Work for it, p.20
Work for It, page 20
He never spends the night with me, either. But I don’t think about that.
It’s Friday afternoon, and I’m in a good fucking mood. First, because I plan to spend the weekend with Olu, and second, because the elderflower harvest has wrapped up faster than ever—which is down to Rebecca overhauling our ‘online presence’ (that’s what she calls it, anyway) and snagging us the most volunteers we’ve ever had. I’ve spent the day doing the rounds, checking over all our land to make sure the job is truly done. It is. So now I’m heading back to the farm, looking for my man even though I have yield reports to write.
I can’t help it. I’m hooked.
As I stride up the lane, I catch sight of Olu in the courtyard, along with Rebecca and… Henry? All of them, I realise, look incredibly pissed. Rebecca’s waving her hands around, the way she does when she’s furious, and Henry’s blustering about something, I can tell. But Olu? He’s silent. He’s still. He’s staring, completely calm, at Henry. Which says to me, loud and fucking clear: DANGER—but apparently, no-one else has figured that out about him yet, because they’re not running for cover.
As I speed up, my sad, near-empty bin bag (there were a few elderflowers left) smacks against my back with every step. When I reach the gate, I shove it open and ignore the staff hovering outside their various buildings, wasting time and trying to subtly eavesdrop. Usually, I’d take a second to send them on their way, but right now I’m focused on getting to Olu before he flips and murders everyone within five miles. He has this look in his eye that tells me he’s thirty seconds and one wrong word from blacking out and waking up with blood on his hands. I even know what he’d say after: “Oops.”
And now I’m mentally laughing at the thought of my boyfriend committing mass murder.
Wait—did I just call him my boyfriend?
Doesn’t matter, don’t think about it. I’m finally close enough to interrupt. My best friend, my boss, and my… Olu are all looking at me with expressions I can’t read.
This is the point where I sweep in and heroically save the day, right? So I clear my throat and say, “What’s going on?”
The temporary quiet dies. Henry and Rebecca start up again.
“Ms. Baird seems to have forgotten that she’ll need my reference—”
“I haven’t forgotten anything, I just expressed the opinion that—”
“—and since this is in fact my business, Rebecca, I fail to see what credit I owe—”
“—all due respect, Henry, I haven’t seen your ar—you all bloo—all week, and—"
Their words merge into a mess I can’t untangle. Just trying is giving me a headache. Plus, I don’t think they’re actually talking to me; they’re glaring at each other like, if they look hard enough, one of them might burst into flames.
Good luck, Bex. I mean that.
I leave them to spit at each other for a moment and focus on Olu, who’s staring at Henry like the man’s entire body is made of maggots. Henry, luckily, doesn’t seem to have noticed.
“Olu,” I say, not sure if I should reach out and touch him. He flirts with me at work all the time, and the whole village is whispering about what we do after hours, but I don’t know how he wants us to be, in a situation like this. We haven’t talked about it, because we never actually discuss what it is we’re doing.
I mean, I know what I’m doing. I’m falling in love with him, also known as happily ruining my own life. But I don’t know what Olu thinks this is, and I don’t want to ask, since I’m pretty sure the answer would hurt my feelings. For the same reason, I decide not to grab him in a courtyard full of my colleagues. Instead, when he doesn’t respond to my voice, I say his name again. Soft, the way I’d like to touch him. Strong, so he knows I’m there. “Olu. Olu, look at me, would you?”
On the third try, he finally seems to hear me, blinking fast, like I just dragged him out of a daydream involving his fist and Henry’s face. “Griff,” Olu murmurs. But Henry and Bex are still going at it, so I see the movement of his mouth more than I hear the word.
“You okay?” I ask, moving closer. Can’t help myself.
“I’m fine.” He must see my scepticism at that, because he gives me a smile—a real one, a beautiful one. It makes my pulse calm the fuck down, then speed the fuck up for entirely different reasons. Out of nowhere, I remember him on his knees in the shower last night, so vivid I have to clear my throat and look at the ground for a second. When I face Olu again, his smile has a knowing edge to it that says, I see you.
