Sure enough, Jamie’s delight at the AGA’s blanketing heat was soul food. Marc couldn’t help a low chuckle and a light squeeze of Jamie’s shoulder as he passed him to habitually put the kettle on the stove. “Shall I get a bigger laundry basket so you can join the cat?”
“She does seem pretty content.” Jamie crouched beside Natalie and tickled her belly as she rolled over for him in the nest she’d made in Marc’s clean clothes. “You’d never get rid of me, though. I don’t sleep much, but I hate getting up, especially when it’s cold.”
“You didn’t seem to mind the cold the other night.”
“Yeah, I don’t so much when I’m twitchy. It’s a good distraction.”
“Are you twitchy today?”
Jamie glanced up with a self-conscious grimace. “Not especially. And I’m embarrassed about the other night. I’ve been clean for a year. I shouldn’t still be getting so fucked up over it.”
“Why not? Being clean isn’t a cure for whatever pushed you to drugs in the first place.”
Jamie’s eyes darkened, and he glanced back at Natalie. “They told me it was genetic in California. That it wouldn’t have mattered what my life was like, I’d have been an addict anyway.”
“That might be true.” Marc searched out the rooibos tea he liked to drink at the end of a long day. “But you might not have found your way to heroin if you hadn’t needed it to survive.”
“You think I needed junk to stay alive? That’s a new one. I thought you didn’t know much about addiction?”
“I don’t—medically speaking. But, um—” Marc faltered. Was he really about to confess that he’d sat up all day after their last encounter, reading every addiction article he could find, and that, of all things, it had been a comedian’sGuardiancolumn that had finally made sense? “Look, you might be physically clean, and that’s an amazing achievement, but you miss the drugs because they’ve left a void in your life—and it’s obviously a void that whatever you were doing in America didn’t fill. Or you’d still be there.”
“Going to America saved me. I was so far gone that I wouldn’t be here if Liam hadn’t made me go.”
“Who’s Liam?”
“Zac’s boyfriend.” Jamie gave Natalie a last tickle and then stood. “He owns Sea Rave. Didn’t I tell you that already?”
“Maybe,” Marc said with a shrug. “I’ve been so knackered this last month or so I can barely remember my name.”
“You’re better now, though. I can see it.” Jamie came closer and peered into Marc’s face in a way that would’ve had him shoving any other man halfway across the kitchen. “You’re walking different too. I wouldn’t know about your leg now if you hadn’t told me.”
Part of Marc wished that hehadn’ttold Jamie. Because the sympathy in Jamie’s eyes was hard to take when all Marc wanted to do was push him up against the wall and kiss him again. Unbidden, his mind recalled the first time he’d shown his ruined body to a man who wasn’t a doctor or a friend as hardened by war as he was. The shock of a random Grindr hookup had been tough enough to swallow. He couldn’t handle it from Jamie.
Not that it mattered. Jamie hadn’t mentioned the kiss in the car, and the moment had passed for it to drop into casual conversation.Yeah, ’cause conversations with Jamie are always casual... not.
“Are you okay? You look miles away.”
Marc blinked. Jamie was right in front of him, even closer than before. His warmth seeped into Marc, and the wooziness that often came with being near Jamie made his head swim before he got a tenuous hold on himself. “Are you hungry?”
“What?”
“Hungry,” Marc repeated. “My neighbour feeds Natalie when I’m at work and does a bit of shopping for me. She’s goes a bit maverick sometimes, but there’s probably something around here we can have for dinner.”
“You don’t have to feed me every time you see me.”
Marc begged to differ. Jamie’s slender bones were built to carry his slight frame, but the hollowness in his cheeks seemed more pronounced than ever, and while Marc could do nothing to chase his addiction away, a hot dinner he could manage.
A dinner of what, though, he had no idea. He opened the fridge and scrutinised the contents, trying not to overreact as Jamie came up behind him and peered over his shoulder.
“I’m not much of a cook,” Marc admitted. “I’m a chuck-it-in-a-pot-and-hope-for-the-best kinda guy.”
“Nothing wrong with that. I don’t have a huge repertoire, but my mate Marvin taught me how to make his dad’s groundnut chicken. It’s Ghanaian. Have you got any peanut butter?”
“Erm, maybe. What else do you need?”
Jamie reached around Marc and grabbed the bag of chicken pieces Mrs. Valentino had left in the fridge. “Onions, garlic... some chillies, if you have them?”
“I’ve definitely got chillies. They’re in the sun room.”