Chapter 1

One

TAM

I can count on one hand the things in life that make me truly irritable. Multi-coloured Christmas lights score high. My brother bending my ear about shit I’ve already said no to a thousand goddamn times is top of the fucking list.

“You need a lodger.” His voice booms through the speaker, full of authority his younger self has zero right to assume. “Money and company. It’s a win-win, bro.”

Win-win? He’s out of his mind.

Scowling, I kick the roll of offending lights back into the corner of the attic where they belong and squeeze my way back to the loft hatch. “Fuck’s sake, will you give it a rest? Pour l'amour de dieu.”

For the love of god.

Or at least for the love of me.

But Sab doesn’t care about any of that—God, or annoying me enough that I jam an unlit smoke between my lips and think hard about lighting it. He likes annoying me. To him, it’s an Olympic sport, and I know he won’t quit until he takes a medal.

He’s still talking. I block him out as I pick through another box of junk, searching for the white lights I came up here for. The cute warm ones I need for the Instagram post I don’t give a fuck about. The essential post I have to make to keep my account visible enough to keep my actual lights on, in the house I can’t afford to live in without taking Sab’s advice.

Which is why I’ve already taken it, but he doesn’t need to know that. Not yet, anyway. Sab’s persistent. Like a fucking rash. But he’s not the most stubborn Dubois brother. That title is mine and I’m not giving it up anytime soon.

“…maybe you need to get laid.”

I tune back in to that beauty. “Tu me fais chier. Fuck off with that shit.”

Sab does not fuck off. He treats me to another twenty minutes of underlining how boring I am these days and how shit my life is, disregarding every attempt I make to tell him the opposite. That I’m fucking happy living alone and I don’t give a damn if his secondhand view of my existence tells him otherwise. By the time he’s done, I’m glad I haven’t told him my unwelcome lodger is moving in tomorrow. Let him walk into my house and find a stranger at the table we grew up around.

Except the lodger I haven’t yet met won’t be in my house. He’ll be in the annex, using the side gate as an entrance because I don’t want someone— anyone —all up in my shit. Not even Sab, who’s still aggravating me enough I hang up on him.

A text pings through a moment later and I realise he’s changed my notification tone from a nondescript beep to the opening chords of Jingle Bells set at top volume.

It’s loud enough to rattle my brain and make the dog bark from his spot on the couch downstairs, but I ignore him, searching for the elusive lights. They have to be up here somewhere. My whole life is crammed into this tiny space since I cleared out my studio to make room for a lodger I don’t even want. A lodger I need if I’m going to make next month’s mortgage payment without starving to death. A distant dream if I don’t pick up more seasonal work, which means the Instagram post I’d rather stick pins in my eyes than create is more important than ever.

If I can just find these fucking lights.

They’re not with the rest of the Christmas crap I’m not feeling festive enough to face yet. I abandon the attic in favour of the garage, which takes me past the goddamn space I gave up for a lodger I’ve only communicated with through the letting agent handling his lease.

I know his name. Probably. It’s on a letter I’ve left somewhere by the front door. But denial is a wicked thing, and I’ve spent the last few months fooling myself the less I know about the looming change in my life, the less real it is. Except, it’s really fucking real—it’s happening tomorrow , and it’s not going anywhere until the lease runs out in six months’ time.

Six months.

The agent called it a short lease, but to me, it feels like a lifetime. Years ago, I was the kind of dude who rolled with the tides. These days, I find all the joy I need in stability and giving it up feels like the end of the world.

At least, it does while I’m scrabbling around the garage. It’s worse than the attic, and it’s cold , a state of affairs that never cheers me up. Makes me wonder why I’m fighting so hard to be here when my parents spend their days chasing the sun around the Med. But I was born here— Sab’s here, and however annoying he is, this is where I’ll stay.

If I survive tearing through my garage. I have scars on my body that throb in the winter, but this place is a death trap. Teetering piles of wood, scrap metal, and motorbike parts—leftovers from my old life I never got round to ditching.

You didn’t want to .

But I regret that now I spot the box of lights behind a vast stack of unfinished worktops, lurking beside a squashed Christmas tree—a plastic one that must be Sab’s, because I’d die before I had that shit in my house. I like the smell of the real ones. The piney fir scent that reminds me of my Scottish nan and the weird cannonball cake she used to make on Christmas Eve. Can’t remember eating it. Just that Sab stole it one year and lobbed it at my head, missed and broke a window.

The lights .

My brother’s face fades out, taking his laughter and leaving me with the urgency that brought me into the dusty garage in the first place. I’m unimpressed by the effort it’s going to take to reach them, but the thought of living through a day like this all over again in six months’ time, when the old tenant moves out and a new one moves in, propels me into action.

I lent my ladder to an old friend and never got it back. I go back inside for shoes—I work from home, sometimes I forget my feet are bare—and prod the dog on my way past, checking he’s alive.

Rudy rumbles a warning, but he’s the size of a bloated gerbil, so I take my chances and poke him again, standing my ground until he rolls over, showing me his belly. “You’re all fucking bark, son, ain’t ya?”

