Three months later
“SO. Tell me what you think.” Alex leaned over the carved white table on the tree-lined patio and gently tapped a fingernail on the glass of wine in Tate’s hand.
“Give a guy time to think about it,” Tate said with a cheeky smile. It was late afternoon and the air had settled into a peaceful stillness. They sat in the charming garden of the Fairweather Vineyard, after all the tourists and almost all the staff had gone home. This was where the grapes for Angel’s Breath were grown, and Alex had confessed it was one of his favorite places to unwind.
Tate could understand that. The countryside around Bristol was lovely, but this was farther into Devon, nearer the coast, and further from any city influence. They’d arrived in the afternoon, and Alex had taken Tate on a tour of the site. The sky was clear of all but wispy cloud, and the smell of the countryside was sharp and sweet. Tate had seen pictures of all the vineyards that supplied Bonfils wine, but had never actually strolled among the vines, ambling on the rich grass between the rows, watching the leaves ripple in the breeze and the bunches of grapes hang pendulously on stalks that looked barely up to the job.
“They’re almost ripe and ready for picking,” Alex said. “That’ll happen later in the summer. Maybe we could come and help out, like Henri and I used to do.”
“I’d like that,” Tate said.
“Now, back to the tasting.” Alex gestured sternly at the small selection of glasses in front of Tate, each one half-full of sparkling white wine. “Don’t make me wait for my dinner any longer. Do you know what powers of management I had to conjure up in organizing time away from our darling family? Just so that we could have these few days together.”
Our family. For Tate, that was never going to get old. “Hurts me to admit it, but I couldn’t have done it as efficiently.” It was the start of the summer holidays, when everybody would usually be at home full-time, but somehow Alex had arranged for the H’s to stay at a friend’s house for the week, Amy’s acceptance on a science tutoring course much to her ecstatic delight, and Gran’s delighted inclusion on a residential Sounds of the 50s trip at the local Butlins.
“That’s because you don’t delegate,” Alex said promptly. “You run yourself ragged trying to juggle priorities, and you see any slip of control as a personal, potential failure.”
Tate stared at him. A few months ago, if someone had said the same to him—and, in fact, Louise often had—Tate would have leaped to the defensive. Yet now he could see that he probably had been setting himself an impossible standard and ignored everything else he needed in life. Like time to be himself; to read a book all the way through; to pursue the sommelier course he’d recently been accepted for, and without any help from the Bonfils family themselves; and to be with Alex.
But right now, he didn’t resent Alex for saying it. Alex was almost as bad on the self-sacrifice, after all. He’d sat up with Freddie the night the dog was ill. He was first along the landing to comfort Amy when she had occasional night terrors. And he attended many of the school meetings as the children’s co-guardian when Tate had a late shift. In fact, rumor had it that the school were begging him to be a governor. Alex couldn’t help charming people, Tate knew that as well as anyone. His frankness and enthusiasm were captivating. But only Tate had Alex to himself in the evenings, to wind down with and take to bed.
He took his time over the three wines. He looked first, admiring the shine of them, the clarity, the delicate yellow. Then he swirled them slowly inside the glass, watching how the droplets clung to the sides, judging the alcohol content.
“For God’s sake,” Alex muttered, though he was grinning. “You don’t have to show off for me. I don’t want to miss the entrees, remember? The crème fraiche is made on a nearby farm, and with smoked salmon it’s heavenly.”
Tate crinkled his nose, then smelled the wines slowly, one by one, savoring the light fizz under his nose.
“Sip the damned things,” Alex said. His eyes were alight now with anticipation. “You’re a bloody tease.”
Tate sipped each slowly. He swallowed—he liked to do that, to feel the texture in his throat as well as his mouth—and took a mere sip of water between each one.
“Well? Well?”
“This one.” Tate pointed at the third glass. “It’s by far the best. Smooth, yet an exciting sparkle on the tongue. The grape flavor is richer, too, without adding to the weight of the bouquet.”
“Yes!” Alex punched the air, then pulled his arm back down, embarrassed. “That’s the Angel’s Breath, you know.”
“I guessed,” Tate said with a smile. The sun here caught the highlights in Alex’s blond hair, though darker strands still lingered. Tate liked them: it was a fitting illustration of the many layers to his lover’s personality. “It’s the very best taste. You know why?”
“Years of blending and experimentation? The English soil? The relentless rain at certain times of the year?”
