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  When the costs are added up, will love land in the black?

  The Shamwell Tales, Book 3

  Mark Nugent has spent his life in the closet—at least, the small part of it he hasn’t spent in the office. Divorced when he could no longer deny his sexuality, he’s sworn off his workaholic ways and moved to Shamwell with his headstrong teen daughter to give her a stable home environment.

  His resolve to put his love life on hold is severely tested when he joins a local organization and meets a lively yet intense young man who tempts him closer to the closet threshold.

  Patrick Owen is an out-and-proud charity worker with strong principles—and a newly discovered weakness for an older man. One snag: Mark is adamant he’s not coming out to his daughter, and Patrick will be damned if he’s going to start a relationship with a lie.

  Between Mark’s old-fashioned attitudes and a camp, flirtatious ex-colleague who wants Mark for himself, Patrick wonders if they’ll ever be on the same romantic page. And when Mark’s former career as a tax advisor clashes with Patrick’s social conscience, it could be the one stumbling block they can’t get past.

  Warning: Contains historically inaccurate Spartan costumes, mangled movie quotes, dubious mathematical logic and a three-legged pub crawl.

  Out!

  JL Merrow

  Dedication

  With thanks to Penelope Friday, Blaine Arden, Cleon Lee, Susan Sorrentino, and Kristin—and to Patricia for introducing me to New Rocks. This is for everyone who asked me after Played! whether Patrick would be getting his own story!

  Chapter One

  Mark clenched and unclenched his hands in his lap—fortunately hidden by the large oak table they were all sitting around. This should not be at all nerve-racking. He’d spent twenty years building a successful career as a tax advisor in the City of London. He’d faced down boards of directors and pointed out the errors of their ways. He’d brow-beaten so many inspectors of taxes on behalf of his corporate clients it was a wonder the country hadn’t gone bankrupt.

  He should be able to face a meeting of the Shamwell Spartans Fun and Funds Foundation.

  The trouble was, there was no hiding behind his professional persona here. This was a social situation, which had never been his forte. Mark couldn’t help being reminded of his school days. He’d changed schools on an almost annual basis, and he’d always hated being the new boy. Having to negotiate all the little cliques that inevitably formed wherever two or three were gathered together. Everyone here knew everyone else here—except him.

  The upstairs room of the Three Lions pub was fairly large, with white-painted walls that made the best of the light coming in through small, many-paned windows. The ceiling beams, black with age, stood out in stark contrast. There was a mingled aroma of beer, furniture polish and somebody’s enthusiastically applied aftershave tragically failing to cover his stale sweat.

  The website had said the Spartans was open to all villagers of the male gender (was that even legal these days?) between the ages of twenty-one and forty-five. Mark was comforted to find he wasn’t the only one there who was edging towards the upper end of that range. Several heads were greying to greater or lesser degree—unlike his own, Mark was happy to say with almost complete truth—and he strongly suspected Barry the chairman’s thick, dark head of hair of being a dye job. There were also a couple of early receders who’d made the best of it by shaving the lot off.

  Barry knocked on the table with an actual, old-fashioned gavel. “Right, you lot, if you can shut your gobs for a moment, I want you all to welcome our new member, Mark Nugent. He’s just moved in to the village. Mark, you want to introduce yourself?”

  “Thank you, Barry,” Mark said with a confident smile. He stood, realising even as he did so that what might be right for the boardroom might, in this context, just make him look like a self-important prick. But sitting straight down again would make him look like an idiot. He had a split second to decide: sessile fool or erect…prick?

  Mark decided that, on the whole, he’d rather be a prick.

  “Not a lot to tell,” he began self-deprecatingly. “I’m a chartered accountant and chartered tax advisor, formerly based in practice in London and now taking a career break to concentrate on my family. I’m a single father with a daughter of fourteen who’s just started at…” Damn it, what was the bloody name of the place? “…one of the local schools. She was the one who encouraged me to come along here, in fact.”

  Actually, her words had been more along the lines of “For God’s sake, Dad, get some bloody hobbies. You’re driving me mental hanging round the house all the time.”