Course he is, but he makes enough noise that the postman thinks he’s a Rottie, and I’m here for it, even as he bursts from the couch to raise bloody murder at a passing car. Although, this time, he might have a point.

I straighten, tracking the old VW as it slows, the driver easing down the window to peer at my front door.

It should alarm me. I’m a good boy these days, but I wasn’t always. And I used to live the kind of life where a drive-by attack wasn’t something that just happened on TV. But it’s been a long time, six fucking years, and I’m off my game—off my guard, and easily distracted by the face of the hottest dude I’ve seen since my ex FWB paid me a platonic visit a few weeks back.

My view of the hot dude is brief. Just enough to catch the shock of dark blond hair and killer cheekbones. Eyes that seem blue, though I can’t be sure, and a forearm that even hidden by a bomber jacket I know is some kind of perfect.

Merde . I don’t think in French that often—only when I’m around Sab and he’s pissing me off. Or I’m drunk as a skunk, or deep in my feelings. But it’s the only word that comes to me as the car moves off, leaving me dry-mouthed and breathless. As if I’ve never seen a hot bloke before. As if I’ll never see one again. At least not one that matches up to him.

Avoir le coup de foudre.

I snort at myself. I felt that with Rudy last Christmas—love at first sight, and look where it got me? Butler to an angry hamster that bites my ankles when I don’t feed him quick enough.

Still, it takes effort to tear my gaze from the window. To reanimate and stamp into my boots. To remember I have a purpose in life beyond wondering who Blondie is, and why he was eyeballing my house.

I go back to the garage. Rudy follows and turns his gaze upward, already stink-eyeing the lights. My dog hates everything Christmas, except the real tree I don’t have yet and the food he’ll get to steal. It’s early November , which makes dicing with death for an Instagram post even more of an absolute piss-take. And I’d give it up if I had a choice. But I don’t. I need the extra money the cheesy post might bring in, and if I have to climb the shoddy metal racking to get it, that’s what I’ll do.

Under Rudy’s watchful gaze, I root a boot to the bottom shelf and haul myself up. I’m in pretty good shape for the mess I was in six years ago, and I like the burn in my shoulders as my arms take my weight. The wobble and groan of the racking isn’t my favourite thing, but I make it work and reach around the squashed Christmas tree to snag the lights.

Relief surges through me. I shimmy down, taking care not to jostle the clusterfuck I’ve left behind. But I’m not careful enough. My boots touch the floor and an ominous rumble sounds above me. I look up in time to see the stacked worktops listing and they tumble on top of me before I can lurch out of the way.

Rudy.

That’s my first thought.

My second, after I realise he’s safe in the doorway turns the air blue, French and English pouring out of me in a brutal blend of motherfucker, that hurt . Really hurt, everywhere from my fingers to a shoulder that’s already been through the wars.

Merde . I mean it this time, with my fucking soul. I shove the heavy wood out of the way and free my arm, flexing my fingers. They barely move, and my thumb joint cops the worst as fresh pain infiltrates my wrist.

Goddammit.

I leave the lights and traipse inside. Rudy shadows me, growling as I re-examine my arm in the kitchen, using the stove lights to stave off the fading winter sun outside.

I’m bleeding. My hand trembles, and I know it’s bad. That I should go to the urgent care centre in town, or even the hospital in the city. But…I don’t want to. Something inside me freezes and I’m out of fucks for one day. Or maybe I’m running short on the courage it takes to walk into a building I left so much of myself in so many years ago.

Either way, I’m not going. Stubborn, remember? And I’m a fucking idiot. So I turn the lights off and lie down on the couch, shutting my eyes, cradling my wrist to my chest and leaning into a hard avoidance nap, something I’m good at.

And who knows? I’m not the luckiest fucker in the world, but maybe the last ten minutes were nothing but a shittastic dream. Maybe the last six months were too, and my imminent lodger is a Christmas nightmare I won’t have to live with after all.

BHODI

I’ve always had terrible timing. Everything that ever happens to me seems to play out at the worst possible moment, and the HDU night shift I’m about to walk into is no exception. Honestly, who picks Sunday night graveyard hours to start a new job?

Me, that’s who. Bloody genius, mate. The same idiot who drove four hours from Cornwall to Hereford in an aging Golf that desperately needs an oil change. If I had a brain, I’d be dangerous .

Not fair. You’re tired and emotional.

Valid. But I’ve made these mistakes when I’m happy too, so I can’t blame my predicament on being a little bit knackered and nursing a bruised heart.

My car’s had enough of me for one day. I secure it a reserved space that’s going to cost me a ridiculous wedge each month and pick my way through the frosty car park—a concrete abyss with the same miserable vibe of every hospital I’ve ever worked in. And I’ve worked in a few. More than a few . Putting roots down isn’t my forte, and if the last few months—the last year —has taught me anything, it’s that my regular trick of legging it when things go wrong has more merit than sticking around to get shat on.

He didn’t shit on you. It’s not his fault you caught feelings he didn’t reciprocate.

Skylar.

My ex.

At least, that’s how I see it. To him, I’m just a hookup that fizzled out.

Still not his fault .

