Chapter 8

Ian racked his brain to think what could have prompted such a reaction. “What’s wrong?”

Clint shook his head again. “The way you eat.”

Ian was genuinely taken aback. “The way I eat? How do I eat?”

“So prim and proper. Like some fucking princess or something.”

Ian felt as though he’d been slapped. He put down his knife and fork, his appetite gone. “I’m sorry,” he said, standing.

He collected the dishes and went to the kitchen to wash them.

From that time onwards, Clint treated him as though he were a maid. Someone to cook for him and pick up after him. And Ian was so desperate to have someone special in his life, he tolerated it.

The illusion that there was anything between them was broken six months after they had met.

“What’s all the beer for?” asked Ian, as he checked the roast he was cooking Clint.

“For my birthday party,” said Clint, filling the fridge with bottles of beer, cramming them into every available space.