Yeah, he’s fine, the little shit.
Now that’s settled, I feel a bit more in control. I put a hand on Rebecca’s shoulder to catch her attention, and when she goes quiet, I say, “Explain this to me like I’m five.”
She flicks angry eyes at me, her jaw tight. “Henry wants to announce the end of the harvest on our social media.”
I have no idea why that’s argument-worthy. “You’re the expert, but… isn’t that what we’re meant to do?”
“Yes,” Henry insists, “it is. I’ve no idea why Rebecca is being so difficult.”
Bex looks ready to bite his head off—I mean, literally bite his head off with her tiny mouth—so I squeeze her shoulder again. She satisfies herself with a murderous glare and turns back to me. “Of course that’s what we’re meant to do. But I wanted to film you announcing it.”
Uh… “Me?”
She nods.
“Like… on video?”
She nods again. “You’re the one who organised and oversaw the whole thing. And there’s pictures of you working all over our accounts—people know who you are.”
That’s news to me, the sly cow. “They do?”
At least she looks a bit apologetic. “Er, yes.”
“Bex—”
“They like you, Griff. I thought it would be nice.”
“They like me?” I feel like I’ve swallowed a wad of cotton wool. “They can’t like me. They don’t know me. It’s just pictures.”
“They think you’re cute and manly and good with plants.”
“All true,” Olu murmurs, and I know he’s trying to make me blush. Thank God my beard is overgrown enough right now to hide the fact he’s succeeding.
Even though I feel kind of good about this in a shy, awkward way, I have to admit: “But videos, and talking, and stuff—not really my thing, Rebecca.”
“That,” Henry cuts in, “is exactly what I said.”
Just like that, Olu’s expression is dangerous again. “No,” he bites out. “You said something else.”
Ah.
Now the situation is starting to make sense. There’s not many things that get Rebecca this angry, but snide comments about me are, for some reason, up there. What I didn’t expect is for Olu to feel remotely the same way. Clearly, neither did Henry—because he’s finally noticed Olu’s glare, and his pink face is full of pure, wounded confusion. If I know my entitled pricks, and sadly I do, the confusion will turn into fury soon enough. Next thing, Henry will say something awful, Olu will say something worse, and then he’ll be banned from the farm for his last week in Fernley, which means we’ll barely see each other. He might even go home early.
I really, really, really don’t want that.
Just like I don’t want Rebecca to go too far and wind up unemployed in York without a reference. So, before things can go any further, I say, “Doesn’t matter. Okay? Doesn’t matter.” I look at them both in turn and try to speak with my eyes: Just calm the fuck down.
Olu and Bex are both as stubborn as each other, but lucky for me, they’re also smart. Eyes narrow, jaws shift, body language changes as they each back down.
“Fine,” Rebecca mutters.
Olu just turns and walks away.
I can see Henry watching his back with suspicion. Since Henry doesn’t speak to common village folk if he can help it, he’s always behind on gossip and probably has no idea that I’ve been drooling over Olu like a besotted puppy. But the man’s finally taken his head out of his arse long enough to notice something, and I don’t want him to take that something out on Olu. See, you never can tell what rich people might do. They don’t think in straight lines. It’s like, the more money they were born with, the fewer logic points they get.
I’m not sure why Olu got to keep his logic points. Must be because he’s special.
“Henry,” I say, wracking my brain for ways to fix this.
He looks at me like it’s a chore.
“I think you’re the better choice. You’re… charming. Know what you’re talking about. And customers will like seeing how involved the owner is.” I am talking out of my arse. My arse has a mouth, a script, and a secret hope that it’ll one day be the next David Tennant.
Henry goes from bored of my existence to impressed by my good sense in the space of three seconds. “Well, of course. I’m glad you see that, Griffin.” He gives Rebecca a smug grin. “I suppose the dynamic duo share a single brain, and Griffin has custody right now? Ha! Ha! Ha!”