I know that. I know it. But it doesn’t make the sigh rattling my chest any lighter. The ache in my chest any less potent. And I don’t like it. It’s why I need to be here , in this unfamiliar place, starting over for the hundredth time. Because if there’s one thing worse than being dumped, it’s the sound knowledge that the dumper has barely noticed you’re gone.

It’s a reality that weighs heavy on me, and it shouldn’t. Skylar’s a nice person—messed up, but nice. Honest. He told me from the start he was only up for NSA sex, but my stupid heart didn’t hear him. And that’s what I need to take from this— my umpteenth stroll into a brand new place: the next time someone tells me they’re just down to fuck, listen .

Or at least, get in there first. I like sex. And I like not getting hurt. On the off-chance I’m ever brave enough to get nekkid with someone again, I’m setting the boundaries.

The utter brilliance of my internal monologue brings me within sight of the hospital’s main entrance. A huge set of double doors that will take me to the third floor and the HDU ward I’ll be haunting for the next six months. A temporary contract I signed in the dead of night when I’d drunk too much cider and melancholy. To get there, I need to cross the throughway and pass the A&E department which is already spilling out into the taxi ranks and ambulance bays.

I weave through a couple of drunks, about to cross the road, but a lone figure ahead of me catches my attention. A dude with his arm cradled to his chest who nears the A&E doors and abruptly veers away, heading back to the far side of the car park.

I’m pushed for time, and I’ve already wasted most of my day washing my clothes in a local laundrette so I don’t roll up to my new place in the morning rocking hobo vibes. But my gaze follows the man as he comes to a stop and hunches over, bowing his head, and staying my course to the looming double doors ahead is a wrench my soft heart can’t handle.

I dig the hospital ID I picked up a few weeks back from my jacket and let it hang loose against my chest. Then I veer off-piste and stay on the wrong side of the road, catching the tall bloke up as he rotates to lean against a lamp-post, glaring at the misty sky.

The motion makes the hood he’s wearing slip back, revealing his face, and my pace falters, my whole body stuttered by the scruffy perfection of his profile .

Shaggy hair.

Unshaven jaw.

A face tattoo that’s too small and intricate for me to make out, and eyes that gleam in the dark, like a wolf in the forest.

They might be brown, his eyes, but in the murky light, it’s hard to tell, and I’m close enough by now that staring is going to get me in trouble. This fella—he’s pretty— so pretty —but there’s an edge to him I’ve seen in beautiful men before, and I rein myself in, playing nurse instead of creeper, wondering if he’s one of the homeless men I’ve seen sleeping under the bridge. “You all right there, mate?”

Slowly , the man lowers his gaze, gifting me a full view of his face. Of the messy dark hair that falls to his chin, and the tiny ink that simmers below his left eye. “What?”

I gesture to the arm he’s still holding to his chest. “Are you okay?”

He stares, a minuscule frown pleating his brows. As if he’s trying to place me, when I know he can’t. There’s no way we’ve set eyes on each other before. No way . I’d remember this bloke in a coma. I’d remember his voice as he clips a single syllable at me. “Yeah.”

It takes me a second to remember what I asked him. Then to see through the lie.

The arm he’s holding, it isn’t strapped, and there’s dried blood on his fingers. More than that, as searingly attractive as he is, it takes more than a hard gaze to hide the kind of pain I spend my working life confronting. This man…he’s a lot of things. But in this moment okay isn’t one of them.

“Have you been triaged inside?”

“What?”

“Triaged.” I try again. “So a doctor can look at that arm. ”

Seconds tick by, and I begin to think he won’t answer. That I’ll have to walk away on the weakness of his first response and spend the rest of the night pondering his fate.

It’s a road I’ve travelled before, but as I resign myself to it, something seems to shift and he sighs. “Honestly, I’m fucking fine. Just banged up a bit, but it’s better already.”

He gifts me the smallest half grin, and it’s almost enough to dazzle me into believing him, but I don’t believe him. Not even close. He has no intention of going inside, but the fact that he didn’t keep walking before I reached him is clue enough that he knows he should.

I try a different tack. “What happened?”

“Something fell on me.”

“What was it?”

“French oak.”

“A big bit?”

“Lots of big bits.” The man appraises me, taking in the scrubs I’m wearing and the ID I pried free of my jacket. “You work here?”

“Nah, I just like the clothes.”

His smile almost widens. But whatever’s got hold of him tonight tightens its grip and his humour fades. “I need to go. I left my dog alone.”

He retreats a little, and it should be my cue to let it go. But I don’t move. And for long moments, neither does he, and it feels like we know each other. Or as if we should. But feelings like this—they’re clouds, floating on by, and the reality that we’re strangers in the dark is hard to ignore.

I step back.

He nods and spins around, walking away. He doesn’t look back and it feels right .

Until it doesn’t. But that doesn’t hit me until I’m walking away too, and by then, I’m late to the twelve-hour shift I have to get through before I move into a property I haven’t seen, attached to the house of someone I’ve never met, and I don’t have the headspace for a handsome enigma.

But the thing is, my heart might be on lockdown, but my brain has other ideas, and I know this dude will be on my mind for the rest of the night.

And for whatever reason, I’m okay with that.