“It’s the taste of you,” Tate said simply, and shockingly frankly. Alex had brought him happiness and friendship and adventure, alongside a freedom Tate had never thought he’d find again. One day he’d pluck up the courage and say all that aloud. In the meantime, he lifted his glass in a toast of love to Alex Bonfils. And from the besotted look on Alex’s face, he didn’t think he needed the words anyway.
AFTER dinner, they sat back out on the patio, finishing a bottle of the esteemed Angel’s Breath. Alex reached into the bag he’d left on the table.
“Whose is that videocam?” Tate asked.
Alex was swamped with sudden guilt. “You know, don’t you?”
“What? That it’s Hugo’s? That you bought it for him? Of course I do.”
“It wasn’t too expensive,” Alex rushed to justify himself. “He’s got a really good eye for video composition, and it’s good to have a record of all that’s happened in the last few months—”
Tate’s hand on his arm stopped him. Then Tate’s mouth on his stopped him for even longer. “I know. I’m not angry. Hugo loves it. Though we may have to restrict usage—he filmed me yelling at the football on TV last week, then Freddie on Gran’s lap the other evening, both of them slack-jawed and snoring. But do you really think I’m such a spoilsport I’d stop you treating the kids?”
“I know you’re awkward about my money—”
“Only when it’s wasted. Or you spoil the kids too much. And while we’re on the subject, what about all the other gifts?”
“I’m sorry?” Alex had hoped for a greater impact, exposing the undercover boss thing, but unfortunately most people seemed to know all about it by the time he confessed, so there wasn’t a lot to expose. But what he liked most of all in the TV program was when the boss then rewarded people for their good service, so he’d thrown his full efforts into that bit.
“Percy has his promotion, but you still treated him and Mrs. Grove to a seaside holiday.”
“We’ll go and visit them there, too,” Alex said eagerly. “There are apparently machines where you can slide pennies down a chute and they nudge novelty prizes over the edge. Hattie’s going to show me the best technique.”
“Then Stuart got an F1 experience, he hasn’t stopped talking about it since. And Penny in Packaging has an all-expenses paid evening at the club of her choice—”
“But that’s got a secondary motive, because it’s for two—”
“And yes, she’s going to take Louise.” Tate grinned. “Then there are the staff showers you had installed. The secure bike racks. A day off for everyone on their birthday. Free cakes at break times. A staff children’s Christmas party. And the kitchen you put in so that we can make our own hot lunches, plus have decent tea and coffee instead of vending machines.”
“I mean, that’s a Health and Safety issue, isn’t it? Those plastic cups are a scalded lap waiting to happen.”
Tate frowned slightly. “The only problem is when you try and make me wear ridiculously expensive clothes.”
“God, but you looked good in London. I could hardly keep my hands off you.” Alex found it difficult to speak steadily when he remembered Tate at the Heritage Wine Awards, just a couple of nights ago. The way Tate had stood his own ground, proudly by Alex’s side all evening, the way he’d answered boldly and knowledgeably to all that nonsensical industry small talk. Alex hadn’t pulled any strings at all to get Tate accepted on a management fast track at Bonfils—with another pair of helping hands in the family, and the bliss Alex insisted he brought to Tate’s life nowadays, Tate had taken that opportunity as soon as he could.
“Is that what you’re watching now?” Tate asked, gesturing at the camera.
The UK Heritage Wine Awards ceremony had been too long, too stuffy, with warm wine and bland buffet food. But Alex was inordinately proud that Bonfils scooped the Gold Award for Angel’s Breath, and also several other wine awards. Charles Bonfils had been seen to greet Edward Fenchurch with politeness, but a certain amount of coolness. Edward Fenchurch’s son Tristram had not accompanied him.
However, Charles Bonfils’s sons had. Henri and his wife were glowing with pride, and networked with the industry professionals in their usual, smooth, sophisticated way. And Alexandre had been unusually well behaved, and escorted by his new partner Tate Somerton, with a new sexy haircut and wearing a Hugo Boss suit that looked like it had been made for him—which it had, despite Tate’s protests.
But both Alex and Tate had been glad to escape the venue at the earliest opportunity. They’d politely refused to attend any of the post-award parties, and instead they had a quiet steak meal with the family, who’d traveled to London with them. Then they stayed in a modest London hotel for the night—Alex had insisted on an overnight stay so the adults could all drink—and the next morning, Gran took the children home. He and Tate had a short break planned on their own. It had all been arranged in secret, partly to escape any media interest from them venturing out to this red-carpet event, but mainly because they needed some time alone.
“Let me see.”
Alex snuggled up closer to Tate so they could share the screen.
