Page 9

CHAPTER EIGHT

New Year’s Eve

Madigan

There were a ton of pluses to living in the country and not having to wear earplugs to sleep on Guy Fawkes night, Christmas, New Year’s Eve, and all the other nights bordering those occasions was definitely a big one.

I’d celebrated New Year on my own, as per usual, enjoying a favourite bottle of South Otago merlot while demolishing the holiday charcuterie board Gazza had gifted me the day before. A gift which caught me off guard.

We’d never exchanged holiday presents, but Gazza had been riding a sappy high since he and Ben had started officially dating before Christmas, and I wasn’t about to complain if my New Year’s Eve dinner was the result—olives, pickled onions, paté, salmon, Italian sausage, melon, crackers, pork rind, strawberries, and a gooey French brie that smelled disgusting and tasted divine.

I was a happy little camper, even if I’d been mortified that I hadn’t thought to get him something as well. My ample wine reserves came to the rescue with a bottle of excellent Champagne which had delighted Gazza to no end, and he’d promised to share it with his new guy on the stroke of midnight. Then he tried for the millionth time to get me to join them at some horrendous queer warehouse party in the city, the thought of which made me want to stab a fork into my eyeballs.

“There’ll be people of all ages,” he promised in that innocent way people in their twenties did when they were absolutely lying through their teeth. I’d either be totally ignored by a cohort of queer men who thought forty was stroke-and-heart attack material, or the target of guys half my age who had a thing for older men and who thought Oscar Wilde was an actor from Queer As Folk , if they thought about him at all.

“You never know,” Gazza continued. “You might even meet someone.”

Which only sealed the deal, because hell to the no and back again on that terrifying thought. I hadn’t been to a New Year’s Eve party in years and just the thought of Gazza and his boyfriend dancing and partying hard while I had to make small talk, or worse, fend off any advances, was enough to strike fear into the deep recesses of my heart. Too many people. Too much noise. Too... everything.

I was happier on my own. And if there were times I wasn’t, well, that was my business. Because for all I’d turned down Gazza’s offer, there were a couple of moments as I sat on the deck, weighed down by a carpet of stars, and listening to the distant thrum of my neighbours’ party a few paddocks away, when I craved the feel of a warm body at my side, a hand reaching for mine, an arm around my shoulders, lips on my ear asking me to come to bed.

That sort of closeness hadn’t happened in a long, long time. Five years to be precise. The year I turned fifty, when Craig had walked away complaining of the same thing as all the others before him. It was him, not me, he’d said, because of course he did. He couldn’t live like a hermit, he’d said. I was hot but old before my time, he’d said. I’d given up, he’d said. He needed... more, he’d said.

More than me, he’d meant.

Surprise, surprise.

Had I loved him? I thought I had. We’d spent eighteen months together and he’d known the type of guy I was from the start. Could’ve saved us both a lot of time. I supposed I should be grateful he thought I was hot. Small mercies, right? But old before my time? I didn’t get it.

There was nothing wrong with being fifty-five, even if in gay years it probably ranked closer to seventy, but that was a whole other issue. I was tired of trying to meet other people’s criteria, ticking their boxes so that they might say, Madigan Church is fifty-five, but you wouldn’t know it. He’s got a great attitude. He’s doing this and this and this . It was exhausting just thinking about it. Choosing to live a quieter life did not equate with being or feeling old. All it meant was that you liked living a quieter fucking life. I was that person at twenty-five and I was still that person.

And just because I was single, why did I need to maintain a full social calendar that included a plan to run the Boston marathon, or walk every track in New Zealand, or attend every ageing rock star’s concert, or be on Grindr or Scruff or whatever the latest app was?

And so, when Craig left that day, I’d told the dating world to go get fucked. I was done with trying to make a long-term relationship work on someone else’s terms. Or at least I was done actively searching for it. Admittedly, I hadn’t quite planned on having no relationships at all, but there it was.

And just like that, an image of Nick Fisher popped into my mind, and I thought that maybe there were worse things than feeling sorry for myself simply because I was single on New Year’s Eve.