I give Rebecca a look that says, Don’t smack him on the head with your camera.
And she gives me a look that says, Why?
It was expensive, I send back.
Fair point, she agrees, and bares her teeth in what’s supposed to be a smile. “Alright, then, Henry. My mistake. Let’s find the perfect spot and get started.”
They walk off, and I’m left standing in the courtyard, surrounded by nosy staff members who watch me like I’m roadkill and they’re crows.
I say, “Work light this afternoon, then?” and they scurry off, which isn’t as satisfying as I’d hoped. Once upon a time, the little slice of power I had here at work was enough to make up for the outright fucking nastiness in this village. Now, it feels pathetic. I wonder if that’s because Henry laughed me out of his office and proved how fragile it all is, or if I’m getting used to someone other than Rebecca treating me like a person.
Speaking of, I need to find Olu before he does something fantastic like piss on Henry’s desk.
I follow his footsteps into my building, take a quick look into Henry’s office just to make sure, then move on to mine. And there Olu is, sitting on my desk—not at my desk, but on my desk—tapping his fingers against the wood and glaring daggers at the wall.
I shut the door behind me. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” he snaps, but I know he’s not snapping at me.
“Waste the energy.”
“I hate him.” Winter fir eyes land on me, ice-cold. “I hate him quite a bit.”
Love me instead. “Stay here while I finish up my admin work?”
The last of Olu’s irritation slowly fades, and he gives me a tiny, reluctant smile. “What’s in it for me?”
“I’ll take you home with me tonight.”
“You always take me home. You’re astonishingly easy.” He has this look on his face like he’s glad.
“Easy, yeah?” I try to sound offended. Not sure if it works, but I try.
He slides off the desk and walks toward me. “Oh, dear. Why do I have the feeling I’ve just royally fucked myself?”
“Dunno. But you should practice that, because I won’t be doing it anytime soon.”
We both laugh, but the fact is, I haven’t done it at all. Which is not to say we’ve been saints. We haven’t. And it’s not that he’s strictly a top, because we’ve talked about it, and he’s not. It feels like I spend my half my life thinking about sinking inside this man, but I haven’t even tried yet, because…
I just want to be sure that he’s okay. That’s he’s always, absolutely okay.
So I’m taking my time.
Eventually I get on with my work, and it goes fast, which is a surprise. I thought Olu would distract me, sitting there all gorgeous and maybe-mine, but whenever I mutter my frustrations out loud, he says things that clear my head. Things like, “Why, yes, spreadsheets are the devil,” and, “You’re not stupid, Griffin. Don’t say that.”
My thoughts untangle. I’m done before I know it.
There’s a powerful pull between us as we walk home—but then, there’s always a powerful pull between us, and the fact he’s leaving in a week makes it more intense. I force myself to think about that for a moment, just so I won’t go into total shock when it happens. He’s leaving soon, he’s leaving soon, he’s leaving soon.
It hits me, when we reach my house, that I don’t want to spend all the time Olu and I have left rolling around in bed—most of it, ideally, but not all. So, once we’re inside, I tell him, “We’re not having sex.”
He gives me a strange look. “I didn’t mean it when I called you easy. Frankly, I don’t see that sort of thing as a negative.”
“I know. Don’t worry.”
“Then what’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. I want you so bad I feel like I’m dying.”
He laughs, but it’s a little uncertain, his hands jammed in his pockets and his expression awkward. Beautifully awkward, but still; I would never have guessed, the first night I laid eyes on him, that he could ever be this uncomfortable over someone like me. The map of fine veins on his forearms rises and falls as he flexes his fists out of sight.
“I just want to spend time with you,” I say softly. “Doing stuff. Normal stuff.” I’ve made a mess explaining this, but he gets it. He gets me. His tension fades, I see it happening, and then his smile is so real it hurts.
“Okay,” he says, and he sounds warm. Happy. I think I just made him happy. Nothing’s ever felt better.
I nudge him toward the kitchen counter, then take everything useful out of the fridge. Olu stands there, blinking his impossible eyes while I pile fruit in front of him.
