Page 37 of Gideon (Finding Home #3)

I follow him into the tea rooms, trying to discreetly ogle his tight arse. He looks as calm and cool as ever in navy shorts, a navy gingham shirt, and white Vans. His distinctive face is made slightly less so by the new beard he’s grown and the Ray-Bans that conceal those clever eyes.

The tea rooms are apparently the converted stables, and his friends have done a good job of renovating them. The ceiling is high, the beams have been sandblasted, and the place has a laid-back, rustic feel. Huge old pine tables dot the room with mismatched chairs drawn up to them.

The big room is full of people and noise, which comes as a bit of a shock after the last few days of it being just me and Gid in that small bedroom filled with the sound of just our laughter and groans as a breeze blows over our bodies and ruffles the curtains.

Waitresses zip about between tables, and the room rings with the sound of crockery and loud chatter. We wait at the entrance to be seated, and I lean against the waiter’s station, eying Gideon contemplatively as he looks around the room.

I know I said I was okay with keeping us secret, but I never realised how fucking difficult it would be to stand near him and not touch him.

Especially after the last few days when we’ve been joined by my cock more times than I’ve had hot dinners.

It isn’t that, though. I don’t want to maul him.

I just want to hold his hand, to touch him and have him look at me the way he does in private when there are no secrets.

But I can’t, and even though that makes me sad, I’m still going to wait this out, because he’s worth more to me than anyone I’ve ever met.

Maybe in the end I’ll leave if he forces me into a small, private box, but not yet. For now I’m happy to be with him.

I feel a stroke on my hand and look down to see his finger twine with mine. It’s a small gesture hidden by our clothes and he isn’t looking at me at all, but it’s somehow more intimate than anything we’ve done so far.

The next second I jump as a small dark-haired man with sharp features comes up next to us. He’s dressed in tight jeans and a Chi an Mor navy T-shirt with tattoos gleaming black on his arms.

“Well, if it isn’t our resident Oscar winner,” he says.

“I never won an Oscar,” Gideon says with a gleam of amusement alight in his eyes.

“Didn’t you? Oh no, Christian Bale beat you. Silly me. What a scatterbrain I am.”

“Yes, that’s just the word I was looking for to describe you,” Gideon drawls.

The small man laughs and says something else that makes Gideon snort, and I hear the Irish in his voice and realise that this is Oz, his friend’s husband.

He’s not at all what I expected. He grins at me, and I’m helpless not to smile back.

His face is fierce and beautiful, but what stands out most is the amusement lurking there and the kindness.

Not at all what I was expecting, and I’m glad of it.

He reaches out to shake my hand. “Oz Ashworth,” he says. “I’m married to Silas, Gideon’s friend.”

“Have you got a title too?” I ask and Gideon laughs.

“Many, but none that are listed in Debretts.”

Oz laughs, but at that second a few things happen simultaneously. A woman shrieks. There’s a gasp and a thud and the shattering of crockery. I spin round just in time to see an older man topple off his chair like a doll.

I’m in movement before my brain realises what’s happening, striding over and kneeling next to the man.

“Sweetheart,” the older woman cries, racing round the table to the man’s side.

I bend over him, examining him intently. “What happened?” I ask, and she must hear the calmness and command in my voice because she stops the tears that are threatening.

“He said his chest hurt and his arm. Then he went a funny colour and collapsed.”

“Does he suffer from angina?” I ask.

“No,” she says, and I can hear the fear in her voice.

“It’s okay,” I say. “I’m a nurse. I need to help him.”

She breathes in to control herself. “No, he doesn’t have angina.”

“Okay, Mrs …?”

“Andrews.”

“Okay, Mrs Andrews. What’s your husband’s name?”

“Jack.”

“Jack, can you hear me?” I say to the man who is groaning under his breath and clutching his chest. His eyes flutter. “I know you’re hurting,” I say clearly, moving him onto his back and raising his knees. “Is it just your chest?”

“Jaw,” he mutters before groaning again.

Oz and Gideon race up next to me. “Have you got a defibrillator?” I ask Oz, pulling the man’s shirt apart. Sweat lies clammily on his chest.

“In the kitchen.”

“Get it for me.” He races off immediately. “Gideon, ring for an ambulance. Tell them suspected heart attack and possibly cardiac arrest.”

“Okay,” he says, obeying instantly, pulling out his phone and tapping one hand on my shoulder in support.