  “And I hope I’ll be able to use my professional expertise to further the aims of this excellent group. Thank you, gentlemen.” Mark cleared his throat again. Yes, thank you, and I hope you enjoyed this evening’s order of pomposity. Plenty more available at a very reasonable hourly rate.

  Mark hoped he was imagining the variety of amused, incredulous and horrified looks that had turned his way. The one saving feature of the evening was that Florrie—no, Fen, damn it—wasn’t here to witness it. He could hear her exasperated Daaa-aaad in his head, even now.

  “Right, well, thanks for that, Mark. I’m sure we’ll be able to find…something for you to do. Anyway—oh, hang on. We oughta tell you who we are, don’t we? Me you know, and that’s—” Barry rattled off a list of names going round the table, most of which Mark immediately forgot. “Right, now we all know each other—” He was cut off by the door opening.

  A man walked in, his gait the confident, easy swagger of young, good-looking men everywhere. Clearly on the younger end of the Spartans’ age scale, the newcomer might have just stepped from the pages of a fashion shoot. Or out of one of those adverts for online dating agencies Mark had been trying to ignore lately. He was dressed in a pale blue casual shirt that Mark was ninety-five percent certain wasn’t designer but looked it anyway on his slim, fit figure, paired with jeans that hugged him, if not lovingly, then certainly with lust in mind. His eyes, set off by the shirt, were a startling blue, lively and bright. Cropped in close at the sides, his sandy hair was styled up on top with gel—was that why he was late? Maybe he’d needed the extra time to do his hair—bringing his height up to a level that, if it wasn’t six foot, wasn’t far off either. Just an inch or so shorter than Mark, in fact.

  He was…hot. And, Mark reminded himself hurriedly, even in the statistically unlikely event that this young man was attracted to (a) men and (b) older men in particular, firmly off limits. Mark had his daughter to think of. The thought filled him with a heady mix of pride, purpose—and insidiously creeping depression.

  The newcomer flashed them all a cheeky smile, and now apparently Mark had a heart arrhythmia to add to his woes. What the hell was the matter with him tonight?

  “Patrick. Finally,” Barry said with good-humoured reproof. “We’d just about given up on you.”

  Patrick’s reply was pitched low, with just a hint of roughness under the light Essex accent. “All right, lads? Sorry I’m late—total bastard of a day at work, and then when I get home, Mum’s got it into her head she’s gonna put up a shelf in the kitchen. Managed to drill into a water pipe. So there’s me stuck with my thumb in the hole like a little Dutch boy while she calls that plumber she fancies.”

  There was a collective wry chuckle, accompanied by the odd muttering of “Women, eh?”

  “Anyway,” he carried on. “By the time this plumber bloke gets there, I’m soaking wet, which, from the way he eyes me up, makes me think Mum could be barking up the wrong tree there, so I had to go and get changed.”

  Mark was mesmerised by the image of Patrick, soaking wet and peeling off his clothe
s. So much so that he almost didn’t catch Barry’s reply: “What, and you didn’t stay to chat him up?”

  That was interesting… Except no, it wasn’t, because young, fit fashion models didn’t look twice at middle-aged men. And responsible fathers didn’t shock their troubled teenage daughters by getting mixed up with boy-toys.

  Damn it. Mark’s mood crashed again.

  The blue eyes twinkled. “What, and step on Mum’s toes? I’d never hear the last of it. You never know, maybe he swings both ways.”

  “Go on, admit it,” the better looking of the shaven heads—Roger? Rodney? Roderick?—said loudly. “You just needed the time to do your hair.”

  Patrick’s response was a hearty laugh. “Rory, mate, you know you’re just jealous.”

  Barry cleared his throat. “We were just getting to know our new member. Mark, this is Patrick.”

  Caught by surprise, Mark stood once more—damn it, legs, why do you keep doing that?—and offered Patrick his hand.

  Patrick raised an eyebrow, making Mark feel even worse, but took his hand and shook it firmly. His grip was warm and smooth, and all sorts of thoughts Mark should not be thinking started to run through his head like an X-rated earworm.

