On reflection, the Sea Bell probably wasn’t the best place to take Mack. I was so used to the place, I’d forgotten how unwelcoming it could be to newcomers. A dozen heads turned when we entered, and whilst I got the usual grunts and nods, Mack garnered assessing stares, even though he was with me.

Not that he seemed too troubled.

“There be a stranger in town,” he murmured in a comedy Cornish accent as we headed for one of the tiny tables.

I grinned. “Yeah, it is a bit like that. Sorry.”

Mack shrugged, though this time with a hint of smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

“What do you fancy?” I asked as I hooked my jacket over the back of the wooden chair. “Pint of the local brew?”

“What’s that, then?”

“Chough’s Nest.”

He looked dubious. “I think I’ll just take a pint of lager, thanks.”

“Coward,” I chuckled. “Okay, gimme a minute.”

Jago was already pulling my pint when I reached the bar. “Who’s your friend then?” he asked darkly, eyes narrowed with suspicion.

“Evening, Nathan, what can I get you?” I replied cheerfully.

“I’m already getting yours,” Jago pointed out. “So who is he?”

“Um . . . family friend,” I improvised. “And he’s having a pint of lager, thanks.”

Jago huffed, a sound that somehow managed to convey agreement and contempt in one. “Is he from round here then?”

I shook my head. The accent would give Mack away soon enough, so I added briefly, “Scotland.”

“Oh right. One of Derek’s side, is he?”

“Yeah,” I said, my tone vague. “You got anyone playing tonight?”

The Sea Bell held a proper folk night once a week but a lot of musicians hung out here who might play a few songs ad hoc, if they were in the mood.

“Andy’s in,” Jago said tipping his head at a scruffy bloke at the end of the bar, greying hair held back in a ponytail. “He might get his guitar out later, I s’pose.”

I didn’t much care, but it seemed to have worked as a change of subject. Jago put the two pints up on the bar, and I paid, then headed back to the table where Mack waited.

As I approached him, I wondered what it was about Mack that struck me as odd. It was only as I reached the table that I realised—he wasn’t fiddling with a phone like most people did when they were left on their own in a pub. He was just sitting there quiet, thinking.

“One pint of pissy, generic lager,” I said, setting his glass down in front of him. I sat down opposite, lifting my own glass to my lips to take a swig, giving an appreciative sigh after. “And one pint of fine, locally brewed Cornish ale.”

“Yeah, well, I’ll stick with the pissy lager, thanks,” Mack replied dryly. “At least I’ve got a fair idea what’s in it.”

He took a drink, and I watched him, reminded, inevitably, of the night before when he’d stood opposite me in Club Indigo, tipping up his beer bottle, slim throat bobbing as he swallowed, dark gaze full of promise.

It wasn’t full of promise now. More wary.

“So,” I said. “It’s been quite a day for you.”

He gave a short laugh. “You could say that.” Then he sighed. “I should have called first. It wasn’t cool, turning up without warning.”

I felt oddly aggrieved on his behalf. “Hey, he’s your dad. You get to turn up whenever you like.”

“Yeah? Try telling him that. He was horrified.” He shook his head and even offered a lopsided smile, but I could sense he was hurt, and I hated it.

I remembered Derek’s expression earlier as he’d berated Mack for not calling first and honestly, right then, I could cheerfully have punched my stepdad. But surely he hadn’t really been horrified to see Mack? Surely it was shock that made him react like that?

I let a moment pass, then said gently, “He was surprised, for sure, but of course he wants to see you—he wrote to you, didn’t he?”

Mack’s look was wry. “He wrote to me because he wants me to donate my liver to my little sister.” He lifted his lager and took another swig. Set it down. “And that’s fine. It’s not like I’d’ve come for any other reason. Like I said back there, I’m not interested in some big reunion. It’s way too late for that.”

My heart twisted painfully in my chest at those words. I didn’t know what to say. What could I say after all? I was the guy with two dads—one of them his. What did I know?

“Speaking of which,” Mack continued, frowning at his pint of lager. “I shouldn’t be drinking any more booze. In case I’m a match.” He pushed it a couple of inches away.

