Romancing the Ugly Duckling

by Clare London

  “If it were up t’ Perry,” Dougie said with spirit, “he wouldn’t be going anywhere.”

  Greg stared at him. “Don’t be stupid. He’s from another world, and he’ll go back sooner or later.”

  Dougie shrugged and grinned. He pulled his waterproofs back on, ready to leave the cottage.

  Bridie came out of the kitchen, also wearing her coat. “Greg? What about you? Are you okay?”

  Surprising them both, he hugged her. Her wet raincoat made a squelching sound between them. Glancing over her shoulder toward the fireplace, he could see Perry, already asleep on the sofa, swaddled in the duvet like it was a cocoon with his tousled hair poking out of the top. The flames flickered on his flushed cheeks.

  What would I have done if he’d been lost?

  There were puddles of water on Greg’s rug and mud trampled all over the hallway. Rory lay panting in his basket as if he’d run a marathon, and he’d need a damn good bath. Greg’s sanctuary had been invaded by crofters he barely knew, he’d bossed Cameron Mackie about, and more or less criticized Aileen Mackie’s grandparenting skills. But none of it mattered. Perry was okay; Perry was back home. All that mattered was Perry. How had he been so blind to those priorities before now?

  And what will I do when he’s gone?

  “Greg?”

  “You were right,” he murmured into Bridie’s ear.

  She chuckled. “Wonders will never cease. What about, specifically?”

  “He does make me happy.”

  “I see.” She searched his face for a moment, serious now. “This has moved very fast, my dear man.”

  “Aye,” he said with gentle mimicry of her accent. “Verra fast, and verra definite.”

  She smiled. “You’re a stupid wee arse,” she muttered fondly. “Now you just need to let him know!”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  FROM the moment Perry woke the next morning, the community didn’t leave him alone.

  There seemed to be people wanting to see him, either by ambushing him from the Mackie house—they were just passing, what a coincidence!—or traveling back and forth in Dougie’s car on the pretext of delivering supplies, or calling Greg on some spurious business query and asking could they drop in later to discuss it face-to-face? Really, they just wanted a look at the weird London lad who’d saved Fiona Mackie from the peat bog.

  Perry knew his Big Adventure on the peat bog—as he was now calling it in his mind—had been one of the worst times of his life. At one stage, when his ankle hurt almost unbearably, when he couldn’t lift Fiona any longer without a rest, when he couldn’t seem to rouse himself again after he’d sunk down on the sodden ground… well, that ranked as one of the most frightening things he’d ever suffered. Intellectually, he knew he was unlikely to have died out there—though could one drown in mud, like the sea?—and he hadn’t been that far from habitation, if only he’d known where the hell he was. But he was far from fighting fit, and there’d been definite risks of hypothermia, shock, and further injury. Or so Dr. Mackenzie had said in a too-loud whisper to Greg, when he made a quick house call that morning. Perry’s ankle still hurt like hell, though the doctor said it wasn’t broken, but he’d walk with a limp for a while.

  Perry was just glad to be alive and in one piece. For the first few hours, he didn’t mind all the visitors—he’d taken all of the villagers to his heart—but he was horribly conflicted about being confined to the cottage. On the one hand, he desperately wanted more time with Greg. He missed the silly but sweet routines they’d had so little time to establish together: the snuggling on the sofa; the menu experiments; playing with Rory; sharing the shower in the morning. The way he’d started drifting into the studio when Greg was painting, then just sitting cross-legged on the floor behind him with a book, watching him work. Learning to swim; arguing over the fact Greg never had the TV on because it was full of crap, then watching a stupid program that never got any real attention because they rarely made the end of it before they started making out—

  But on the other hand, it hurt to be around Greg. Perry should have remembered it had just been a fun interlude, a romantic, sexy, holiday romp. He was an adult; he knew how these things went. He’d entered into it with his eyes open. But he’d allowed himself to care too much, and there was no reason to prolong that agony. And really, he couldn’t put off the reckoning with both his bank and Eddy Latham for much longer.