  “Good to meet you,” Patrick said. “New in the village? I don’t think I’ve seen you around.”

  “Ah, likewise.” Mark’s mind wasn’t really on his response. The room was stiflingly hot. It couldn’t be good for the ancient timbers, not to mention the environment. Why the bloody hell didn’t someone turn the heating down?

  And was Patrick implying that if he’d seen Mark, he’d have noticed him?

  No, surely not.

  Was he? Mark realised he was still holding Patrick’s hand and dropped it like a hot potato. Fortunately nobody seemed to have noticed. He sat down hastily as Patrick took a seat at the other end of the long oak table.

  Oh God. Mark’s life had just turned into the classic midlife crisis.

  This young man was apparently attracted to men, gorgeous, and sharp in just the right way. His smile set Mark’s stomach in turmoil, and his voice had a similar effect on…other areas.

  And he was young enough to be Mark’s son, for God’s sake.

  Mark was doomed.

  Barry banged on the table once more, and the susurration of murmurs that had sprung up abruptly ceased. “Right. Three-legged sponsored pub crawl—who’s up for it?”

  Chapter Two

  “What’s the story with the new bloke?” Patrick asked Rory as they leaned on the bar downstairs, far enough away from Mark that he wouldn’t be able to hear, although he kept his voice down just in case. After the meeting had finished, they’d all headed down for the usual pint or three. Mark, Patrick had noticed, had seemed a bit doubtful about it and kept checking his watch, but he’d come along after a bit of persuasion. So, not a hot date he wanted to get off to. Maybe he had someone waiting for him back home?

  Patrick reckoned he ought to find out about that.

  Barry had steered Mark over to one side—the bloke took his responsibilities as chairman seriously—and was leaning back against the bar, clearly in full flow about the Spartans, his beer gut jiggling as he went overboard with the hand signals. Mark, a head taller and light years fitter, was nodding along and doing a reasonable impersonation of a bloke who wasn’t desperate to escape. Patrick smiled to himself. Yeah, that looked familiar. Poor sod would get home tonight and wonder how the hell he’d managed to sign himself up for the pub crawl, the fun run, and to be an elf in Santa’s sleigh come December.

  Not to mention the induction ceremony. Which, obviously, Barry wouldn’t. Not until the bloke was well and truly hooked.

  Rory smoothed a hand over the five o’clock shadow on his mostly bald head. He was in his early forties so wouldn’t be long for the Spartans, which was a shame. Couldn’t be easy, facing the prospect of being told he was too old for something he’d given so much of his time to. At least Patrick had a couple of decades before he’d have to worry about that.

  “Uh, I think he said he was a chartered accountant or something? He’s got a teenage daughter, I remember that. Doesn’t look old enough, does he?” Rory’s kids were seven and five, the youngest just started at the local primary school. “Why, you interested?”

  Not sure, but I think he is. “Not if he’s married I’m not,” Patrick said firmly.

  “Nah, single dad. Must be divorced.” Rory winced, maybe because his own divorce had only just gone through. He’d had a few gloomy pints to “celebrate” after the last Spartans meeting. Then he frowned. “Oh. So he’s not gay. Sorry.”

  Patrick laughed. “Bisexuals really are invisible as far as you’re concerned, aren’t they, mate?”

  Rory made a helpless gesture that nearly had him spilling his pint. “Well, it’s a bit confusing, innit? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I got no problem with people being gay, and obviously I got no problem with people being straight, but bisexuals, I just don’t get it. Why can’t they just pick one and stick with it?”

  He was a good bloke at heart, Rory was. Just not very up on issues and stuff. “They do,” Patrick said patiently. “Then when that one goes tits up, they pick another one and stick with it. Just like anyone else, except they’re a bit more open-minded about who they go out with. It’s not that difficult a concept, mate. It’s not even that uncommon. I’ve been out with girls in my time.”

  “Yeah?” Rory looked at him doubtfully. “You sure it wasn’t just a phase?”