They’d snuck out of the awards venue by the side entrance to meet up with everyone. Hugo’s video started with an alarming close-up of Tate’s face as the twins ran forward to meet him, accompanied by peals of laughter from Hattie behind the camera. Then Hugo had adjusted the zoom and taken a panoramic view of the group on their way to supper.
Gran wore a surprisingly sophisticated velvet skirt suit, though Alex assessed the style as around twenty years out of date, and her hair was an alarming shade of copper. Hattie was beside her now, grinning at the camera. The H’s had worn matching trouser suits in a vividly bright tartan fabric, with the familiar—to Alex, at least—eclectic trademarks of a Vivienne Westwood design. After Alex’s introduction to the designer, and their fittings at the studio, the twins had been fawned over by the whole Westwood team. Alex wondered, slightly nervously, how long it’d be before the H’s were on the pages of celebrity magazines themselves. He and Tate would fight that as long as they could, and should.
The camera angle slid quickly sideways, back toward the door Tate and Alex had just stepped through.
“There’s Papa,” Alex murmured.
“I had no idea what he’d say,” Tate said. “Whether we’d be in disgrace for creeping out early—”
“Which we weren’t, as I told you, he’s confessed in the past he’d like to do the same—”
“—and then Amy just marched up to him and asked to interview him for her school project on money. I think most of her class are writing and drawing different currencies of the world. Amy wants to do a report on the fallout of the banking crisis across retail industry.” Tate winced at the memory, but Alex laughed.
They watched Amy in her best pink princess frock, but with a sturdy messenger bag over her shoulder, waylay Mr. Charles. They couldn’t hear exactly what she said but saw her pull out a Frozen notebook and pen, and start listing her questions. Listening carefully, Mr. Charles was blinking hard.
“She’s so bright,” Tate sighed. “I’m so impossibly proud of her. But my God, I was mortified she ambushed him like that.”
“She’d be a great journalist if she chose.” Alex put one arm around Tate to hug him in sympathy and pointed with his free hand at the screen. “Look. This is where Papa put on his sternest business face, told her he’d get his people to talk to her people, and made an exclusive appointment for her to visit our Head Office.”
Amy had turned away, her little cheeks very flushed and a huge grin on her face. Alex had never loved his father more than in that moment. Though Papa might have to protect his company against a hostile takeover from the likes of Amy Somerton one day.
“And here’s Papa wishing us the best.”
Hugo had pointed the camera up to get a good angle on the tall Mr. Charles Bonfils as he bade the family goodbye for the evening, with a gracious handshake and, “Good night, Alexandre, Tate. Thank you for sharing this evening with us, and for all you’ve done to help bring us this award.”
Alex watched his own startled expression as he went to shake Papa’s hand but was drawn into a full body hug. He didn’t think he’d ever seen Papa show so much emotion. Well, well, well. Maybe the family hadn’t been as disturbed as Alex had feared when he suggested all the changes. Note to self—start discussions on subsidized staff healthcare at the next board meeting. The camera angle swung again, this time to Tate’s face. Hugo’s giggle was very loud, as he was nearest the microphone.
“Tate, why’s your mouth open like a goldfish’s?”
Alex chuckled, half under his breath. It never failed, whenever they met Papa. Tate was going to take a very long time to get used to Mr. Charles calling him by his first name.
THE night was drawing in, and they’d all but finished the bottle. There’d be more shared drinks in the future, but this first taste of Angel’s Breath felt special to Alex.
“It’s gorgeous.” Tate was still admiring it. “It’s light but it has a full flavor. More citrusy than I’d expected.”
“We should make the most of it while we’re here. I doubt we’ll be drinking it on a daily basis back home.”
He didn’t miss the way Tate tensed. Was it from the mention of home? “Do you miss them? The family?” Alex asked tentatively. “I mean, we can leave early if you want. I know there’s always so much to do in the house. I’ll admit I had promised to help Hugo with editing his film, and supervise Hattie sewing a beret to go with her suit. And I’m meant to sit with Gran soon and take her through the family trees for the first Game of Thrones series.” He’d booked out one of the exclusive summer house apartments on the estate for the whole week, but if Tate wanted to get back quickly—
“Are you kidding me?” Tate almost snorted the wine out of his nose. “This is the only holiday on my own I’ve had since a disastrous long weekend in Greece with school friends. I burned scarlet all over, got food poisoning, and bitten by a ray. Never touched ouzo again in my life, either.” He caught Alex’s hand, tightly. “Seriously, though. I do miss them, after all I live with them every day of the year. But this is… magic, being here with you, in this glorious place.”