  Even Rory seemed to know something rotten was happening. He lay in his basket for most of the morning, still exhausted after his mercy dash in the storm, but whining every time he caught sight of Perry. When Greg brought Perry’s case down into the hallway, Rory actually howled.

  It was a relief when everyone else left the cottage to Greg and Perry, just after lunchtime. Now Perry could concentrate on leaving. Limping into the hallway, he found his blue boots standing neatly by his case. Greg must have cleaned them this morning. Perry gave Rory a good hug, and he didn’t protest when Greg shut the dog in the kitchen.

  Greg cleared his throat. He looked strangely anguished. “I won’t come with you to the ferry.”

  “I… sorry?”

  “Well, there’s not a lot of room in Dougie’s car, as I hear Bridie and Lisa are coming too. And really, there’s not much point, is there?”

  Perry stared at him. Greg looked a bit sickly too. Perhaps he’d slept as badly as Perry had, though Perry couldn’t confirm that. He’d been hustled into the spare bedroom last night, on the premise he needed undisturbed rest.

  “Fuck.” Greg grimaced. “I didn’t mean that to sound like… well, like it did. I meant, we can say good-bye here in the warm and the quiet. No point stamping our feet against the cold at the ferry, with the girls milling about and weeping over you.”

  “No, I suppose not. Shall I call you when I get back safely to London?” Perry didn’t want to beg, but he was startled by the pleading tone in his voice.

  “Yes. You better.”

  Greg smiled but he still looked pale. Perry didn’t want to string this really awkward situation out, but there was no sign of Dougie’s car yet. “Don’t forget to tell me how Fiona gets on. If she makes it back to school okay for the new term. If Dr. McKenzie’s housekeeper finds her son’s iPod. If Bridie orders those LGBT books I suggested for the shop. If Marty sells more scallops to that French restaurant on Harris—”

  Greg put his hand on Perry’s arm. It was a real shock; Greg hadn’t touched him all day. “I think you’d better come back yourself to catch up on all that. It sounds like a soap opera in itself.”

  “Yes.” Perry smiled at last. “I’ll hold you to that.”

  They stood in the hallway, more awkwardness descending. Greg’s phone buzzed and he pulled it out of his pocket. That was another thing Perry had set him straight on—keeping it charged up at all times.

  “Shit. Dougie will be half an hour late. But there’s no risk you’ll miss the ferry. We allowed for plenty of time.”

  They looked at each other. Perry felt a flicker of something in his belly that seemed most inappropriate, but totally unmistakable. “Could we… go to bed while we wait? Is that the most selfish thing I’ve ever asked?”

  Greg chuckled. His face colored and his eyes lit up. It was almost the return of the old Greg. “God, yes. I mean, yes, we can go, not yes it’s selfish. Or else I’m selfish too.”

  For a while, quickly naked in Greg’s bed, they didn’t do anything sexual. They just hugged. It was obvious when Greg remembered Perry was only here for a little more time. One minute he was stroking Perry’s thigh, teasing him, nudging his leg, and making some joke about such a skinny bloke taking up so much mattress. The next minute he stilled his hand, and his breath caught. And he shifted almost imperceptibly away, as if drawing back even his muscles. “Um. You’ve got the journey sorted once you’re back on the mainland? You’ll need help to get around the airport. Your ankle….”

  “Candace is organizing something for me. Transport to get me from the airport t
o home, and then into the office tomorrow.”

  Another brief silence. “Do you have to confirm your flight? Check in?”

  “It’s all done.”

  “Mr. Efficient.” Greg ran his hand down Perry’s chest to his navel.

  Perry chuckled. “That tickles.”

  “Was meant to.” Greg’s voice sounded strained.

  I have to ask, don’t I? “Look… when I go back… you know what I mean?”

  Greg tilted his head as if to hear better. “Not really. I haven’t completely clued in to your subtle London-speak.”

  Perry thumped him on the upper arm, though he reckoned it hurt him more than it hurt Greg’s solid muscle. “We’ll keep in touch, right?”

  “Right,” Greg said.

  Perry tried to ignore the tiny hesitation there’d been before the response, but failed miserably. “Greg?”

  Greg sighed. “I’m sorry. Of course we’ll keep in touch.”