On that note, I sighed and cleared my leftovers into the kitchen, locked the house, and headed to bed at the eye-watering time of ten thirty. Note to self—book a few days of vacation next New Year’s Eve so I could pretend my life was interesting.

Do I hear a bah humbug?

Right mood, wrong holiday.

Like I gave a fuck.

I didn’t go to sleep straight away because it was too damn humid. Instead, I watched television long enough to see the New Year in. Well, almost, if you didn’t count the forty minutes spent snoozing, only to be woken by the sound of fireworks and “Auld Lang Syne” blasting in the background. I wished myself a Happy New Year, switched the television off, and turned the fan above the bed up to a Category 5 hurricane to try and cool the sweat from my body.

I tossed and turned for another hour, sweated a little more, then gave up and reached for my phone, smiling at the Happy New Year texts from Jonas and Charmaine and the kids. I sent a quick reply and was about to slide the phone back onto my bedside table when another name flashed on the screen.

Casper . The name I’d assigned to Nick when he’d been ghosting me before Christmas. Even though Nick had been making much more of an effort to keep in touch, I’d left his screen name as it was. It made me smile. Especially since my personal reaction to Nick hadn’t changed from the first time I’d met him.

I found the man... unsettling. And unsettling didn’t sit well alongside the quiet, zen life I’d been so busy creating for myself over the last five years. Nick Fisher was anything but zen. In fact, Nick Fisher was the antithesis of zen. Irritating, opinionated, prickly, hard to read, confusing, and... grieving, I reminded myself. He was very much grieving.

Which made me an asshole for even admitting, although it needed to be said, that Nick Fisher was also hot. Because hot was also not conducive to my zen-like existence, especially since on the Madigan Church scale of hotness, Nick reached the lofty heights of—will sizzle the hair right off your balls. Never said I wasn’t above a bit of silent objectifying when it was warranted. And it was definitely warranted.

All of which made being friends with the guy... problematic.

He was problematic.

The man complicated my day. I thought about him. Worried about him. Checked in on him. Felt bad for him. Fantasised about him, then felt ashamed for fantasising about him. And then thought and fantasised about him all over again.

He was an uncomfortable distraction.

Yes, that was it in a nutshell.

Nick Fisher was officially an uncomfortable distraction.

I stared at his text. Case in point.

Are you awake?

I should’ve put my phone back on the bedside table and tried to sleep. Yeah, right. I typed, Unfortunately, yes.

My phone rang in my hand, scaring me half to death. I put it on speaker and set it on the pillow next to my head.

“Can’t sleep?” Nick’s voice filled the darkness of the room, hoarse and a little broken.

“Too hot,” I answered.

He groaned. “Tell me about it. I’m lying on the couch with the fan blowing in my face and I’m still sweating.”

“Don’t you have air con?” I remembered the unit on his lounge wall.

“Hate the thing. Gives me a headache.”

I chuckled. “And sweating like a pig on a spit at one in the morning is so much better, right?”

He went quiet. “That’s something he would’ve said.”

I didn’t have to ask who he was as a yawning silence opened between us. I let it ride for a while, listening to the soft cadence of his breathing as if he were lying next to me.

When he finally spoke again, his voice was brittle, almost fragile. “We met at a New Year’s Eve fancy-dress party; did I tell you that?”

My eyes fluttered closed and my heart squeezed. “No, you didn’t. Doesn’t sound like your kind of thing if I’m honest.”

Nick huffed. “And you’d be right. Don’t know what I was thinking at the time. Anyway, it had a movie theme, so I went as one of the Men in Black .”

I snorted. “Of course you did. Type casting and minimal effort.”

He laughed and it almost sounded genuine. “Davis was dressed as a very tall Ewok.”

My turn to laugh. “I’ve only seen photos of him, but he was over six feet tall, wasn’t he? I’m surprised he found a costume to fit.”

“Six three,” Nick clarified. “And he looked fucking ridiculous, which is exactly what I told him and was still telling him thirty minutes later when he kissed me and told me I was the sexiest man in the room and that we should get out of there immediately.”

Something sharp tugged at my chest. “Love at first sight, then?”