I couldn’t help thinking about him last night, reaching out to me in the dark. His words.

“Hold me.”

He had needed me last night—or at least, he’d needed someone. We all needed someone, sometimes. And God help me, but I was a fixer.

I began, my tone tentative, “Maybe Derek—”

His hand landed on my forearm, warm and firm. “Don’t, okay? I don’t want to talk about my dad.” He gave a half smile to take away the sting, and I nodded.

Just then, an electronic feedback shriek made us both jump.

“Sorry!” someone yelled out—it was the ponytailed guy from the bar, plugging his guitar into a speaker at the tiny stage area. Andy, Jago had called him.

“Looks like we’re getting some music.” Mack seemed pleased, watching the guy set up his equipment with obvious interest.

“You’re a musician, aren’t you?” I said.

He turned back to me, eyebrows pleated over the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, kind of. How did you know?”

“You had a guitar case in your hotel room.”

“Oh, right.” He shrugged. “I suppose. It depends on your definition of musician. I play, but mainly for myself, not to make a living. It’s not like I’m hoping to hit the big time.”

“You’re not a professional then?”

“Nah, I just love to play. As soon as you start trying to make money or get known, that gets tainted, you know?”

Tainted. Interesting choice of word

“So what do you do the rest of the time?” I asked.

“All sorts. I was working as a barman in Manchester till last week, but I’ve been a kitchen hand, waiter, labourer, cleaner, worked in warehouses and factories.” He offered me a small smile. “I’ll turn my hand to pretty much anything. What about you?”

I sipped my pint. “I studied marketing and business studies at uni. Worked in London for a while, then a couple of years ago, I came back to Porthkennack.”

He gave me a curious look. “Why?”

It hadn’t occurred to me he wouldn’t already know but of course he didn’t.

“I—um—I work in the family business. Dilly’s.”

“Dilly’s? Wait.” He frowned, thinking. “Do you mean the ice cream shop my dad bought down here?”

I shifted awkwardly. “Yeah. That’s it. It’s more of a café now though. We still make and sell ice cream, but we do breakfasts, lunches, and afternoon teas. We’re hoping to expand into next door at some point.” I realised I was babbling and stopped talking abruptly.

Mack eyed me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Impossible to ignore the obvious fact that this might prove to be a source of resentment between us. Me, the stepson, working with Mack’s dad in the “family business,” while Mack scraped by in what sounded like a series of temporary jobs. But in the end, all he said was, “You gave up a fancy career in London to sell ninety-nines in Cornwall?” To my relief, he chuckled. “You must be mad.”

I laughed too. “I do make the odd ninety-nine,” I admitted, “but my main role is dealing with all the business stuff—the boring stuff. Derek makes the ice cream, Mum and me run the café between us, and we have a couple of part-timers to help out.”

Mack raised a brow. “Must be demanding.”

I glanced at him, wondering if there was any sarcasm there, but it didn’t seem like it. “It can be,” I said lightly.

Over at the stage area, Ponytail Andy hopped up onto a tall stool and began playing a few exploratory chords. Mack watched him intently. After a few moments he said, without looking at me, “What happens if I’m not a match?”

“Rosie stays on the waiting list,” I said. “And we wait to see if a donor comes up. It could happen.”

He nodded, tight-lipped.

“Fingers crossed you’ll be a match though,” I added.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Fingers crossed.”

We stayed for Andy’s short set—he played four songs, only one of which I recognised, an early Bob Dylan hit. He was a good guitarist but an indifferent singer, and I pretty much zoned out while he was playing. Mack listened attentively though.

A couple of times, Mack reached for his pint, only to remember his decision not to drink it and withdraw his hand. After a bit, I got up, taking the pint away, replacing it with a Coke. Mack blinked at me when I set the fresh drink down.

“Thanks.” He sounded surprised.

Our drinks were long finished by the time Andy started packing up.

“Do you want another?” I asked, gesturing at Mack’s empty glass.

He yawned. “Nah, I think I’ll head back to the B&B now.”

I was tired myself, but still, I felt oddly disappointed at the thought of the night coming to an end, though I hid my thoughts behind an easy smile, reaching for my jacket.