“What are we doing?” he finally asks. Slow, like a man waking up from a dream.
“We’re going to make cordial,” I tell him. “Our own recipe.”
“We?”
“I’m going to teach you.”
I expect an eyeroll, a smirk, some wry muttering, but what I get is his face lighting up like the sun. Still, he plays it cool in a way that makes me want to kiss the fuck out of him. “Alright,” he shrugs, looking around the room like he’s barely interested.
“So, first thing’s first: choose your ingredients.”
Olu’s eyes flicker over everything I’ve laid out like he’s a computer running through data. “Aren’t you afraid I’ll steal all your recipes?”
“Yeah,” I say dryly. “That’s why we’re making a new one.”
He snorts and reaches out to touch a bowl of glistening raspberries, but stops before he makes contact. “Maybe you should write a recipe book or something.”
“Are you sure I’m even literate?”
His laughter is low and rich. I want to run my thumb over the curve of his mouth, but if I get distracted, cordial will go out the window. And I think he’s way more into cordial than I realised. Or maybe—I don’t know—maybe his interest is a sign that he’s into something else.
Not enough to stay.
Whatever.
“After all the work you did this afternoon,” he says, “yes, I’m sure you’re literate.” Before I can melt at the fact that he sounds impressed by me, Olu picks up a grapefruit. “Would this be too difficult?”
“Nah. Just gotta pulp it.”
So we do. Then we strain it to remove the seeds, because Olu frowns, “Who wants bits in their cordial? Not I.” And when we start boiling sugar and water, he says, “That’s rather a lot of sugar, Griff. Let me see your teeth.” And when I ask if he wants to infuse it with anything, go for a more complex flavour, he murmurs, “Simplicity is the essence of sophistication, country boy.” Then he adds the raspberries and picks out three different herbs and a red chili pepper.
I mutter, “Simplicity, yeah?”
He says, “Speak up, darling,” and bites me on the shoulder.
By the time the cordial is ready, he has swipes of rich pink and yellow all over his cheeks—I never realised how much I touch him—and my own face is sticky too. It seems Olu never realised how much he touches me, because his eyes keep flicking to his sugary fingerprints all over my skin, then fluttering away. He smiles a little bit every time.
I wish he’d stop being so perfect.
“This is going to taste terrible,” he says, “isn’t it?”
“The herbs have to infuse, yet.”
“Don’t mollycoddle me.”
“Like I’d bother,” I lie.
He grabs the front of my shirt and licks my temple. Even though my stomach hurts from laughing and my head aches from grinning and the thought of him leaving sticks at the back of my mind, that tongue is all it takes to get me hard.
Olu’s blinking up at the ceiling and licking his own lips, acting oblivious. “Hmm,” he murmurs. “Not bad.” Then he goes up on his toes to lick my forehead. I realise he’s tasting smudges of almost-cordial off my face, and I know, from the light in his eyes, that he’s being so fucking… gorgeous about it on purpose.
“You’re a brat,” I tell him.
“You’ve gone all growly,” he says back. I might be embarrassed if he didn’t sound so pleased.
“You’re licking me.”
“But not anywhere interesting. I’m not allowed.” He toys with a button on my shirt and looks resigned.
I put a hand on the back of his head and say, “I’ve changed my mind. Make it interesting.” How he even understands me is a miracle, because I sound like my vocal chords are made of stone. All of me’s made of stone, in fact, tense with the effort of holding back—and my cock’s the hardest part. Olu smirks and undoes the first button, kissing my chest as he spreads the fabric. Another button, another kiss, again and again, until he’s kissing my belly. Until my shirt’s hanging open and he’s on his knees. I shove off the fabric and watch him with my heart in my throat, because I’m pretty sure he’s about to put my dick in his throat, and he’s damned good at it.
He yanks my belt aside like it’s his worst enemy and rips open my jeans like he’s launching an attack. I’m giving myself a pep talk about restraint when he drags down my briefs and slides my stiff, aching shaft into his mouth.