The woman starts to cry, but to my relief her friend comes round and pulls her back.

“Okay, Jack,” I say calmly as Oz falls down next to me with the red box containing the defibrillator. “I think you might be having a heart attack. I know it hurts, but try to breathe. I’m going to attach some pads to you, but try not to worry. You just concentrate on breathing.”

He groans pitifully, and I look around for something to clean the sweat off him.

Not spying anything obvious, I grab the tablecloth and give it a sharp tug.

Crockery falls to the floor on the other side of the table, but the cloth does the job of cleaning his chest so I can attach the pads.

I place them on him quickly with the long ease of practice, continuing to talk soothingly as I take his wrist and count his pulse.

It’s thready and uneven, and as I reach over and switch the machine on and attach the wires, his eyes roll back and he stops breathing.

“Shit,” I mutter, bending over him.

“What’s happened?” Oz mutters.

“He’s stopped breathing.” I lean over him and start chest compressions. “Count them, please.” He obediently starts to count.

Gideon slides back next to me. “Ambulance is on the way. Estimated time is five minutes.”

“Shit.” I keep the chest compressions even, feeling the sweat starting under my arms. “Take over,” I snap at Gideon. “While I start manual breathing.”

He comes down next to me and, like the well-trained actor he is, he immediately starts the movements which are perfectly timed.

“Okay, stand back,” I say to him, pushing him free as the machine next to me announces that it’s ready.

As soon as everyone is clear of the man, I press the red button, and a few people gasp audibly as his body flails on the ground.

The machine announces I can work again, so I start chest compressions and breathing again, breaking off to shock the man.

Then it’s back to more chest compressions and breathing before shocking him again, but this time, to my relief, he moans and his eyes flutter. “Welcome back, Jack,” I say, smiling while I feel the muscles in my arms burn. “It’s okay. You’re safe.”

The next second the thunder of footsteps announce the arrival of the paramedics, and I sit back. They crowd around, and Oz moves the onlookers back while I give the paramedics a brief summary of my qualifications and the treatment I administered as the man receives oxygen.

A few minutes later they strap him onto a stretcher and start to move off. His wife comes round to me, exclaiming and muttering thanks, and I smile and accept them before they whip after the paramedics and silence falls, broken only by the mutters of the crowd as they leave.

I move to rise from the crouch but my muscles lock and tremble after kneeling on the hard floor.

I falter but then Gideon is there, grabbing hold of my arms and pulling me up so I lean against him.

I stay there for a second before realising that he’s hugging me in full view of an entire tea room.

I go to pull back, but he says, “No,” sharply, so I subside, secretly glad to feel him touching me.

“Fuck me,” Oz says as he comes back, his eyes bright. “That was fucking scary. Will he be okay, do you think?”

“He’s got a good fighting chance,” I say, feeling the sweat on me and longing suddenly for a cold shower. “We kept him breathing during the critical point when there wasn’t anything moving the oxygen around.”

“You were so impressive,” he says. “Thank you so much.”

“It was nothing.” I sigh, feeling weary, but Gideon murmurs and, to my amazement, he presses a kiss to my temple.

“It was everything,” he says softly. “Well done, you.” I can hear the praise in his voice and the pride, and it warms me.

“Thank you, but I have to say anyone could have done it.”

“Not me, not Oz, and I didn’t see anyone else queuing up to help.

You’re wrong,” he says quietly. “You’re not your mum and dad.

You’re far better .” The conviction in his voice stills me, and I stare at him.

He smiles. “You may not be conducting surgery, but at the end of the day that man would have died without you. That may not rank in numbers against your mum and dad, but it certainly ranks in fucking importance to his wife and family. He can’t be replaced and neither can you. I’m so proud of you.”

“Thank you,” I say softly. It feels like he’s reached inside me and soothed a bruise that’s always lain there, that every conversation with my mother and father makes worse and more painful. I doubt it’ll ever go, but his words have soothed the sting.

“What was that cracking noise?” Oz asks, leaning against the table, his eyes as bright and curious as a sparrow.

“A couple of his ribs,” I say casually.

“You broke his ribs?” Gideon says incredulously.

I shrug. “Better ribs than death.”

“I’m sure there must be other options in life than those two things,” he says. “You must be terrible at birthday parties. I’m certainly never letting you give me the bumps.”

We end up going back to the cottage without food, and as we get through the door, Gid pushes me towards the stairs. “Go and have a shower.”