Page 17 of Someone Like You

IAN

H e was playing with fire.

Things were escalating fast and he was too selfish and too masochistic to just walk away.

It was wrong, and it was stupid, but it was too late to do anything about it, anyway: he was addicted.

Addicted to Phil’s wry humour and his sharp comebacks, how he never missed a beat, even when Ian played his best cards.

Addicted to that brokenness that made Phil appear so brittle when he was, in fact, the strongest, bravest person Ian had ever met. The most loyal, too.

Phil, who had come all the way from America to disrupt the natural order of Ian’s life.

Phil, with his brooding air and eyes way older than his forty-five years.

Phil, who couldn’t be any more off-limits if he tried.

Ian pressed his forehead to the cold tiles of the shower, biting down on a curse .

He was fucked .

And a git.

When he’d seen Jamie with Irene, or Iris, or whatever her name was, he’d feared it’d punch him with nostalgia, but that hadn’t been the case.

Because Phil had taken charge, and while that had helped Ian get through a potentially unpleasant situation, it had also made him realise that Jamie, whom he had once believed to be the love of his life, was now as relevant as a speck of dust on his sleeve.

A simple brush had swept him away, leaving room and clarity for another realisation: having Phil tucked under his arm felt unfairly right .

Not just because he fit there so damn well; for a straight guy, he’d played the gay boyfriend part surprisingly confidently.

Provided Phil was straight.

Not that it would’ve made any difference. Ian just wondered.

He’d been prepared for questions after stumbling across Jamie, but none had come.

‘That’s my ex boyfriend,’ he’d said, and Phil hadn’t bat an eyelid.

Straight men tended to be wary of blokes who liked blokes, and Phil’s behaviour hadn’t changed after finding out Ian liked men.

If he’d asked, Ian would’ve been happy to let him know he was bisexual, but Phil hadn’t asked and nothing between them had changed.

Perhaps sexuality genuinely didn’t matter to Phil.

Ian had just thought that that kind of conversation would spontaneously lead to some answers he was looking for.

‘I like men, but not exclusively,’ he would’ve said, and that would’ve provided Phil with a cue to reply: ‘I like women, very exclusively.’ Which would’ve pretty much settled it.

But that line hadn’t been drawn, and even though Phil had a gorgeous, doting girlfriend — fiancée — and had shown no sign whatsoever of being anything other than a convinced heterosexual, save for a brief and unserious comment on Jamie’s attractiveness, Ian still felt like something had been left hanging between the two of them, unfinished.

He jammed a fist into the wall, shutting his eyes tight. Those few minutes in front of Phil’s building had really tested his morals. The lack of any personal space and those eyes looking at him like they needed him, vulnerable and almost hopeful …

Those damn puppy eyes would be his undoing.

He turned the water to cold and stood under it until his limbs went numb, wishing he could give his feelings a cold rinse as well.

He’d just teamed up with a colleague to tackle a big rewiring job in a posh building under renovation in Cleveden Gardens and he couldn’t fuck up: if he did well, it’d be a gateway to more high-paying, moderate-effort contracts, meaning he’d be able to afford Kibble’s food and vet visits without any sacrifices.

In fact, the term sacrifice would likely disappear from their household. If he did well.

Kibble jumped on his lap as soon as he sat down for breakfast and rubbed herself on his flannel shirt the entire time.

Something about his work and running clothes drove her crazy.

He reckoned it was his scent, which clung to the fabric no matter how many times he washed it.

Kibble had a fine nose: she could smell bad meat and bullshit from miles away.

Once Ian had had to send away the wifi technician because Kibble wouldn’t have him in her house; he’d later found out that the guy had been caught pocketing valuable items from the houses he’d worked in.

“It’s going to be good for us, Kibbsy, you’ll see,” he told her, kissing the top of her fluffy head.

She purred loudly, revelling in the scratch of his beard.

“Dad’s going to be able to buy you the top brand.

” Kibble let out a little content trill.

Ian chortled. “Do I get a kiss?” He bent and Kibble placed her paws on his chest to pull herself up and touch her nose to his lips.

Ian couldn’t resist grabbing her whole head, peppering it with kisses. “That’s my girl.”

He met up with his colleague at the building.

McLean had a big squad of electricians, but none as competent as Ian when it came to rewiring, not even McLean himself.

It was a weird experience for Ian to be a team leader.