  “You don’t sound very enthusiastic.” Had he misjudged everything?

  “Christ, Perry. We can’t all leap up in the air cheering with rainbow-colored balloons and streamers every time we speak.”

  Perry bit his lip.

  Greg groaned. “God, that was shit stupid, wasn’t it? And not what I meant either.”

  “So now it’s your quaint island speak I can’t parse.” When Greg blinked at him, Perry laughed at the owlish look. “You’re so gorgeous, you know.” He shuffled up onto his knees, shrugging the duvet off his shoulders, and leaned into Greg for a kiss. Greg’s lips were dry to start with, then eased against Perry’s, the brush of their combined saliva softening the taste for them both. Greg slid his hand around the back of Perry’s neck, holding him in place. Perry’s skin prickled with growing delight, but he wasn’t immediately hard. This was a caress, not an invitation to sex, at least not yet. He dropped his hand to Greg’s groin, tugging at the little hairs, sliding his little finger against Greg’s dick where it rested on his upper thigh. Just to touch, to connect.

  “Perry.” Greg’s voice sounded strangely ragged. “I never said this to anyone before. It’s you that’s gorgeous.”

  “For heaven’s sake, are we going to bicker about that all over ag—”

  “I don’t want you to go.”

  Oh. Perry was silent for a long moment. He could feel Greg’s heart beat against the palm of his hand where it rested on Greg’s chest.

  “Greg. I don’t ask much”—apart from the big-arse grief of Greg going back to London, and how well had that gone?—“but please be honest with me.” Especially about this. “I need to know how you’re really feeling.”

  “This,” Greg said. He was obviously still struggling with expressing himself.

  Perry knew he could probably express enough for them both, but… why should he have to? “You have to give me more to go on. This… what?”

  Greg smiled ruefully, his expression pained. “Us. This.” He gestured this time at the bed.

  Perry nodded slowly. “It’s bloody marvelous?”

  Greg barked a laugh. “Too bloody right! But it’s more than that. Isn’t it?”

  Perry felt happiness seep through him like sinking into a warm bath. “Well, it is for me.”

  Greg nodded slowly. Perry watched his progression of thoughts: they appeared in Greg’s expressions like a personal movie. “I see that’s what you meant. But you’re going back to London.” It wasn’t a question.

  “I have to—”

  “I know, I know. Your job. The money. I understand.”

  “And you don’t want to come with me.”

  Greg scowled briefly. “Not fair.”

  “I know. Sorry.”

  Greg grimaced, pain still in his eyes. “I love it here. This is my world.”

  “I know,” Perry repeated.

  “And that’s your world, isn’t it? What you deserve. All those bright young media types. Glamorous stars. People with power and money to seduce you.”

  “I hope you’re not implying I’ve slept my way to the top, Greg Ventura. And especially not with Eddy Latham.” They looked at each other, shuddered, and laughed. Then Perry let the laughter go, gentling his voice. “I don’t want those bright young types, Greg. But I understand how things are, with us in such different places.” And saying I loved you…? “Look, I can’t apologize enough for the stupid thing I said before, I know I overreached—”

  “Wait, I don’t mean—”

  “Come here.” Perry didn’t want this last time to be full of argument and angst. He licked his palm and slid his hand around Greg’s cock. Slowly and lovingly, he began to stroke. Greg made a small strangled sound and arched up beneath him.

  Quiet descended over the room, no sound except for their harsh breathing and the occasional groan from Greg. Perry slid his other hand under Greg’s balls, relishing the crinkled skin on his palm, gently squeezing to enhance Greg’s reaction.

  “Oh, Jesus.” Greg grunted and gripped hard at Perry’s shoulders. “So bloody good.”

  Perry encouraged Greg up into a kneeling position as well, facing each other. He gripped a little harder, his hand slick now with precome as well as saliva. Greg was panting, leaning into him, his head resting on Perry’s neck. From that angle, he could watch Perry’s hand moving on him, up and down.

  There was a knock at the front door.

  “For fuck’s sake!” Greg moaned, his hands fisted in the sheets beneath his knees. “Can’t they leave us alone?”