  Patrick let that one go, because he reckoned if he started having a serious discussion about bisexuality versus sexual fluidity Rory’s head would probably explode. “And there’s Sean. He used to go out with Heather from the Sham-drams.”

  “The rat bloke? Yeah, but he’s just got engaged to Lucy’s teacher. She made ’em a card and everything. So he’s gay now, right?”

  “No, he’s just in a relationship with a bloke. He used to go out with Heather, and that didn’t make him straight. Love’s not that simple, all right?”

  “Which is what I’m trying to tell you, innit? It’s all so bloody confusing.” Rory shook his head and scratched the beginnings of a beer gut. “No wonder it didn’t work out, me and Evie.”

  Poor bastard. Patrick clapped him on the shoulder. “You oughta give the lads a go.”

  “No fear. With my luck, I’d just chat up the wrong bloke and end up getting a kicking. Nah, give me women any day. They’re…soft. And they smell nice. And they know about stuff like curtains and sewing name tags on the kiddies’ clothes.”

  “You’re a real Renaissance man, aren’t you?” Patrick said with a grin. “Gotta go. There’s a mate over there all on his tod—I’d better go and say hi.” He picked up his pint and left Rory to join in a spirited discussion on whether the under-eights in the local kiddies’ football club were going to win the County Cup or not this year. Given what Patrick had heard about their performance as under-sevens, he wasn’t holding his breath.

  Con, who Patrick knew from the local amateur dramatics society, was sitting at a table in the corner. He was wearing a soft bottle-green shirt that made his shoulders look about six foot wide—having a bloke had definitely smartened him up a bit. “All on your own tonight?” Patrick asked as he dropped into a chair.

  “Nah, I’m here with Heather. She’s just nipped to the ladies’.”

  “Your bloke off wowing them in the West End?”

  Con nodded. “Yeah, it’s been going really well for him. He’s got another gig lined up as soon as this one finishes its run.”

  “Yeah? Good for him, but seriously, mate, I know you and Tristan live together now, but do you ever get to see him? Your sex life must be almost as tragic as mine.”

  “Self-employed, aren’t I?” Con grinned. “I can choose my own hours. Good to see you, anyway. Spartans night tonight?”

  “Yep.
We’ve just been having a meeting upstairs. You ought to join us,” Patrick added. Con was a handyman studying to be a carpenter—those sorts of skills could come in, well, handy. And he was a good bloke. With some free time in the evenings, what with Tristan’s unsociable hours.

  “Not sure it’s really my thing,” Con said with a shrug. “Isn’t it all about lads’ nights out, getting pissed and putting on really bad drag?”

  “Well, some of it is,” Patrick admitted with a laugh. “Then there’s the induction ceremony, where they make you put on a leather skirt and helmet and drink half a yard of ale. Don’t think anyone’s mentioned that to the new bloke yet.”

  “New bloke?”

  “Mark somebody.” Patrick cast a glance over at the bar, meeting Mark’s gaze head-on. The guy flushed and looked away. Patrick grinned as he turned back to Con.

  Con was peering at the bar. “Which one’s he? There’s a couple of blokes over there I don’t know.”

  “He’s the one talking to Barry. Tall, fit, light brown hair, dark brown sweater…” Patrick paused, but what the hell. “And if I’m not mistaken, he fancies the pants off me.”

  Con frowned. “Isn’t he a bit…old?”

  “Well, he’d have to be under forty-five to be in the Spartans. Unless he’s telling porkies, of course. It’s not like Barry ever asks to see anyone’s birth certificate before he lets them come to a meeting.”

  “Yeah, but even forty-five… That’s old enough to be your dad.”

  “So? Nothing wrong with a bloke with a bit of experience, is there?” Patrick said it mostly to wind Con up. From the way Mark was acting, Patrick reckoned experience was one thing the bloke didn’t have a right lot of. At least, not with men.

  Still, that could be fun too.

  A bit wide-eyed now, Con took a slow swallow from his pint, then put the glass back on the table. “You always go for older blokes, then?”

  Amused, Patrick raised an eyebrow. “What do you think?”