“Actually, can you wait a sec?” Mack said quickly. “I’ll only be a minute.”

I subsided back into my chair. “Sure.”

He darted off to the stage area, where Ponytail Andy greeted him with a friendly smile. They spoke for a couple of minutes—Mack giving the guy some kind of compliment, judging by the pleased grin on the other man’s face—before Mack strolled back to me.

“Ready now?” I asked when he got back to the table.

“Yeah, sorry,” he said. “I just wanted to tell him how much I liked the arrangement he did on that last song.”

I couldn’t help but smile at that. He’d probably made the guy’s week.

Outside the pub, it was surprisingly chilly. A fresh, cold breeze had started blowing in off the sea. Mack paused on the pub steps to zip up his jacket.

“Where do you live, then?” he asked once we’d headed off.

“Not far from your B&B,” I said. “My flat’s pretty close to the seafront.”

After we’d walked a bit further, he said, “It’s a nice little town. Cute. Bloody quiet, though.”

“It can be,” I agreed. “Especially in winter.”

“Do you ever miss London?”

“Sometimes,” I admitted. “Mostly when I want to do something like go clubbing, like last night. I’ve got to go all the way to Plymouth now for that, and it’s a bit of a drive, though I can at least stay with Gav, my mate.”

“Yeah,” Mack said. “Look, about last night . . .”

My heart started pounding with anticipation. “Yeah?”

He sighed. “You’re not going to, you know, say anything?”

The wave of disappointment that swamped me was as surprising as it was ridiculous. What had I expected? To be invited up to his chintzy B&B bedroom for more amazing sex while his landlady listened outside the door? He was obviously only raising the subject to make sure there was no danger of me blabbing about what had happened between us to Mum and Derek.

I pasted a smile on my face, though it felt awkward as hell. “Course not. It’s just between us.”

He nodded, gaze averted. Said softly, “Thanks.”

And that was that.

As we walked on, in silence, I found myself musing on why he’d felt the need to check that point—was it possible Derek didn’t know he was gay? That Mack was worried about breaking the news? Maybe I should tell him that Derek already knew about me and it wasn’t something he had a problem with?

Eventually, I blurted out, “Does your dad not know? That you’re gay, I mean?”

“Oh, he knows.” Mack’s tone was grim. That surprised me. I wanted to know more, but there was a finality, a warning, in his tone that was clearly intended to discourage further questions.

We had reached my turnoff and, reluctantly, I slowed my pace. I pointed up the side street. “This is me.”

He stopped. “Oh, right.”

“The seafront’s only a couple of minutes down the hill. Take a left when you get there. It’s about five minutes’ walk to the White Rose.”

Mack nodded. “Thanks. I’ll say good night, then.”

“Yeah, night.” Impulsively, I stuck out my hand and after a moment, he took it. His hand was warm, his grip firm. When our eyes met, I was struck again by how very appealing I found him, and felt an unexpected pang, as though at a loss.

Why did he have to be Derek’s son?

Our hands separated and fell back to our sides.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then?” I hadn’t intended it to be a question, but somehow an inquiring note crept in at the end.

“Yeah, I said I’d go up to your mum’s place after breakfast. She was anxious for me to get back there early doors tomorrow.”

“She’s pretty stressed,” I explained. “She won’t sleep tonight, worrying.”

Mack tilted his head, his expression curious. “Worrying about what? Me running off?”

I sighed. “Probably, yeah. Don’t be offended—this whole thing’s been really hard on her—she’s not completely rational right now. Rosie’s her baby.”

He shrugged. “It’s fine—I understand. And I won’t be running off, okay? I may have issues with my dad, but that doesn’t come into it. If I can help Rosie, I will.”

Something about the way he said that, how his steady gaze met mine as he spoke, convinced me.

“Okay,” I said.

He turned away then, lifting a hand in a final farewell as he began ambling down the hill, calling over his shoulder, “Good night.”

“Night,” I replied, though I didn’t move. Just stood there and watched him till he turned the corner and was out of sight.

He didn’t look back.