Nick was quiet for a second before chuckling. “Hardly. I ghosted him after the first time, but he was a persistent bastard and eventually I agreed to a second date, not that the first was a date, as such. Just a bit of mutual blowing off steam.”

I wasn’t sure I wanted any more details. “And then you end up getting married. Pretty amazing.”

“Yeah.” I could feel him smiling. “Although, God knows what he ever saw in me.”

A lot, I thought to myself. “Tonight must be hard, then. Lots of memories and the first New Year’s Eve on your own.”

He huffed. “The second, really, but who’s counting?”

I wasn’t sure what to say to that. “I’m guessing that’s why you’re calling me instead of sleeping?”

“That and the heat,” he answered distractedly. “It’s hard. Just when I feel like I’m starting to move forward, something happens and I’m right back wondering if any of it is worth it, again.”

My ears pricked up and not in a good way. “Meaning?”

He gave a soft snort. “Don’t worry. I’m not talking about topping myself.”

“I didn’t say?—”

“But you were thinking it,” he called me out.

And he was right. “Maybe, but I’m not going to apologise for checking in. Friends remember?”

“I remember. But I only meant that I’m tired. So damn tired. All day, every day. The last eighteen months or so have ripped me apart. I feel like a shell of the person I used to be. I barely recognise myself anymore. If I’m really honest, I never expected to have a long-term relationship in my life, let alone a marriage. Davis was the first guy I’d stayed with longer than a few months. I don’t have much time for people on the whole.”

I couldn’t resist. “Colour me shocked.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He sounded amused. “But Davis was different. He never took my rudeness seriously and rarely took offence. He simply got me, on so many levels. The closest damn thing to a unicorn I’ve ever met. And then he goes and fucking dies—” His voice cracked and he sucked in a stuttering breath. “It sounds really bad to admit, but every now and then I wonder if it wouldn’t have been easier if I’d never even met Davis. Then I wouldn’t have to know what it feels like to miss him. To have this huge gaping hole in my life.”

My heart crumbled but I knew Nick hadn’t called me for platitudes or sympathy. “Of course it would’ve been easier,” I agreed, turning to face the phone, a welcome draft of cool air brushing my side and back. “It’s always easier not to feel, don’t you think? To walk through life and not have to think about anyone else? Especially for someone as—” I struggled for the right word. “— resolute as you are.”

He barked out a laugh. “You mean pigheaded and narcissistic.”

“I mean self-contained and resolute.” I smiled into the dark. “But I think people walk into our lives for a reason. That for good or bad, they have something to teach us. Aren’t you a better man because of Davis?”

The silence felt heavier this time, a weight of emotion filling the space between us. I let it be, tempting though it was to fill the void. And when Nick’s answer finally came, it was little more than a whisper carried on the sticky night air. “Yes, a much better man.”

I waited, sensing there was more.

“I didn’t deserve him,” he added.

I huffed. “He probably thought the same.”

“Then he would’ve been wrong,” Nick argued in a thin voice. “I was lucky, Madigan. I don’t expect to be lucky again. That’s too much good for one man. But enough about my sad story. By now, you know almost everything there is to know about that. I want to learn more about you. You’ve never really talked about your relationships other than me overhearing your aunt instructing you to get yourself a boyfriend.”

I snorted. “A stellar moment, as I recall.”

He laughed. “Indeed. Now stop deflecting and start talking. There must be a few exes in the vault.”

“One or two,” I admitted. “Most with a bit more longevity than yours.”

“How long?” he pressed.

“Two years was the longest.”

“Huh,” he said, sounding surprised. “I’m impressed.”

I wasn’t sure whether to be insulted or not. “Well, you shouldn’t be.” I let him off. “They all ended in the same embarrassing way. The consensus is, I’m a bit of a boring homebody. That I need to get a life. Men have dipped their toes in the water but baulked at the swimming part, let alone building a pool together.”

He didn’t laugh. “Do you regret it?”

“Regret what?”

“Not getting married? Family? The whole white-picket-fence thing?”