They worked almost nonstop from 8 to 4, with a quick hour lunch break that Ian invested in a workout session in the building’s private gym, then he was free.

He wasn’t used to being done so early: his days normally weren’t over before 7, so he didn’t really know what to do with the spare time until he got a text that stopped his heart for a second .

He was waiting at a red light, humming along with the radio when the text arrived. He picked up his phone with an eye on the traffic and was more than a little surprised to find out it was from Sandra.

Sandy

Your boy is so dreamy

Ian had no idea what that was supposed to mean until a photo appeared below the text, still blurry.

He tapped on it and his boy filled the screen: Phil was sitting at their usual table by the window with a pot of tea and a half eaten slice of pie sitting at the side of the laptop he was focused on.

His brows were furrowed in concentration, a pair of black glasses sitting on his crooked nose.

Dreamy.

That was the word. Not just handsome and charming.

That was the feeling Ian got staring at that picture.

Though he had to admit, it wasn’t just at the picture .

The car behind him honked. The light was green. Ian dropped the phone to the passenger seat and pushed the accelerator.

La Dolce Vita was on the way home. He could stop by and say hi, maybe squeeze in a treat. It’d been a long day, he’d earned one.

By the time he got there, the café was crammed, as it always was at this time of the day, which was why Ian preferred early mornings. A corner of his mouth curled when he recognised the fancy mountain bike propped to the wall in a corner behind the counter. So Phil was still there.

Ian asked Sandra for a spritz , which she bounced back to Anna, who took the order with a thumbs-up and a radiant smile.

Everything would’ve been so easy if Ian had liked her . A lively young woman, the partner everyone expected to see with a man like him. Hilarious that the one person Ian could see himself spending the rest of his life with was the exact opposite of that definition.

“Showing up at rush hour? You’ve got it bad, son.” Sandra’s grin was so insufferably knowing that Ian nearly turned on his heel .

“Shut up, Sandy.” He slapped twenty pounds on the counter. “This should cover the spritz and whatever the old man took.”

“Oh, didn’t like me calling him your boy, did you?”

Ian ignored her, took the spritz Anna placed in front of him mumbling a ‘Thank you’ , and moved on.

“You can’t take a joke, Ian Galloway!”

Phil’s head popped up from the laptop at the sound of Ian’s name. The way his entire face lit up with a smile when he saw Ian approach hurt in ways Ian couldn’t describe.

“What are you doing here?”

Ian removed a brand new backpack from his armchair and sat down, upset that there was no helmet in sight. “Sandy tipped me off.” He collapsed against the backrest, stretching his legs out under the tiny table. “I think she’s in love with you.”

Phil’s eyebrows arched. “Can you blame her?”

The sarcasm lacked the usual bite of Phil’s humour, rather sounding bitter and self-deprecating.

“Not one bit.”

A brief hesitation delayed Phil’s half-hearted smile long enough for Ian to catch a glint of dismay in his eyes.

Ian loved everything about that expression: the parted lips, the subtle knit in the eyebrows, the fleeting stillness…

There was confusion, but it was mingled with something else, something raw and hungry that made Ian’s knees weak and his heart achingly heavy.

Don’t, Phil. Don’t look at me like that. It’s not fair.

After raking a hand through his hair, Phil took his glasses off to rub his eyes with a faint groan. “What time is it?”

“Not even five.” Ian downed half of his spritz, relishing the bitterness of it. “Had a productive day?”

“Not really.” The glasses got tossed on the table as Phil shut the laptop. “I just sat here rewriting the same ten lines over and over again. Oh, and ate like three slices of pie.”

Ian gave him a proud pat on the shoulder. Phil stuffing himself with pie when he normally just ate because he had to? What a day.

“How long have you been here? ”

“All afternoon.”

Phil was tired, Ian could tell just by how dim his spirits were. It must have been a mild shock to his system to spend a whole afternoon in such a chaotic place.

“So, let me get this straight: you — who don’t leave the house — have spent the whole afternoon in a public place, working , and you have the nerve to act dejected ?”

Slouched low in his armchair, Phil cast him a bellicose glare, which left Ian no choice but to kick him under the table.

“Don’t give me that attitude, you prick.” He detached a finger from his glass to point it threateningly at Phil. “It was a productive day: you got out, spent some time around humans, ate , did your shit… Give yourself your flowers.”

“Thought you were my flower guy.”