“With lots of time for sex, as noisy and as boisterous as we like.” Alex didn’t mind sharing Tate’s room at the house, though he’d decided to keep on his London apartment for the time being. They could use it as an overnight escape if they needed. And his office in Bristol had a luxurious couch in it, ostensibly for visitors, but also useful for the frequent making out sessions with Tate, when they both had overlapping break times.
Tate’s grip sent goose bumps all up his arm; Tate’s smile made his heart soar; Tate’s wicked sense of abandon had him coming harder than he ever had in his life, whenever they let loose in bed….
No, that was never going to get old.
He touched his glass to Tate’s and together they sipped the sparkling wine. “You know we could afford to move to a bigger place?” he said softly to Tate.
“You could. I can’t.”
“Tate….”
Tate smiled and touched his fingertips to Alex’s lips. “No, it’s my turn to tease now. I know what you mean, and I’m on board with that. Maybe one day. But at the moment, I don’t want to disturb—”
“The family. Yes, I get it.”
Tate’s answering smile turned Alex’s stomach upside down and curled his toes. “You do, don’t you?”
Alex wanted to hold Tate closer than ever, until they were one body. Doubtless Amy and her fantasy robot would be working on such a future innovation in years to come. “They’re a treasure to me. They’re mine, if that’s not too forward of me to say.”
“You? Forward?” Tate gave a soft snort. “And when would that not be?”
Alex traced Tate’s lips with his forefinger, wiping the dampness still lingering, loving the way Tate leaned into him. “Are you happy, Tate?”
Tate looked puzzled, then his eyes softened. “You’re not the big, bold, arrogant sod you once were, Alex Bonfils. But that’s our secret, right? I’m happy, yes. Very happy, exactly where I am right now.”
That was what mattered to Alex, more than anything else. “This co-guardian thing with the children?”
Tate went still. “It’s too much for you? I can understand that—”
“No. Never.” Alex swallowed hard. He felt as nervous as if he were back in front of his school housemaster again after another prank gone wrong, or Papa, after another scandalous tabloid exposé. But thankfully that wasn’t his life any longer, was it? “I would like to make it formal.”
“Formal…?”
“You and me, Tate. As an official couple, looking after the family.”
Tate’s expression would have been comical if it wasn’t so stricken. “Are you proposing to me?”
Oh, God. “Okay. Sorry. I mean, one day.” Alex felt so mortified, his skin heated all over. He was a bloody idiot; he’d been horribly clumsy with his words, too hasty with his intentions. “I mean, I know it’s come out of the blue for you, but I think it’d be good for the kids, and make it much easier when we need to take turns at the official parenting jobs—”
“Just for the kids, eh?” Tate’s voice was strangely flat.
Fuck. He’d done it again. What was it about this relationship with Tate, that he could put his foot in his mouth so spectacularly, so often? “I didn’t mean that. I meant, because I want to be with you for the long term. Because this, this life with you, is what I want. All that I want.” Tate was still staring at him and his lips were pursed tight. “I love you, you know that. I mean it, too, it’s not just a whim, or a fashion. And I love the kids, and the things we all do together, and being part of your family, and I love you—did I say that already?—well, it always bears saying again, and I love—”
“Hush.” Tate put his fingers on Alex’s lips. “You don’t give me any chance to answer. Must be because you’ve always been so certain of getting your own way.”
“That’s not—!”
“I know, you idjit. I love you too. And it’s a yes.”
“It is?”
Tate was laughing now. “Yes. Definitely yes. What you said, about loving the things we do together, Mr. Bonfils….”
Alex’s hand lingered on Tate’s thigh, tracing the pattern of the trouser fabric, and Tate’s muscles beneath. “What exactly are you insinuating, Mr. Somerton?” But he didn’t give Tate a chance to reply to this question. He slid his hand around the back of Tate’s neck and brought him in for a long, sexy kiss with a lot of tongue. One of the candles on the table flickered gently, then finally snuffed out. Slowly, Alex drew back, and they sat there for a few moments more, silent and with their foreheads touching, their breath evening out in tandem.
“I don’t think either of us needs much more practice in this,” Tate whispered.
“You reckon?”
“But far be it from me to stop you.”
Alex chuckled. With the dusk air cooling around them, the fresh smell of vines and hedgerows in the wind, and the taste of Angel’s Breath still on Tate’s lips, Alex grinned as he lifted Tate’s chin and initiated another kiss.
This was the taste of a real fortune.