I wanted to tell him no. I wanted to say that I was perfectly content with my life. That I chose every part of where I ended up. But instead, I said, “Sometimes. Sure. Last night, for instance. Most holidays if I’m being honest. But that doesn’t mean I’m not happy with my life.”

There was the slightest hesitation. “Of course it doesn’t.”

“I’ve been luckier than most. I grew up with parents who loved me and a brother who’s still my best friend even though he now lives in Australia. Mum and Dad were killed in a glider accident about ten years ago. Dad was an excellent pilot, and he was taking Mum for a ride when the weather conditions changed unexpectedly and they were blown off course over unlandable terrain. The glider went down and that was that.”

“Jesus.” Nick drew a sharp breath. “I’m so sorry.”

So was I. “Witnesses from the gliding club said Dad did his best to change course and steer the glider somewhere safe but luck wasn’t on his side. But my brother and I are close and I’m grateful for how I was raised. I suppose a part of me always hoped I’d have the chance to offer that kind of home to a kid, but not everyone gets that opportunity, right?”

“Two point five and a dog?” Nick said without a trace of sarcasm.

I thought about the question because it wasn’t that simple. “Maybe. Maybe not. I can’t say I’ve ever felt strongly about having my own kids, but fostering? Maybe. The whole dog thing though? Definitely. Maybe even a pack.”

“Really?” He sounded surprised.

“Yeah, why not?” I shot back, a little miffed. “You think I’m too fussy to handle the mess of a few dogs in my home?”

His brows peaked. “Well now that you mention it…”

I wanted to argue but he was right. I sighed. “Okay, so maybe a pack is going too far. But something small and not too challenging, maybe even litter mates so they can grow up together, yeah. I’d love that. Logan and I came close; we even visited a few shelters. But then he broke up with me and that was that.”

Nick frowned. “Why? Having a dog isn’t contingent on having a boyfriend, as far as I know.”

He was right, of course. “I suppose I always saw it as a shared decision. Something I wanted to do with someone I cared about.”

“That’s a nice idea but it can be something just for you as well. Don’t you deserve that?”

Did I? I supposed I did. “I’ll take it under advisement.”

He chuckled. “You do that. I have to say it surprises me.”

“What does?” I asked, rolling onto my back and throwing the top sheet aside to expose my hot balls to a heavenly draft of cool air.

“That you’ve had quite a few long-term relationships but haven’t settled down. Of the two of us, I’d have thought you were the most likely to do the married-and-settled thing. It surprises me that you’re still single.”

I blinked. “Why would you think that?”

“Because you’re a good man, Madigan. A kind man. A lot kinder than me. Plus, you’re smart and gentle and you’re not exactly hard to look at either. Someone should’ve snapped you up long ago.”

My mouth opened then closed again, my heartbeat suddenly loud in my ears. I spread my legs wider, starfishing under the fan, my skin flaring hot from his words.

“Madigan?” Nick sounded worried. “I’m sorry if that was out of line.”

“It wasn’t, well, not like you think,” I struggled to explain. “I’m just not used to hearing... to getting?—”

“Compliments?” he offered.

I grimaced. “Yes, I suppose, at least from someone I respect. And yes, I know it’s ridiculous. Gazza says crazy stuff like that, of course, but that’s just him. He’s always up in my business about getting laid or dating or whatever. I know I’m his boss but, somehow I think we’ve moved into friendship.” I hesitated. “Yes, definitely friendship. But you can’t rely on anything that comes out of that man’s mouth because I know he’s simply trying to be supportive and make me feel good, so there’s that. He told me I’m his man-muse, for fuck’s sake. Who the hell says something like that? Plus, he doesn’t really know me, not in a boyfriend way, so I can’t take him seriously. My actual exes, who should know, haven’t exactly rated my company and all left, so... yeah... probably not the marrying type as it turns out.” I stumbled to a finish, cheeks flaming in the dark. “And oh god, can we just pretend I didn’t say any of that?”

He chuckled but not unkindly. “Absolutely not. However, having said that, there’s a lot to unpack in those words, starting with what the fuck is a man-muse? But I’m going to take a rain check for now and circle back to that fascinating concept at a later date. We clearly have some work to do on your self-perception.”

