Trust (London Love #5)

I smiled. It was a little bit like looking at Gray. Older. Less hair. Oh yeah, I was going to tease Gray about going bald because this was obviously his dad, and genetics were a thing. Just like my dad having more hair than me.

I combed my fingers through my mop. Tried to look smart. Non-threatening.

“Hello.”

Good start, Reubs.

“Hi. I’m Reuben Schiller, a friend of Gray’s. He’s apparently staying with you? Mr Smith, is it?”

Dodgy. Any decent Londoner would have shut the door on me by now and probably called the police.

“Reuben?” he said, his face cracking into a smile. “You’re Reuben?”

“Yes.” I offered him my hand, which he shook enthusiastically.

“George. George Smith. It’s very nice to meet Graham’s boyfriend. He’s talked about you quite a bit, and we already feel like we know you. We’ve never actually met anyone he’s dated, so this is a first. His mum’ll have the baby photos out in a flash, Catherine? Catherine!”

He pushed me ahead of him into a small kitchen, shouting for his wife and in between showing me seedlings in pots and offering me a choice of tea—well, it was one brand, and one brand only, but with different strengths, and could I tell the difference between tea made for hard water and normal tea? What was the water like down in London? Apparently, Gray didn’t notice such essential snippets of information, and anyway, Mr and Mrs Smith had visited London just the once and found it too busy and dirty for their tastes. They much preferred to have a day out at the British seaside. Had I visited Whitehaven?

I hadn’t, but the seaside was something I could enthusiastically discuss, having had yearly breaks in a caravan on the south coast.

Just like that, we bonded, and suddenly Gray’s mum was beaming right in my face. This was not what I’d expected.

I had no idea what I’d actually expected.

“You’re a very handsome boy,” she said. “And you’re Graham’s boyfriend?”

I’d not even mentioned the B-word. Was I?

“Yes.” I smiled politely. I mean, not my job to burst their bubble. Especially when they both looked so weirdly thrilled to meet me.

“Cathy, bring the baby photos!” George enthused. “I’m making tea. Sit yourself down, Reuben.”

“Thank you,” I said weakly, hoping Gray would make an appearance soon, rescue me from all this. His mum left the room, to get the photos, I guessed. His dad pottered around, filling the kettle, clinking cups against sauces and paying no attention to me sat there like a plonker.

“Is Gray here?” I managed stutter out eventually when he set a plate of biscuits on the table, along with a teapot. A bloody teapot. Dad and I didn’t even own one.

“There’s a very precise art to making the perfect cup of tea,” George said, tapping his nose.

“My dad swears on a cup run under the hot tap, then a teabag and boiling water,” I shared. “Milk goes in last. Just a dash.”

“Exactly!” George said, nodding appreciatively. “Always preheat the pot. Two teabags. One spoonful of loose Earl Grey. Pop the tea cosy on and let it brew. We’ve got it down to a T now.”

He looked at me like he’d just shared a prized family recipe, handed down for generations.

“Don’t look so scared, lad. I’m glad you’ve made the trip to pick him up. He’s been a right mess without you. We’re much alike in that regard, our Graham and me. When my Cathy used to go away on those nursing conference trips and such, I didn’t know what to do with myself, even when he was little. I always like it better when we were together. I’m sure you know what it’s like.”

“I do,” I said without thinking. But…perhaps I did like it better when we were together.

“He was always a very anxious boy, our Graham. Then he had all this success, and it’s not done him any favours, we can see that. It’s nice he’s met someone to take care of him. Us men need that. Someone to lean on.”

I wasn’t sure about the leaning-on thing and didn’t get a chance to think about it because here was the most dishevelled Gray I’d ever laid eyes on. He obviously hadn’t washed his hair for a while and…gosh, he was a mess.

“Oof!” I said as he crushed himself against my chest and threw his arms around my neck.

“Mate, when did you last shower?”

“We’ve been telling him,” his mum said, appearing with a photo album. Seriously? “We’ve tried to get him in the bath for days, but he’s not in a good way.”