My beer is flat. The salt has flaked off the rim of the shot glass.

"Sorry about your drinks."

"I'm not. Do you have a place close by?"

"I live in a flat on the edge of town near the inner ring road. It's within walking distance."

I nod and follow him out the door. It's quiet outside, the lull between the after-work rush and nightclubs opening.

He walks backwards. "Do you make a habit of chatting up bartenders?"

"No. Do you make a habit of chatting up customers?"

He laughs. "No. But you're cute. And I have a thing for broody guys. Besides, I'll have fun helping you forget your troubles. Sure you don't want to talk about them?"

I shake my head. "I just want to fuck."

"Fair enough."

He walks forward, forcing me to stop, puts his hands around my waist, and kisses me. I close my eyes and relax into the long, needy kiss, exploring his mouth. His lips are firm, his tongue playful, his breath fresh and minty. Mine's probably laced with coffee—I drink far too much at work—and beer. My body tingles with desire. I wrap my arms around his shoulders and pull him hard against me. My pulse increases. Blood rushes to my cock. My underwear and trousers are suddenly too restrictive.

He breaks the kiss, nips his bottom lip between his teeth, and rests his forehead against mine. "That was nice."

"Very. How far did you say your flat was?" My voice is husky.

"Not far." He laces his fingers through mine and leads me through Leeds, his pace quick.