“Oh god,” I whined. “You should’ve stopped me. Why didn’t you stop me?”

“Hell no,” he said, far too delightedly. “That was fucking gold dust. Besides, I’m feeling a lot better after listening to all that bullshit. Best I’ve felt all night.”

“Arsehole,” I grumbled, but all he did was laugh. “Okay, my turn,” I said. “If I haven’t talked about my romantic liaisons much, then you have certainly been avoiding any and all questions about your family.”

“Hardly,” he argued. “You know all about Lizzie and Samuel and?—”

“Not Davis’s family,” I cut him off. “ Yours .”

That shut him up and I waited. I imagined his eye-roll and the sigh that followed. “But his family is mine.”

“Not what I asked.” Again, I waited.

“Fine,” he grumbled, and I could hear him repositioning in his bed. “But it’ll be short, and no questions, agreed?”

I agreed, my curiosity thoroughly piqued.

“Okay, well the long and short of it is, my father was a prick. In life in general, but especially with me and my mother, although mostly my mother. I copped the tongue lashings and name calling, but he saved the physical stuff for her.”

My heart sank. “Oh Jesus, Nick, I’m so sorry.”

He drew a long slow breath and his next words were louder, like he’d moved the phone closer to his mouth. “I don’t remember a time when he wasn’t knocking her about in some way. Mum said he wasn’t like that the first few years they were together. Quick to anger, sure, but he never touched her physically. Then he lost his job a few months before I was born and the drinking started. It went downhill from there. My childhood memories are pretty much filled with images of him screaming at us or pushing her around. I try not to think about that time at all. It’s safer for my mental health.”

“Did she ever think about leav—” I stopped myself. “I’m sorry. You said no questions.”

He gave another long sigh. “Yes, she did, but he found us both times. Busted her face really bad the first time. She couldn’t leave the house for weeks. He wouldn’t let her see a doctor, so her nose never set right and her right ear had a chunk out of the top where he split it wide open.”

I gasped. “Holy shit.”

“Yeah, pretty much. The second time he landed her in hospital with a concussion and three broken ribs. He lied and told the medical staff she’d run her car into a tree and wasn’t wearing her seat belt. She backed him up, of course. Not that she had much of a choice. He refused to leave her side in case she said anything. She was terrified.”

The idea of a young Nick being witness to all that fucked with my head. Let alone what his mother must’ve been going through. Rage burned through my blood and I wanted to hit something. I grabbed the spare pillow and threw it across the room. It hit my dresser, sending the stack of books on top careering to the wooden floor in a thundering pile.

“Jesus, what was that?”

I snorted. “Your father’s head if I could have five minutes alone with the bastard.”

Nick was slow to answer. “I appreciate the sentiment. As it turned out, my mum did finally make her escape when I was eight. Things had gotten really bad between them. She came into my room one night when he’d left to go drinking with his mates. Told me to get dressed. That someone was coming to pick us up. That we were leaving. I wanted to take my train set but she said there wasn’t time. I remember putting up a fuss, not really understanding the urgency, and her just dragging me out the back door. But that’s as far as we got. My dad reappeared unexpectedly, having left his wallet behind.”

“Oh fuck.” My heart pounded in my throat.

Nick huffed dejectedly. “Yep. And he was so mad, Madigan. Like a fucking animal. I’d never seen him like that before. He ordered me back in the house and I was too scared not to go, even though my mum begged me to stay with her, insisting we were leaving. Dad totally lost it, and I think he might’ve killed her except for a car’s headlamps lighting up our driveway. It startled my father long enough for my mother to break free and make a run for it toward the car. It slowed and she jumped in. Years later I realised that the car must’ve been coming for both of us. It was our ride out of there and I’d missed it. The last memory I have of my mother is her face pressed to the passenger window as they drove away.”

Jesus Christ . “So you never heard from her again? Sorry, I know you told me no questions.”

He sighed. “It’s fine. And no. I kept waiting for her to come back for me, but she never did. I thought that maybe my dad had found her and... you know. Or maybe she simply got herself a new life and couldn’t risk returning.”