  “Hush. It’s okay. It’s probably Dougie. He must have made better time than he expected. He can wait. My case is in the hall so he’ll know I’ll come down when I’m ready.” He knew he was just prattling on, and when he caught Greg’s eye again, Greg’s stark look was sobering.

  “He’ll just walk in!”

  “It’s locked,” Perry said softly. “You locked it after that last batch of crofters called around.” He tightened his hand.

  “Perry?” Greg looked startled, disapproving, desperate. He pressed his hands flat against Perry’s chest. “We can’t.”

  “Can,” Perry whispered. “You’re close, aren’t you?” He recognized the tension in Greg’s limbs, the tightening of his throat. I won’t give this up, not yet! He stroked faster.

  Greg gave a low, swift growl in the back of his throat. His whole body shivered.

  The knock came again downstairs. And again.

  “He can wait,” Perry repeated in a determined whisper. They could all wait.

  “Oh fuck,” Greg groaned. The bed rocked beneath him. “Oh fuck! Can’t stop it.”

  “Please.” Perry made the word almost a sigh. “Please don’t.”

  Greg gave a strangled laugh as if both amazed and anguished, and shifted his grip to Perry’s arms, anchoring himself. He came with a yell and a shudder through his legs and torso that nearly threw Perry off the mattress.

  They remained kneeling up on the bed, facing each other, foreheads touching. All Perry could hear was their gasping. His cock was half-hard, but he didn’t need to touch it; he’d been excited enough giving Greg pleasure. He wiped his fingertips gently over Greg’s belly. The come was already cooling, and he liked the way it clung to Greg’s hairs. Greg shifted his head and kissed the tip of Perry’s nose.

  “God. You are such….”

  “What am I?” He didn’t lift his head, though he could see the smile on Greg’s face.

  “You’re a magnificent, dirty, little bugger.”

  Perry smiled too, though more sadly. That would have to be good enough for him. He leaned away and shifted to the edge of the bed. “I’ll answer the door, shall I?” he asked, reaching for his jeans. He kept his back to Greg, because the false brightness in his voice made him wince. “You know, this is going to sound stupid, but I actually don’t want you to come to London.”

  Greg sank down on the bed behind him; the mattress dipped heavily. “What the hell?”

  “I mean—not for the TV show. I know it’d make you miserable. I know
it’s not really you. And I can’t think of anything worse now than making you act against your will. Of you being any less than you. I lov—I really respect that.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes. You. I’m glad I didn’t persuade you.”

  He slipped off the bed, picked up his clothes, socks and shoes, and made for the bedroom door.

  Greg seemed frozen in place but he said hoarsely, “You’ll call?”

  “I’ll let you know I arrived safely. Can’t have any more watery disasters, right? We’ll talk soon.”

  Perry tried not to limp too much as he left the bedroom.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  THAT evening, Bridie was the last person Greg wanted to see. He knew that, she knew that, to hell with it. But there she was at his door with, of all people, Aileen Cameron behind her. And a very different Aileen than usual. Instead of being wrapped up in her habitual thick, albeit beautiful, sweater and jeans, she was wearing a silk blouse and a smart trouser suit.

  “Is Perry okay?” he said abruptly, and to hell with sounding rude.

  Bridie raised an eyebrow—could she smell the whiskey on his breath from here?—but she didn’t scold him. “Yes, there’s nothing wrong. Well, not with Perry. He made the ferry okay and I believe his connection to his flight. He’ll be back in London by tonight.”

  “So why are you here?”

  “Good God, lad.” Aileen snorted and pushed past him into the house. “Your manners are appalling. We came t’ get Perry’s London contact details.” She peered at him as he stood there in some shock. “Thought ye’d know. Mebbe not.”

  Greg opened and shut his mouth like a fish. Then tried again. “Somewhere. I have them somewhere, in one of my brother’s communications.”

  “What’s his agency called?”

  Greg dredged up the name from his memory. “Latham. Eric—no, Eddy Latham. What’s this about?”

  Bridie looked between him and Aileen, then went to put the kettle on. Aileen led Greg into the living room and sat them both down. “Fiona came home with a square of knitting she said was Perry’s.”