“She left you alone with him?”

I pictured his shrug. “Like I said, he never hit me as such, just a little shoving around and a lot of shouting.”

Like that wasn’t just as bad, sometimes worse. And define shoving. “Don’t brush it off, Nick. That’s years and years of a total fuck-up to have to endure.”

And tells me a lot about the why of who you are.

“I won’t deny it. But when I was fifteen, I got lucky. My rugby coach had no time for my father who spent most matches hurling abuse at the other team and referees. I also knew I was gay by then, not that I would ever have come out to my dad, but I suspect my coach knew that about me as well. He took me aside and told me that if I ever needed a place to sleep, I was welcome to stay with his family. It was enough to get me through. The second I turned sixteen and could legally leave home, I turned up on my coach’s doorstep and that was that. Surprisingly, my dad didn’t put up much of a fight. Maybe he was happy to see the back of me. More money in his pocket for booze. Whatever.”

“That was so fucking brave,” I told him, meaning it.

He huffed. “Self-preservation, more like. I finished school, went to university, and moved to Auckland. I still keep in touch with my coach and his family, but they moved to the UK when I was at university so I don’t see them. My dad died ten years ago of an alcohol-related illness. Like I could give a fuck. He was estranged from everyone. I organised his cremation and sorted through everything else by phone and email. Told the funeral home they could put his ashes out for rubbish collection for all I cared, but we settled on scattering them in the bush, which they did for me. Then I sold his crappy house and donated most of the money to LGBTQ+ charities.”

I snorted. “Good for you.”

He chuckled. “Yeah, that was the best fucking feeling. The bastard will be spinning in hell for eternity. Anyway, that’s the whole sad story in a nutshell. I’ve spent most of my life angry at my father, confused about my mother, and generally messed up. If you’d told me in my twenties that I would find a guy, fall in love, and settle down, I’d have said you were out of your freaking mind. Who’d have guessed?”

Nick inhaled slowly and I sensed him relaxing, like telling me his story had created some breathing room between us and the line went quiet, neither of us looking to fill the space as I began digesting the true horror of his story. It explained a lot, of course, but it raised just as many questions too. Questions I didn’t think would be welcome and so I parked them for the moment.

“I wouldn’t say you’re messed up,” I finally countered. “I’d say that you’ve had a pretty normal response to a fucking horrible childhood.”

He chuckled. “Nice try, but trust me, I am absolutely messed up. But I did get myself some counselling while I was at university, so I’m at least a functioning and semi-aware mess and quite aware of my tendency to be self-contained and... what did you call it?”

I grinned up at the fan above my bed. “Resolute was the term.”

“Yes.” He sounded amused. “Resolute. Although you’re being far too easy on me.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” I argued. “You might still be an arsehole at times, but you’re growing on me.”

A huff of amusement was followed by a long silence. Long enough to have me wondering if maybe we’d come to the end of whatever this call had been about. A familiar voice on a difficult night? A bit of company? Whatever Nick had been looking for, he’d never know just how much I’d needed it too. I certainly wasn’t about to tell him. I’d let him hang up and hopefully get some sleep.

Me? Not so much. Too many emotions had been stirred. Too many veils stripped from my eyes. The exposure felt raw and uncomfortable. Loneliness crept up on you like a chronic illness, your mind adjusting in increments to the new normal, until one day you looked around and wondered how you’d come to this place. A disappointment here, an expectation lowered there, an acceptance of the status quo, a loss of faith, a web of self-taught lies, a fear of rejection, a lack of courage. We each had our own version of self-denigration. Our own version of a lonely room. Some people just visited the place. Others lived their whole lives watching a grey world pass them by.

But a quiet life didn’t have to be a lonely life, I knew that. Deep in my heart, I knew that. I just wasn’t sure any longer if I’d been lying to myself about whether I really wanted that solitary life or not. I’d bought and sold my own lie. Happy to take the path of least resistance.

So, no. I wouldn’t be sleeping anytime soon. And since Nick hadn’t done anything to end the call either, maybe I wasn’t the only one happy to continue whatever it was we were doing. Two lonely men on a hot New Year’s Eve.

I glanced at the well of light surrounding my phone and asked, “Do you need to go?”

His whispered reply took a moment to come. “No. This is... nice.”

I smiled and reached for my phone. “I agree. So, how do you feel about hot chocolate?”

He hesitated and I pictured those grey eyes smiling. “Not quite what I was expecting, to be honest. Did you forget the fact we’re both lying under fans with our body fat melting at the edges and no one to turn us over?”

“Pffft. There is no wrong time to drink hot chocolate,” I said dryly. “Now answer the question.”

He chuckled. “Fair enough. Then yes, I like hot chocolate. Why? Are you going to run one over to me?”

“You wish.” I set the phone on the bed and pulled a pair of boxers on as I talked. “Do you have fresh milk and chocolate?”

“Do I—hang on. I’ll go check.”

“Take your phone with you.” I made my way to the kitchen, listening to Nick do the same.

Cupboard doors opened and closed in the background and then he said, “Yes, to both.”

“Excellent.” I attached my phone to the magnetic stand sitting on the countertop and rubbed my hands together. “I’m about to talk you through the steps to making the best hot chocolate in the world a la Madigan Church. I found this family recipe stuck between the pages of a fifteenth century Spanish Bible I worked on and they let me take a copy. I’m sure it’s Mayan,” I lied. “Many lives have been lost in an attempt to procure its mysteries.”

Nick snort-laughed. “You’ve been eating dictionaries again. And also, I call bullshit.”

I chuckled. “Do I detect a note of cynical disbelief?”

I could hear him pulling drawers out and things clattering on stainless steel. “An entire symphony is closer to the truth,” he retorted. “But go on, I’ll play your silly game.”

I grinned to myself. “Grab the chocolate and grate a half cup of it into a Pyrex bowl or whatever you have that you can shove in the microwave.”

He chuckled. “Ah, the ancient Mayan hand grater and Pyrex bowl combo. A classic.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “Arsehole.”

“At your service. You know, this would be easier if I could see you.” His call switched to video and I accepted without thinking, only realising my mistake when a wide-eyed and shirtless Nick Fisher filled the screen.

Christ on a cracker.

I gaped at all that lean muscle on display, revelling in the fact my troublesome fantasy life had been closer to the mark than I’d imagined. The man was fit but not bulky, his olive skin carrying a light sheen from the night’s heat, his stomach flat but softer with age, and sporting a thick happy trail that led temptingly down to the waistband of his sweats where it disappeared into my imaginings. My many, many imaginings. Dark nipples peeked through a dense mass of blondish-grey grizzled curls, and a single tattoo sat above his heart, an owl on a branch—a question for another time.

“Um . . . Madigan?”

His voice rattled me out of my musings in time to see his gaze shift over my right shoulder. “You, ah, never said this was one of those cooking shows.” A slow sexy smile spread over his face.

I frowned. “What?”

Keeping his eyes averted, Nick’s finger stabbed in a downward motion, my direction.

My gaze followed and my stomach plummeted, which at least allowed me to see the chequerboard briefs beneath in all their glory.

“Shit!” I hopped sideways out of view, cheeks blazing. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. My body was hardly a carbon copy of Nick Fisher’s—read: not even close. Too many pastries, too few hours—read: zero hours—spent at the gym whose atmosphere offended my sensibilities only slightly less than boarding a sweaty, crowded train at rush hour, too many years under my belt, and a set of genetics which ran to receding hairlines and a cruelly slow metabolism. All had necessitated an upsize in the trousering department at least three birthdays ago. None of it major, but definitely not in the league of the god that was Nick Fisher standing shirtless in front of me.

“Back in a minute.” I made a beeline for my bedroom, ignoring the laughter that followed and the shouted?—

“Don’t bother just for my sake.”

“In your dreams,” I shouted back. “That’s an entirely different recipe and one not covered by tonight’s episode. Please subscribe below.”

The clear sound of his laughter made me smile, and somehow, a crappy New Year’s Eve had become something I’d remember for years.

My friendship with Nick had definitely taken a turn for the better.